“There will be portraits of you, too, before long,” Deimos tells me, noticing me staring at the past kings and queens of Shadow Court. “You will be stunning.”
“Do you think anyone will accept me as their queen? I didn’t grow up here.” My voice cracks with uncertainty.
Deimos stops in front of me and takes my hands. “They will love you because you will be the Queen of Ash and Shadows.”
I eye him. “Is that a real thing?”
He chuckles to himself and drags me back into a fast walk down the rest of the steps. “Just made it up, but I like the sound of it.” The smirk he offers is hypnotic. At the bottom of the stairs, he says, “After all of this is done, you and I are spending some serious time together. Just like you and Luther did. Just want to make sure you are aware of that.”
He’s referring to Luther’s proposal to me… I can tell by the way he glances down to the ring on my finger, and despite the mess we’re in, he keeps making me smile. “I sure hope so.”
“Good.” The next thing I know, we’re rushing along a darkened corridor that gives me the creeps. Before I can ask any questions, we stop outside an arched doorway, and he bangs his fist on the wood.
The door opens, and we’re greeted by a mage I’m not familiar with—then again, I’ve tried to not pay them too much attention. Like the rest, he’s dressed in the usual mage garb, his white hair short and less wild compared to the others. He looks to be in his thirties, his skin tanned like he spends too much time outdoors.
“Your Highness.” He bows his head but keeps his eyes on me.
Deimos steps forward. “Ramond, remember that favor you owe me? I’m calling it in.”
His face blanches, and he pauses for a few moments before responding. “Shouldn’t you be at the wedding?”
“Can you help me or not?” Deimos persists.
The mage stiffens in response. “Of course, Your Highness.”
I look past him and into his room, which contains just a simple, small bed, a bedside table, and a wardrobe, with no window. Just candles. This place is depressing, and it almost feels like the mages are put here to be out of sight from others who might fear them.
“Thought so,” Deimos answers. “We need to go to your ritual room.”
Ramond’s brow furrows into dozens of lines in confusion.
“Can you determine someone’s heritage through magic?” my prince asks.
The mage stares at me, studying me. Does he recognize me as the princes’ healer, like most in the court? I can’t help but wonder if he hates me as much as Jasion does.
“I need blood samples, one from the fae being tested and one from the bloodline in question.”
His response leaves me frozen on the spot, and Deimos looks at me for a moment, his lips pinched. My mother hadn’t said anything about needing a sample from the original bloodline. Then again, she rushed me out of Ash Court fast.
“It’s my blood we need to test against King Tibout’s,” I admit, my insides jittery with worry that they won’t have any samples of the king’s blood. If he just died, maybe there’s a possibility of still getting some from him? The thought turns my stomach, but a wave of desperation constricts around me. “Please, we don’t have time.”
The mage’s eyes narrow. “What’s this really about?”
“Listen, Ramond. I heard a rumor that you keep samples of dead royalty blood.”
I glance over to Deimos, unsure if he’s making this up or it’s a fact. And if the latter, why?
“Who have you been speaking to?” His eyes half hood, shadows darkening around him.
“Jasion,” Deimos spits.
“Curse him to the Seven Hells,” Ramond snarls.
Interesting to see that even the other mages hate Jasion that much.
“Get what you need; we’re doing this now,” Deimos growls. “I don’t care why you have the blood, just fucking take us to it.”
Ramond nods. “Your Highness, it’s to keep track of bloodlines through history. It helps us trace which lines are the closest aligned to the fairy queen and those of the first fae.”
“I don’t give a fucking shit!” Deimos snaps, then unleashes a deep exhale. “Get your ass moving!”
Ramond nods, panicked, then hastily emerges from his room and into the hallway.
“This way,” he instructs.
Deimos collects my hand, and we’re practically running to keep up with the mage, who takes turn after turn down halls where darkness seems to breed. As many questions as I have, I keep quiet, because everything seems to echo here.
The walls are dark stone, and unlike upstairs, there are no paintings. It’s depressing here, but the air also feels charged, the hairs on my arms lifting.
At the end of a long corridor, Ramond stops and fiddles with a bunch of metal keys dangling from the chain around his waist, then unlocks a door.
We step into the room, my curiosity piqued by what’s inside. Black walls, mostly covered in shelves and shelves of jars filled with powders and liquids in all kinds of colors. Down the middle runs a long table that isn’t too different from science labs back home. It smells musty in here, like no one has ever let in any fresh air, ever. The one large window against the back wall is covered by material that has long ago faded to a yellow color, while cobwebs fill the ceiling corners.
Ramond is in the back corner opening a dusty-looking, vintage cabinet. He huffs while jars clang about as he looks for the right blood, I’m guessing.
Deimos’ hand squeezes
