We wend our way through the expansive Hearth, at least three to four times bigger than our own, made up of a large living space surrounded by twisting corridors to all the rooms surrounding it like a spiraling labyrinth. White veins slink through the black marble floors like drags of paint, and the walls are a darker obsidian than I’ve seen anywhere else. It’s packed wall to wall with people drowning in drinks and excess, or gyrating together in every pocket, some coupled too close for dancing.
I can’t help pressing the thought to him,Here we go.
He shakes his head at me, and I know from the lack of answer, verbal or mental, that he’s reminding me to be silent. Any High Priestess Arcana could be listening in, possibly spying for his father or others in the Court. Especially those who’ve already been chosen by backers. We pass a pillar decorated with realisticskulls, living bats clinging to the walls, their moving bodies making the space pulsate. Music plays from a stage along a wall of windows, some brought in via an illusionist from the Devil Arcana. The song is dark and haunting and utterly unlike anything I’ve heard. The drumbeats keep me rooted as the piano and violin loosen my body.
“This is wild,” I tell Draven. The Lord of Westfall was known for lavish parties, but none had magic, and most of the events were stiff, formal affairs, their after-parties a den of sins. The crowd buffets us closer. I clutch his hand in mine; the other one snakes around his arm so we can’t be separated. I realize why so many people were out on the lawns, even for a space this size, there’s just too much going on, too much heat. It takes me a moment to realize the bats aren’t real but made up of shadows. I wonder how much magic must be getting channeled to keep up the décor alone. I can taste it like iron in the air.
A large, winged druid nearly runs me over, but Draven’s magic shields me, a shadow more solid than any in this space, and the druid goes sprawling. When he rights himself, the shadows slink into the floor like a fog, and the male braces to yell at me. The moment he notices Draven standing undaunted at my side, Death Arcana still summoned in his hand, he straightens, eyes wide, and walks determinedly in the other direction. A little ring of space expands around us, shadows nipping at the heels of any who get too close. At the corner of the room some guards corner the druid who almost crashed into me.
“Do they ever take a day off?” I ask Draven, watching the guards pull the druid away.
“They’re supposed to back off for the evening but … even on a night of revelry they won’t take a break.” Draven shrugs, and with a free hand smoothly tucks a loose strand of my hair behind my pointed ear.
The unexpected touch causes heat to course through my chest and neck, and my body arches into his. My mouth opens a little, and an increasingly familiar sensation tickles my gums: my fangs have extended. That small stroke unraveled me, and I swallow, mortified, even though he can’t know—my wards are too on edge to have dropped. Yet the way he looks down at me, smile genuine and ravenous, eyes twinkling in a violet fever, I’m sure he suspects.
“Dance with me?”
The question hangs between us, and it feels as if he’s desperate for my answer.
I nod, grinning, and his grin leaves me breathless.
He puts his hand at my waist and pulls me close, and the world narrows to the two of us. The Devil Arcana controlling the music shifts the songs until a satyr is projected, his face not quite human or beast, eyes a haunting white, and he sings a ballad that fills the hall. It’s soft and eerie, the melody slow and evocative.
Then Draven pulls me flush to him. I loop my hands around his neck, nearly on tiptoes to do so. When he leans in, it sends chills down my spine, and his whisper coils against my neck.
“Now is the moment we convince them.”
Right. The performance. The thrill threatening to shatter through me douses a bit. When my gaze lifts from his muscular shoulder to scour the room, nearly every head is turned our way. He grins. “Let’s make it believable. Or like hounds baying on the hunt, they will scent us out, our lies will crack like bones, and they’ll devour us both.”
20Death’s Hearth
The Two of Cups represents partnership, attraction, and romantic entanglements. When drawn, it can signify shared romantic feelings.
Drink up.
I LET DRAVEN LEAD USaround the dance floor, hugging me close, our bodies meeting like seams, his fingertips straying lower. Though others dance around us, his attention never leaves me.
The way his gaze flicks from my eyes to my lips to my chest is a study in seduction. The crowd’s stares are a mixture of jealousy and desire. But I find myself falling for the mask of his duplicity. And while my doubt tells me this is fake, I so desperately wish for it to be real. The kiss we shared still rankles through me, my body a live wire of need. When he catches me staring at his mouth, he grins like a fox.
The way he’s pooled against me, I’d happily let him spoon- feed me more lies.
One of his hands cradles my face, his thumb tracing my lower lip, and suddenly it feels too fast, even though we’ve beencurling against each other most of this dance. I realize foolishly I don’t want him to kiss me here. Not as an act.
“Careful, Princeling,” I hiss, and he swallows. “I’d hate to share too much for a perception that we could save for the privacy of our rooms.”
He chuckles in my ear and growls back, “Like this?”
Draven sweeps the mask from his face and his mouth clamps around my tender neck, fangs scraping, sucking as though he will drain me, right at that spot he made his claim. My nails dig into his shoulders, likely leaving marks even under his clothing, and a gasp is yanked from my throat, my body arching into him, one hand twining upward, clasping the hair at the nape of his neck. I go limp, toes curling, and though I’m glad it’s not as intimate as a kiss, I’m still red-faced at the attention and my inability to hide how good it feels. I clench harder, trying to silently get the message through that if he continues like this, I’ll be panting against him.
Yet his tongue lashes against me and my body scalds.
“Bastard,” I pant. My fingers run through the downy space where his wings meet his back. They twitch hard, bunching, and his mouth leaves my neck, his cheek pressed against mine as we keep swaying to the slow melody. I can feel his grin, his chuckle deep and addictive. Chills cascade across my skin, my breasts as tender as if he nipped them instead, and I can’t seem to close my mouth. My gaze sticks to him as I pull away to look up into his violet, laughing eyes.
“Too fast?” He wears that damn shit-eating grin like a second skin.
Is this part of the claim? It’s easier to blame than my own … wantonness. His hands still clutch my waist; mine loop around his neck, stringing me tight against him. This silken dressdoesn’t provide much barrier for what I want from him. And I want it.
I suddenly don’t give a thought to the complications it could bury me in or let my hatred of the immortal royals cloud these viscous desires. He’s notreallyone of them, he’s like me. I only let myself drown in the craving pulsing through me, the one that promises any repercussion would be fully worth it to have him at my mercy.
