Clear head. Clear heart. Clear eyes.
I’m going to need it.
I know she’s here.
I’ve sensed it ever since I woke to that dream.
Malechus stalks into the grotto, his chest bare and a long black silk robe falling from his shoulders. A pair of loose silk trousers hangs low on his hips. It should look ridiculous, but there’s something about the way he moves that makes me suspect he could wear a jester’s bells and still pull it off. Dozens of hands reach for him, and the fae cry out in welcome.
Gorgeous golden sigils are tattooed across his chest. I recognize a crescent moon, a sun, a spear, dozens of others….
“Every single one of those marks represents a fae house that he’s destroyed,” whispers a woman beside me, clearly following my gaze.
“Someone’s ambitious.” There are dozens of them.
“Hungry,” she says, watching Malechus with the same blaze of need in her eyes. But I half suspect she doesn’t desire his body—only his throat. “He was born hungry, that one.” Her mouth twists. “Though some say his father drove him to it.”
It’s not the first time I’ve heard of tensions between the king and his son. “Oh?”
The woman smirks and drinks a mouthful of her wine. “His older brother was stronger than he was, and the king spent years pitting them against each other for his love.”
“That doesn’t sound like love to me.”
The woman takes her first full look at me, as if surprised to find someone so naïve here. “Well, the brother’s dead now. Hunting accident, they say. Though Malechus is fond of his hunting…. Now they say he’s starting to see a crown in his future.”
“Is that why the king’s not here?”
“The king wants no part of this mockery. He cast Belladonna out of his court long ago.”
Again, I’m missing threads. But I don’t say it this time. “Have you placed a bet on whether the wedding will take place yet?”
“My money’s on Belladonna,” the woman replies. “I hope she takes them all out. She’s earned a little peace and quiet.”
I stare at Malechus. “Oh, I think she’s making plans to that end. I just hope he’s not going to present too large an obstacle.”
The woman laughs as if I’d said something incredibly droll, before she walks away.
A golden statue moves next to me, and I nearly leap out of my skin.
No. Not a statue. A fae youth.
Naked. Painted gold from head-to-toe. Even his lashes and hair clump together, as if he’s been gilded. The shock of the whites of his eyes and his blue irises is a little eerie, but he presents a tray of goblets to me.
I shake my head and circle the room. One thing is becoming clear. Malechus likes his displays. Everything screams of excessive wealth and power. Who imports a white hart all the way from the fens? Who unwraps an ancient dragon king, just to see if he’s turned to stone?
I’m finally starting to put all of the pieces of the puzzle together.
Mistmark claimed the horn when it crossed his lands.
Malechus wanted it.
And so, what? He threatens war? No. The Court of Storms is dangerous enough that even Malechus wouldn’t dare cross its king. And then there’s his father, who considers his ambitions dangerous enough that he’d quash even the merest notion of war.
The king would not dare let his son come into possession of an army.
I rub my temples as I rest my back against the grotto wall. I think this is all a power play. Malechus doesn’t have the strength to stand against his father, but if he gets his hands on the horn, he will wield the Wild Hunt. He can challenge his father. Kill him. Take his crown.
But the question always came back to: How did he force Mistmark into marriage?
What did he use against the lord in order to blackmail him?
It had to be something Mistmark would kill to get his hands on.
I already thought I’d found her, a long time ago….
My breath eases out slowly. It all comes down to Soraya.
My sister is missing—the same sister who lost more than her killer’s touch when she was sent to kill Mistmark, the same sister who won’t even breathe so much as a hint of his name.
Malechus has her, I’ll bet every coin in the treasury on it.
And he’s using her to blackmail Mistmark.
There are still so many unanswered questions—how did Malechus even know my sister would blunder into his court?—and yet my head is spinning as it all locks into place.
“Every time I see you, you look so melancholy,” says a cool voice.
As if summoned, Malechus swims into view, watching me with those shark’s eyes.
“Have you tired of your prince?” he asks. “Are you come to try something new?”
I can’t stop my knife from slipping from my sleeve and finding welcome in the warmth of my hand. He sees it too, and his lips quirk. “Perhaps I was curious,” I tell him. “But you will keep your distance.”
“I’m not here to harm you,” he murmurs.
“No? You certainly had no compunctions about sending your little handmaid to do your bidding the other night.”
“Handmaid?” His eyebrow arches. And then comprehension dawns. “Ah, you think her mine. Alas, my dearest Rhea has found another master who suits her purposes. Or should I say, ‘mistress.’”
He smirks at me as if he knows something I don’t know.
I think of every time I’ve seen Rhea.
Ismena is always nearby, and Ismena hates me.
Maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe he merely came along and took advantage of my rapture-addled state. Maybe he didn’t plan it.
“I was wondering if you’d ever win free of Keir.” He prowls closer. “He’s so protective of you, my sweet. It must be chafing. But then, what is it they say? Keep your enemies close?”
I run my tongue over my teeth. I need to play this
