Madame Desire’s voice comes out soft and sultry as she bats dark pink lashes at me. “Remind me why I allow you to work for me when half your clientele leaves in a huff.”
With a grin, I approach her with an outstretched hand. She opens her palm, and I drop five of the opal rounds into it. Whatever I make, Madame Desire gets half—unlike her courtesans, who she pays handsomely and treats like queens. That isn’t to say she treats me badly, only that I haven’t been here long enough to prove I’m worthy of a raise just yet. “Because I still get paid, which means so do you.”
She drops four of the rounds down the front of her dress but keeps one in her palm. She runs her thumb over the smooth surface of the opal. “I suppose our arrangement is adequate,Miss Lovecraft.” She says the name with a note of taunting. Even though she knows it isn’t my real name—in fact, everyone goes by a pseudonym at Madame Desire’s brothel—she’s never inquired about my true identity. She has no clue I’m Astrid Snow, fugitive princess. Nor does she seem even remotely curious. I appreciate that about Madame Desire and the Seven Sins Hotel. The Seven Sins is a place of escape. Of pleasure, vice, and fantasy. Not truth. Which is why it’s the perfect place for me to hide.
“Although,” she says, tapping a fuchsia fingernail to her chin, “I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t rather work for me like my courtesans do. With a lovely face like that, you’d make us far more than a dozen opal rounds a week.”
I nearly scoff at that. A dozen opal rounds is hardly what I’d consider measly. Opal rounds are the highest form of currency in the Fire Court, with opal chips being the lowest. Besides, she hasn’t the slightest clue that her brothel’s patrons wouldn’t see me the same way she does. She perceives me as beautiful. Desirable. A being of supreme sensuality. Instead, I’m a half-human fugitive wanted by the Queen of Spring for murder. I’m nothing like the sultry, seductive nymphs and succubi the brothel is renowned for. They are what make Madame Desire’s Pleasure House different from any other brothel in Faerwyvae. It’s the only one that legally utilizes fae courtesans. All other fae brothels were outlawed decades ago. Furthermore, I have no desire to work in the sex trade. “I prefer my line of employment, Madame Desire.”
She studies me, eyes narrowing as if noticing something she hadn’t before. My pulse quickens, half with panic, half with hope. Even though no one but my father has ever seen through my magic, I can’t help but humor the possibility that it could happen again. Sometimes I’d give anything to be trulyseen. To hear someone say those dreaded wordsyou arefollowed by something true for once. I wonder if I’d even recognize the truth if I heard it. I’ve spent so much of my whole life being told what I am, described as nothing more than another’s reflection, that I’m not even sure there’s a real me to be seen.
Madame Desire stiffens, a slight curl to her upper lip. Disappointment and relief flood me at once. I recognize that look. I’ve seen it more times than I can count. Her momentary scrutiny wasn’t due to her seeing through my magic but discovering something new in her reflection. Or, more accurately, something familiar, beloved, cherished. Something she loves about herself…but not in others.
She tilts her head to the side. “I do wonder when you might just use thisline of employmentto steal one of our client’s objects of affection for yourself and leave me with a sobbing girl and a lawsuit on my hands.” She says it with a smile, her tone light with jest, but I know her concern is real.
“Love isn’t in the cards for me, Madame Desire. I prefer to serve others.” It’s only half true. Less that I prefer to serve others, and more that I know finding love for myself is folly. I’ve already learned what it means to be courted by a person who’s only in love with themselves.
Her grin widens as she pushes off the doorframe. “If you say so, Miss Lovecraft.”
As she leaves, I wonder how long it will take before she turns on me. They always do. It’s the downside to being a mirror. Once I make an impression on a person, I’m stuck with it. Every time I meet that person’s eyes, the same impression snaps into place. I can’t turn my magic off. I can’t reverse it. The best thing I can do is manage my mood and try to make only positive impressions. But even that comes with risks. Not all people enjoy seeing their most cherished attributes in another person. And when they do, there often comes a time when the dynamic shifts. Admiration turns to envy. Respect turns to disdain. Especially when one’s best qualities are deeply entwined with their worst. I only hope Madame Desire’s benevolence outlasts my most recent employer’s, because I’m not ready to leave. I’ve only been at the Seven Sins Hotel for a month, and I like it here. I like the music, the lights, the vibrancy. I even like the darker aspects, like the fighting pit in Department Wrath. Most of all, I like using my magic in a way that feels useful.
It reminds me of how things were when Father was alive. Back when I would use my power to aid his work as a portraitist. I would sit in on his sessions, tap into my magic to see what his clients valued most about themselves, and relay my findings to him. It was our secret, and what he claimed was his key to success, allowing him to paint hidden qualities into every portrait and satisfy even his most demanding patrons.
That was before he painted Queen Tris. Before he won her heart three years ago with his breathtaking talents. Before he died and left me at the mercy of his vindictive widow, a woman who would sooner sever my head from my shoulders than consider me innocent of the crime she blames me for.
I shudder as her final words echo through my mind.
You did this.
At least I have one consolation. My nemesis has no idea what I look like. Only she could ever recognize me by the impression we first formed three years ago, when I sat in on Father’s session with her, whispering my findings and watching as he brought her best qualities to life in vibrant shades of brown and pink. She can send all the bounty hunters and assassins she wants. None of them will find the girl she describes.
Unless the Spring Queen comes for me herself, no one will ever find me.
2
THE HUNTSMAN
She’s here. I know it as soon as I crest the dune and catch my first sight of the sunstone arch that marks the entrance to the city of Irridae. And thank the blooming hell my target is close, for the sooner I get this done, the sooner I can get out of this infernal heat. The Fire Court is no place for a bear. At least not one used to the cooler climate of Spring.
Warm air ruffles my fur as a train rushes by on the tracks to my right. I inhale, catching aromas of coal, steel, and an assortment of cargo. At the very back of the train is a passenger car. The faint whiff of skin, hair, and sweat tells me it carries mostly humans, although I catch scents that are undoubtedly fae too; something woodsy from an earth fae, the salty tang of a sea fae. A pinch of envy strikes me as I imagine the cooled interior of the train car. I’d have taken the train too had I not been so determined to follow my target’s scent trail on foot. Had her scent diverged between stops, I wanted to know about it with enough advance warning to change course with it. Something that wouldn’t be so easy to do while blazing across the desert at a breakneck pace. Though, in the end, it seems the runaway princess rode the train with no deviation, straight from Lumenas to Irridae.
As the train pulls into the city, it takes the temporary breeze with it, leaving me panting in its wake, my tongue lolling from my muzzle. I claw at the ground beneath my paws, seeking cooler sand beneath the sunbaked top layers, and watch the entrance to the city for a few moments longer. With a deep inhale, I home in on the singular scent I’ve been following for two weeks. It’s the strongest it’s ever been.
Which means shemustbe here.
Anticipation buzzes through me as I transfer my weight to my hind legs, then lift off my front paws until I’m standing upright. With a shudder that ripples from my ears to my claws, my body begins to contract, my brown fur shrinking into my pores, replaced with smooth flesh. Claws become fingernails while paws shrink into hands. Soon my unseelie bear form gives way to my seelie form. The ability to shift between the two forms is common amongst faekind. Our unseelie form is our natural manifestation, while our seelie form is modeled after a human likeness. Not all seelie bodies mimic humankind so convincingly, though. Many retain animalistic features—ears, tails, antlers—or other inhuman characteristics. My seelie form, however, is as inconspicuous as they come. Save for my pointed ears and towering height, I could pass for the average human male.
My loss of fur brings some relief from overheating, but I’m still dressed in the last thing I wore in seelie form—full evening attire. It was an outfit appropriate for hunting my target in the theatrical city of Lumenas, but not at all suited for this new climate. I frown down at the sand slowly swallowing my polished shoes and shrug off my frock coat. With it slung over my shoulder, I roll up my sleeves, remove my cravat, and unbutton my waistcoat. Then I proceed toward the city.
Once I reach the sunstone arch, I cross under it and step onto the sidewalk. Phaetons and other open-air carriages pass down Nieman Avenue—the main thoroughfare that spans the length of the city—while the sidewalk crowds with pedestrians stopping at storefronts and market stalls.
I brush past them and continue down Nieman Avenue, following the scent trail that is undeniably Astrid Snow. It’s an aroma I’ve grown keenly attuned to, reminiscent of morning dew, apple blossoms, and lemon. A personal scent like all beings have, one derived from a medley of body, mind, and soul to create a perfume unique to the individual. Were she but a stranger in a crowd, I’d give her fragrance no more than a cursory sniff. But since Miss Snow is my target, her scent stands out amongst the sweat, sand, and bodies like a golden thread in an otherwise plain tapestry.
I try not to think about what I’ll have to do once I locate the runaway princess, onlywhyI must do it. There’s no way out of it now. I made the bargain.
Find Astrid Snow and bring me her heart.
As personal bounty hunter to the fae royals, conscripted into service as punishment for the mountain of debt I’ve collected, I don’t get to say no to jobs ordered by the kings and queens of Faerwyvae. It’s work I must do until I’ve served the term of my sentence, so I do it, no questions asked. But I could have said no to the last part. I could have agreed to do only what I’m known for. Find the fugitive. Bring her back alive for trial.
