Pausing our trek through the halls, I look out of one of the vaulted castle windows.
Gods. That’s a lot of people gathered outside.
The refugee tent city surrounding Halfton has now spread to surround Everbound Castle. Now that the wintry weather isfinally letting up, everyone camped outside seems to be in a good mood. Some of them look like refugees from other areas, here to take cover within Everbound’s etherium-powered wards. Other campers are Nether humans with muted gray skin tones, who are helping one another and sticking to themselves.
Further out, closer to the twisted Everbound Forest, the tents are all black. The figures I see walking around out there are dressed in black, too. Cult members, probably.
And then there are the human reporters.
I know they’re reporters because of all the cameras they’re holding, but also because Lillian stands out there in a light jacket. It’s obvious that she’s asking them to leave as nicely as she can.
One of the photographers says something and flips her off. The others laugh.
I don’t realize how hard I’m glowering at him until Crypt rests his chin on one of my shoulders.
“Shall I make an example of him, love?” he asks, kissing my cheek.
I glance at him, taking a moment to admire the silver flecks in those deep violet irises. He’s just so fuckinghandsome, but it irks me when I note the few remaining light and dark swirls decorating his neck. If I ask about his missing marks again, I fully expect another brush-off, and now is not the time.
Knowing how much my gorgeous incubus craves our deeper connection, I speak telepathically to just him.I don’t like it when people disrespect Lillian. Scare him, but don’t kill him.
His gaze transforms into a deliciously dark smirk before he vanishes. A moment later, the rest of my quintet and I watch as the Nightmare Prince appears just beside Lillian. He reaches out as if to shake the disrespectful reporter’s hand. The man is so shocked and wide-eyed that he extends his own hand as if on autopilot, his mouth hanging open.
As soon as Crypt grips the human’s hand, they both vanish.
The other photographers freak out. Meanwhile, Lillian glances back at the castle with a perturbed frown. I’m not sure if she can see us from this one window, but I wave anyway.
Crypt doesn’t reappear below, but the reporter does. He staggers out of Limbo, shoves his way out of the crowd of reporters, and throws up before falling to the ground in a shaking, sobbing mess.
“Sadist,” Everett murmurs, brushing my cheek with the back of his cool fingers to point out that I’m smiling.
“He deserved it,” I defend before sighing. “We’ll have to deal with the rest of them before getting to the cultists.”
“Easily done,” Silas says, raising his blackened fingertips glowing with blood magic at the ready. “I’ll hex them any way you like.”
“Freezing them takes less time,” Everett points out.
Baelfire shrugs. “Sure, but I bet lighting those intrusive, rude fuckers on fire and listening to them scream would make our little goddess smile again.”
Oh, my gods. Not a single hesitation to jump to extremes. They’re all so fuckingunhingednow.
I love it.
But as much as I loathe the idea of being in front of more cameras, the reporters below are just another piece on the metaphorical chessboard.
When I was seven years old and so isolated in my hovel outside Amadeus’s citadel that I sometimes forgot what it was like to speak out loud, Lillian taught me chess. She carved the game pieces out of dead pieces of wood, drew a makeshift board with charcoal on the floor of my hovel, and taught me everything she knew. She said that her fae ex-husband had loved chess, and told me that if I looked at life like it was a chess game, I would be able to predict things and strategize much better.
Whenever I wasn’t playing chess with Lillian, I played it with myself. It taught me to analyze both my opponent and myself and look for every possible future attack and outcome. Those skills translated into outthinking and outmaneuvering anyone I faced during my training, and later on in Amadeus’s arena.
Once Amadeus has fallen and my quintet and I are left in peace, the reporters will have more to focus on as the world begins to repair itself. But for now, their biggest focus is going to be on me, whether I like it or not. Killing them off or harming them will lead to retaliations—or worse, my quintet being compared to the vindictive, selfish Immortal Quintet. I’d rather staple my tongue to another stake and get set on fire than be anything like those immortal assholes.
Right now, the world is overexcited about my return and will gobble up any detail these reporters feed to them, whether it’s true or false.
I’d rather they get the truth directly from the source.
“We won’t hurt them,” I decide just as Crypt appears back in the hallway. “I’ll answer a few questions and move on to the cultists.”
Everett grimaces. “Snowdrop, I’ve dealt with paparazzi and cameras and shit for years. Trust me, they won’t be fine with just a few questions or pictures. They’ll try to get too close to you.”
