I laugh. She’s so frank, her words candid in a way that no one in the day realm would understand. Though the sun shines perennially, there are plenty of shadowy deeds occurring, and light doesn’t always mean things are clear.
“I take it you aren’t interested in being my consort?”
She props her elbows on the horse’s side and rests her chin in her hands. “I’m an old spinster and prefer to stay that way.”
“Old?” I look more closely at her face. “You?”
“For changelings, yeah. I’m twenty-eight. But that’s neither here nor there. Let me go, and let all the others go, and then just think how happy you’ll be without night realm changelings underfoot.”
“I’m warning you, girl.” Brock itches to strike her.
I won’t allow it. “Are you saying no one—no one except this Lysetta you’ve mentioned, of course—wants to be my consort?” Why am I teasing her? I’m not known for being particularly playful, but something about her tone and the earnest, if brash, way she speaks is bringing it out in me.
“No way.” She glances toward the guards ahead. “You send these brutes to come and drag us from our homes, put us on display, and then make off with some of us for your …” She winces. “Harem? No, thank you.”
“It’s tradition.” I keep my gaze on her strange green eyes.
“It’s foolishness.”
I tend to agree, but Brock might snap if I say it aloud in front of a nightling.
The guard on the periphery of the square bows at our approach. “They’re all assembled, my lord.”
“Good.” Brock grunts as we continue past them and through the throng of villagers. They’re quiet, but they look at me with open hostility. Brock tenses, then grabs the girl again and sets her onto the stage. “Stay there. Once the selections are over, you can go back to your hovel.”
She fumes, her wild eyes cursing me silently. An older woman with the same striking red hair hurries up to her, but my guards keep her back.
“King Solano has come to grace you with his presence and accept your gift of ten consorts.” Brock dismounts, then climbs onto the platform. “You will conduct yourselves accordingly.” He levels the villagers with a hard glare.
I sigh and slide off my horse, then follow him onto the stage. The women are a mixed lot as I stride past them slowly. Some tremble and look away, some look at me with curiosity, and one in particular beams at me with a bright smile.
“Lysetta?” I ask.
Her smile grows even bigger. “You know me, my lord?”
“Just a guess.” I keep walking past her as my lips try to twitch into a smile.
“The king will choose his females, at which time you will give him thanks. That is the law. That is the tradition, and we willalluphold it.” He throws me a hard look, then bellows for complete silence.
The crowd gives it, all sounds hushed save for the crackling and roaring of the bonfire. Brock’s glare returns as he urges me to get on with it.
I let his insistence roll off my back and continue down the row, doing my duty and inspecting the changelings. When I get to the end, I find the red-haired rebel from the road, her chin up, her lips parted as if preparing to breathe fire.
“And your name?” I look down at her and something sparks inside me. It’s easy enough to name. Lust. This female calls to me. Her racing pulse and pale skin speak to the deep feral fae inside my breast, and I have the distinct desire to know what she tastes like.
“Emma.”
“Emma what?”
“Emma Druzy,” she says it with pride, and her eyes skip to the older woman in the crowd. Her mother, no doubt.
“Would you like to be my consort?”
“Absolutely not.” Her response is like flint striking stone, and the crowd draws in their breath on a gasp.
“No?” I press my finger under her chin, the touch of her soft skin sending heat through me. “You realize I have the right as king of the Daylands to put you to death for your refusal?”
She swallows hard. “No one mentioned that, no.”
