He stops and rounds on me, fury in his eyes. “There’s still the most damning evidence of all. Your blood smells of the same poison you killed your father with. Additionally, I can smell that you carry a vial of it now. Why do you take it? To build a tolerance?”
I blink at him a few times. “I don’t need a tolerance. I’m half fae. It can’t kill me.” I swallow down what I’ve left unspoken. That it’s only deadly to humans. Like my father.
“Then why do you take it?”
The truth settles like an iron weight in my heart. It isn’t something I like to remember, much less talk about. I give him the simplest answer. “I was injured a few years back. Trampled by a horse. I nearly died from my wounds, even with my fae heritage. The healer used a tincture of Crimson Malus to speed up my recovery. I…I would have died without it.” I shudder at the thought. Crimson Malus might be deadly to humans, but when used on fae, it speeds their healing tenfold. It is rarely used in such a way since fae can normally heal well enough on their own. But for someone with only some fae blood—someone who won’t die from its poisonous effects but won’t heal quickly enough on their own—it’s lifesaving.
He looks me over. “You’re healed now. Why do you still take it?”
I nibble my lip before answering. “I use it to manage lingering pain.”
His lips turn up at the corners, quirking into a cruel smile. “That last part was a lie, wasn’t it?”
The blood leaves my face. He starts to turn away when I blurt out my confession. “I use it to manage my mood.”
“Why?”
“Because my mood influences my magic, all right?”
“Tell me about your magic.”
I clamp my lips tight, the prospect of telling him the truth almost too painful to bear. My magic has gotten me into some unfortunate situations, but so has confessing my strange abilities. It’s brought me enemies in the past, just like my sour mood has. The only people who have ever accepted me after knowing about my magic are my father and Marybeth.
As much as I’d rather not tell the Huntsman any of this, I doubt he’ll take silence as an answer. “I’m a mirror,” I say, my voice almost a whisper. “All you see right now is a reflection of yourself. If I’m in a pleasant mood when I meet someone, they’ll see their best qualities reflected back. But if I form a first impression when my mood is low, their worst qualities are all they’ll ever see. Sometimes these qualities have to do with physical appearance. Other times they’re emotional or more of a personality trait. Either way, the impression is permanent. I can’t turn my magic off or change how someone perceives me. It’s…it’s dangerous for me. That’s why I take the tincture. It keeps me safe. At least safer than I’d be without it.” I close my eyes on the memories that flood my mind, of horse hooves crushing my ribs, a pair of sinister eyes, and a vicious trill of feminine laughter echoing in my ears—
“Your injuries weren’t an accident, were they?” The Huntsman’s low, rumbling voice has my lashes fluttering open. I see that same furrow between his brow that I glimpsed earlier.
I shake my head.
He assesses me for a few silent moments, then gently tugs my cuff. When we start walking again, our pace is slower, a somber quality to the air between us.
We reach a door at the end of the hall.
The Huntsman stops before it, fingers frozen on the handle, his posture suddenly rigid.
I look from him to the door and back again. “What is it?”
His expression darkens. “Someone has been in my room.”
6
THE HUNTSMAN
The aromas of roses and jasmine are so overpowering, I don’t know how I didn’t smell it before. No, I know exactly how. Before now, I’ve been too focused on the girl at my side. On her unsettling nearness, the feel of her small hand in mine when we rode the lift, on every shift in her fragrance that marks a change in her emotional state. I’ve been so wrapped up in trying to get a read on her that I failed to note the floral trail that led straight to my door.
But I notice it now. It drips from the door handle, threads itself through the rug outside my door. Based on the dual flow of the scent trail, whoever has entered my suite has already left and went back the way they came. I’m torn, eager to follow the trail now before its source gets too far, but there’s a cold dread sinking my stomach, one that has my fingers digging my room key out of my pocket and unlocking the door at once.
Astrid Snow’s voice cuts through the roar of urgency burning my veins. “It was probably just the cleaning staff, wasn’t it? No need to get worked up.”
“Staff is forbidden from entering my suite. I left express instructions with the front desk at Department Pride.”
“Perhaps your note got lost,” she says as I push open the door.
I stride inside, bringing the handcuffed girl with me.
Her steps falter, and I hear a gasp escape her lips. “Your suite is enormous.”
“Didn’t you live in a palace?” I bite back, my patience wearing thin. Or thinner, I should say. It’s been fraying to threadbare scraps ever since she fought my attempts to complete what should have been an easy mission. I’d be impressed by her if I wasn’t so on edge. I reach the other side of the room, my eyes fixed on the center window on the opposite wall. It remains open the way I left it, and the flower box affixed to the outer sill reveals the tops of succulents. I reach inside the flower box—only to have my dread darken to a gaping hollow.
