Piper Prince

  http://amberargyle.com

  Piper Prince

  Forbidden Forest

  Copyright © 2019 by Amber Argyle

  www.amberargyle.com

  ISBN-13: 978-0463397831

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Book Cover Design by Melissa Williams Design

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019903471

  For My Little Knight,

  You were the best friend a girl could ask for.

  Your gentleness, loyalty, and heart exceeded that of all other men,

  Even if you were a horse.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  MAP

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Preview of Of Ice and Snow

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Wearing a torn and bloody wedding dress of deepest red, Larkin stepped into a vast cathedral made of trees gilded by early morning light. A single, luminous column shone on Larkin’s little sister, alighting her puff of strawberry-blonde hair.

  “What did you say?” Larkin panted, her bruised ribs aching.

  “The trees are our friends,” Sela repeated. The first words she’d spoken in weeks—oh, how Larkin had missed her lisp. But something about her words pricked at Larkin’s memory. She’d heard Sela say that before, but when?

  Was it possible Sela knew something about the magic of the trees? But that was impossible. She was a child of four, and she had no idea of the sacred tree in the heart of the Forbidden Forest, thanks to the druids’ lies and superstitions.

  Larkin crossed the meadow to kneel before her sister. “Promise me, promise you’ll stop running off! Mama is worried sick!”

  Instead of answering, Sela’s big eyes grew round with concern. She touched the scrape on Larkin’s cheek, the deep ache testifying to the swelling and bruise. “You have an owie.”

  A scratched cheek, bruised ribs, and a bloody wound on Larkin’s palm from a sliver. She’d been lucky to escape the druids at all. She tugged Sela’s hand down. “I’m all right.”

  Sela noted the bandaged hand holding hers. Her brow furrowed, she looked from Larkin back the way they’d come—toward the encampment of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of pipers.

  Three days ago, Sela had escaped their town under the pipers’ enchantment. All she would remember was Larkin being forced to a wedding to Bane under the cover of night and then waking in the forest. She wouldn’t know about Denan breaking up the wedding but failing to rescue Larkin. About the blood and death of that night. About the fear during the days following.

  Even now, Larkin’s heart quickened with memories, her magic buzzing in her sigils, aching to be released. She shoved down memories and magic and the betrayals of Nesha and Bane. How could he try to force her like that? And then … And then the next night, he’d singlehandedly held back the druids so she could escape with Denan.

  Love or hate—Larkin wasn’t sure which emotion was stronger when it came to the man she’d once considered her best friend. Probably both.

  “I want Bane.” Sela’s voice wavered. He’d always been like a big brother to her.

  But Bane had been captured by the very druids he’d been working for. Larkin shuddered to think what the Black Druid Garrot would do to him.

  “Denan is going to fetch him for us.” He’d promised he would.

  The brilliance around them faded. The temperature dropped. Sela looked around and nervously stepped closer to Larkin, who glanced at the sky. No clouds. Her eyes burned and stung, forcing her to look away. But in the after-vision, the sun was not whole, but pitted on one side, as if a chunk had been bitten off.

  Uneasy, Larkin took her sister’s hand in her uninjured one and rose to her feet. “We should get back. Mama will be worried.”

  Sela dug her heels in. “No!”

  Larkin tugged harder, dragging her a couple of steps. “It’s safer at the encampment.” The piper army was back that way. And Denan. The mere thought of him awoke the brush of butterfly wings in her chest.

  That warm, fluttery feeling snuffed out as darkness spread across the daylight like poison.

  “What is this?” Larkin whispered. Darkness meant wraiths. The only safety from wraiths was the trees. Primal fear had Larkin moving before the thought had fully formed. She grabbed Sela under her arms and boosted her into the tree. “Climb high as you can. Quick.”

  Sela didn’t question. She grabbed a branch and scrambled up. Larkin jumped for the same branch. Her fingers didn’t so much as scrape it. She circled the tree, sick waves of fear making her skin damp beneath her corset.

  There was another, lower branch. She made a running leap. Her fingers caught it, but her momentum threw her forward. She slipped and landed hard on her backside, yelping at the pain in her ribs.

  The golden brilliance of morning had shifted to the silver of twilight. And the sky—the sun was gone, streamers of light snaking across the firmament. Stars winked into existence.

  Day had become night. How was that possible?

  Sela was already so high up in the tree, Larkin could barely make out one eye and a pale hand against the brown bark. No time for her to come down.

  “Stay there,” Larkin said reassuringly. “I’ll find another tree.”

  Sela whimpered.

  “Quiet now. Quiet as a baby bird when the hawk circles.”

  “Don’t leave
the ring,” Sela whispered so softly it might have been the breeze playing tricks on Larkin’s ears.

  Larkin searched the outer ring of trees, their branches interwoven to form a dense canopy, with the massive tree in the center. She jogged toward one of those trees, eyeing a low-hanging branch. Ribbons of light snaked on the ground at her feet, startling her. Unnatural. This was all so unnatural. She staggered. Were her eyes playing tricks on her?

  She knew the moment the wraiths came; cloying rot inundated her senses, and wrongness settled under her skin. If not for the rush of adrenaline that coursed through her, she would have gagged. Her body needed to run. Ached to run.

  Instead, she pulled out the whistle hanging from a cord around her neck and blew three sharp blasts. Denan had promised help would come if she blew it. She prayed it would come soon enough. Then she called for her magic. It flowed into her, steadying her. Her sigils gleamed a faint gold, the buzzing under her skin like angry bees. A concave shield of golden light formed on her left arm, a glowing sword in her right.

  Larkin crouched behind her shield, eyeing the torn shadows that coalesced into a hooded form, its cloak undulating on a nonexistent breeze. Ramass, king of the wraiths, came into being before her, his pointed crown sharp enough to cut.

  Beside Ramass, the other three wraiths formed from the shadows. To his right, the only female, Hagath, formed at his side. Larkin did not know the names of the other two. One wore a mantle like the ceremonial mantles the pipers wore. The other hung back from the rest, his gaze on the forest.

  She braced for them to attack. They outnumbered her four to one, but none stepped past the center line of trees.

  Ramass held out a mail-covered hand. “You are mine.” His voice came out a cross between a screech and a dry rasp. She recoiled—she hadn’t known the wraiths could form human words. But then, they had been men once.

  Larkin licked her dry lips. “My—” She caught herself a second before giving her sister away. “You can’t come in the ring.” She tried to declare it like an irrefutable truth. It came out more like a question.

  Still, they made no move to attack her. Larkin didn’t let her guard down. She’d seen them throw their poisoned blades. Seen the forked lines of ruin crawl through the victim’s skin. Her friend Venna had been one of those victims. She’d gone mad before throwing herself from a cliff.

  “Blood of my heart, marrow my bone.” The Wraith King beckoned her. “Come.”

  She brushed away the hauntingly familiar words. Clenching her teeth, she refused to look into his treacherous eyes. Her gaze flicked toward the sky—still darkness where there should have been light. “Never!”

  The wraith reached into his robes. “You will.” He took out a sparkling black flute and played.

  No. The wraiths couldn’t possess the same magic as the pipers. Larkin stumbled back. It was already too late. The music awakened something dark and hungry inside her that wanted what it should never have. Against her will, she took a step forward. And then another. And another. Until she reached the edge of the ring of trees. One more step would be her last.

  His words, the darkness clawing for purchase inside her, fear and loss and betrayal—it all combined into a heedless rage. She gripped her shield with both hands and opened her connection to magic wide. So wide it burned through her and tugged a ragged scream from her lips. Her shield pulsed, a ripple of golden-white energy pealing outward.

  She staggered back, her sigils raw. Her legs buckled beneath her, and she fell to her knees. Her sword and shield winked out. Her vision went dark.

  She came around flat on her stomach and blinked as the world swirled sickeningly around her. She forced her head up. Through the dim haze, the wraiths appeared fickle and moth-eaten. The pulse had hurt them, but it hadn’t banished them.

  Ramass stretched toward her pale, freckled hand. It had fallen outside the line formed by the ring of trees. She jerked back, but not before he snatched her wrist.

  An oily sea of rage and hatred poured into her, eating her up from the outside in. She twisted her wrist, trying to break free. He hauled her to her feet. Dizzy, she kicked feebly. He wrenched her into his crushing embrace. The feel of his chest against her back—like death and cold and serrated shadows. She reached desperately for her magic, but the connection had gone dry.

  She screamed.

  “No!” a voice cried.

  She knew that voice. “Denan!”

  Time slowed as thorned shadow-vines edged around her, sucking her into Ramass, into his cold nothingness.

  Arrows made from branches of the White Tree cut through Hagath. Already wounded, she dissipated like smoke on a clean breeze.

  “Vicil!” Ramass shouted for aid from the other wraith.

  Leaping through Hagath’s outline of drifting ash, Denan swung his gleaming white ax. The blow meant for Ramass slammed into one of the other wraith’s shield—the one Ramass had called for. Vicil stepped between them and cut at Denan from the right. Denan shifted his shield and braced against the blow, his ax chopping down.

  The thorned shadows snatched at Larkin. She slipped into Ramass and the darkness that lived deep beneath the roots of the trees. Ramass was taking her somewhere. Transposed over Denan, a black, thorn-covered tree appeared. With every moment, Denan seemed farther away. Fading. He wouldn’t be able to reach her. Not in time.

  Behind Denan, Tam stepped into view. He pulled back his bow, aiming not for the fourth wraith bearing down on him, but for Ramass. He let fly. Half a beat later, Ramass screeched, the sound making Larkin’s ears ring and her soul scream. The cold bite of the shadows sucking at her lessened. The view of the dark tree wavered. Ramass’s bone-crushing hold weakened.

  She jerked one arm free, wrenched out the gleaming arrow sticking from his shoulder, and slammed it into his chest. It tore through flesh and skittered over his ribs. Black blood sprayed across her face, blinding her.

  With another scream, Ramass exploded into ash. Time slowed as Larkin fell upward and through shadow. No sooner had she emerged into the light than she hit the ground with a thump, the arrow coated in black ichor still gripped in her fist.

  She pushed herself up, broken leaves raining down from her chest. Her watery arms gave out. Too weak to stand, she rolled to her side. Feet and hands digging into the loam, she dragged herself away from the battle.

  Ten paces away, Denan’s ax scythed through the coiling shadows of Vicil that faded to nothing. He pivoted on the same swing and launched his ax. It slammed into the wraith standing over Tam, which imploded into writhing shadows.

  Following his throw, Denan picked up his ax. “Tam?”

  “Nasty, stinking corpse would have to work a lot harder to best me,” Tam said in a shaky voice. He spat into the fading outline. “Gah! Rature is the worst of them.”

  Rature. The fourth wraith’s name was Rature.

  Denan came to kneel beside her, his gaze searching the Forbidden Forest. “Larkin?”

  The oily sea of shadows clung to her. Hatred roiled through her. Desperate to scrub away the violation, she crossed her arms over her chest and scoured her back. Her arms. All the places Ramass had touched her.

  “Larkin.” Denan rested a hand on her arm. She recoiled—even that gentle touch too much for her senses. She rocked in time to her head shaking over and over.

  “We need to get her back to the encampment,” Tam said from above her.

  Expression grim, Denan tried to take the arrow from her bloody grip. No. She needed it. She—

  “Larkin,” Denan said softly. “Give me the sacred arrow.” Sacred. Because it was made of the White Tree. “The wraiths are gone. The eclipse is over. You’re safe.”

  “Eclipse?” she managed through chattering teeth.

  “The moon moved over the sun.”

  Tam held out his hand. She put the arrow in his grasp. He tucked it into the sheath of arrows tied to his leg.

  “So the darkness and the strange lights?” she asked.

  De
nan pointed at the sky. She followed the gesture, the sun blinding her. When she blinked, she could see a red outline, a chunk out of one side. The moon blocking the sun. It made sense.

  Denan gripped her arm and tried to pull her up. She scraped his hand off. “No! Sela—”

  “We’ll find her, Larkin, I—”

  “She’s there!” Larkin pointed to the tall tree just visible beyond the trees.

  Both men followed her gesture.

  Tam nodded. Blood soaked his shirtsleeve. “I’ll fetch her.”

  “You’re bleeding.” Ancestors, if the wraiths’ poisoned blades had touched him …

  Tam glanced at his arm. “Old wound, from Hamel.”

  She flinched at the memories of just last night. Old wound, indeed. At least it isn’t from a wraith blade, she reminded herself.

  The ground beneath Denan rasped as he pivoted and looked around him. “First, check for mulgars. Leave me your water gourd.”

  Tossing it to Denan, Tam took off at a jog, bow and arrows in hand.

  “Your corset,” Denan said to her. “Take it off.”

  The ghost of the wraith’s hands still gripped her. His body flush against hers. The hollow nothingness and the writhing anger boiled inside her. She choked back a scream.

  Denan swore and knelt beside her. “I need you to trust me, Larkin. His blood is poisoning you.”

  Taking out his knife, he cut and ripped away the wedding dress. Corset, overdress, and shift piled around her, leaving her exposed from the waist up. He removed the stopper and held the waterskin over her.

  Clean water gushed along her skin. Instinctively, she tipped up her face and scrubbed at the drying blood. With the blood went the anger and nothingness. Denan pulled out his own water gourd and poured it over her as well. Too soon, the water was gone.

  Murmuring reassurances, Denan removed his shirt and tugged it over her head. She pushed her arms through while he wrapped his green, mottled cloak around her shoulders. Shirtless, he hauled her into his arms and settled against a tree, her rich red skirts flaring around them.