I close my eyes again and sigh as I lean against the pillows. The day king is proving to be more charming than I could have imagined. Why, I bet he’s charmed the underthings right off plenty of changelings, high fae, too. While it wouldn’t be so bad if he did the same to me, I have the strangest itch to fight off his advances, to make him work for it. Maybe it’s because my mother told me to do the opposite. She always did say I was a ‘rebellious little witch.’ But then again, maybe it’s because I get the feeling Solano hasn’t been tested, hasn’t had to fight for what he desires.
From a young age, changelings are warned against standing up to the high fae. We aren’t allowed to fight, because if we do, we don’t survive. I broke that rule once. Just once. And it almost cost me my life. I resent the high fae, but I’ve only known the night realm nobles. King Sigrid gives a free hand to those he favors, even if that hand is violent. Is King Solano the same?
I press my palm to my cheek, my skin still singing from where he stroked it. He’s seducing me, that’s all. I’m just a changeling consort to him. Disposable. Someone to use while he waits for his immortal mate. That’s why they take us, choosing changelings for their harem, because the day king’s matemustbe an immortal. I don’t know why, and it doesn’t particularly matter to me, but the high fae use it as an excuse to take changelings. After all, why not dally with the mortals? It’s safe. No risk of bonding, no threat of an unseemly pairing. This consort business is just another way for the high fae to lord over all the other races. The anger I used to have when I was younger—the rage against the vicious high fae—starts to bubble back up to the surface. It was foolish back then and is even more so now, given my circumstances, but it’s there, all the same. Maybe Solano has never had to fight for anything in his life, but I’m not going to give in. I’m a fight he’ll never see coming.
* * *
“It’s too bright.” I keep one hand over my eyes as a soldier tells me we’ve arrived in Nightsbane. “I can’t see.”
“Bright?” One of the soldiers laughs. “It’s dim here. I can barely make out the tavern sign.”
“Bright,” I repeat, then open the carriage door.
Reaching out, a hand meets mine, and I know, though I can’t see him, that it’s Solano.
“My lady.” He helps me down.
“I’m no lady.”
“You’re not a noble, but you’re certainly a lady.” He holds onto me and leads me forward, my steps uncertain.
I concentrate on not falling as he helps me up some stairs and into a loud room. The voices fade as we enter, and I risk squinting my eyes open to look around.
It’s a tavern, the wooden walls scarred from years of use, and the tables and chairs in various states of disarray and repair. The room is half-full, and I don’t have to look too closely to see the harlots scattered among the tables, their bosoms on display and the pink on their cheeks brighter than any fairy’s natural coloring. Speaking of fairies, they flit through the air, carrying pitchers, sometimes six fairies lifting at once to get the ale carried to the guests.
My eyes adjust, though they still sting and water, and I realize everyone is staring at us. Even the fairies are paused in mid-flight, their wings humming as they gawk at the sun king.
“Where’s Grimelda?” He pulls me toward the bar, the smell of ale and sweat surrounding me like a smoky haze.
“In the back room there, your highness.” The bartender bows, but bumps his horns on the bar, then stands up and rubs the spot. He’s a lesser fae, his nose hooked, his horns crooked, and his eyes with horizontal pupils, something akin to a goat’s. He eyes me for a moment, then hitches a thumb toward one of the doors along the back wall.
Brock, Solano’s second, is already there, opening the door and checking inside. He turns and gives us a swift nod.
Solano pulls out some gold and slaps it on the counter. “Drinks on the day realm.”
That gets the crowd going again, and the fairies finally snap back to work, flying the sloshing drinks around the room as the harlots go back to plying their trade. I suppose that’s what I am now, a harlot. The king’s dolly that he can position however he wants. Well, at least one good thing will come out of it—Mama never let me wear rouge, she said it was only for strumpets, but now that Iama strumpet, I can pink up my cheeks all I like.
“Come, nightling.” He gently pulls me along beside him and into the room at the back of the tavern.
The sour ale scent recedes just a bit, but something more bitter takes its place. Magic. I hold my breath at what I’ll find, but I’m rather surprised to see a smiling face.
“Welcome, my little one.” The witch, her white hair seeming to shine with its own dash of sun, motions to the seat across from her at a small table. A fire crackles in the corner, and a threadbare bed sits against the wall.
“Grimelda?” I ask as Solano pulls my chair out for me.
“The very one.” She holds her hands out, palm up, and I notice her claws. They’re neatly trimmed, but still sharp, and I have no doubt they’ve ripped the meat off more than a few bones. She’s not an obsidian witch, but there’s something dark inside her, something that hints at evil deeds done no matter if it’s day or night.
“Come, come,darkindle.” She wiggles her fingers and calls me a night dweller in the old language of the fae.
“You’re safe.” Solano leans against the door, his arms crossed over his chest.
“Safe with me, yes.” She darts her gaze to him, and I realize her eyes are like opal, multi-colored to the point it looks as if they change shades with each of her breaths. “Safe with you? Remains to be seen.”
“Watch your tongue, witch.” He glowers.
“My tongue isn’t your problem, young king. Someone else’s has spoken against you. You’re covered in it.”
“What do you mean?” Suspicion colors his deep tone.
