“Not the day. The year. I need to know the year.” Chase could barely push the words past his lips.
His father had told him of the ancient Fae’s power to manipulate time. But surely those were nothing more than stories of days long gone.
Just like Faeries were supposed to be stories?
Surely they couldn’t. They wouldn’t. Not after he’d faithfully waited for so long.
“Twelve ninety-four,” Halldor answered, his brow wrinkling in concern. “That blow to your head must have been harder than I thought. Best we find ourselves a healer in the next village we pass and get some herbs to put on that swelling.”
“Twelve ninety-four,” Chase muttered. “Twelve freakin’ ninety-four.”
They could, they would, and they had.
Damned unbelievable Faeries. His father had been right. Even when they gave you what you wanted, they always had to add their own screwed-up twist to it.