My legs obey, closing the distance between me and my father. I try to fight the motion of my arms, but in a flash, my hand flicks up and the blade kisses the gray flesh of Father’s throat. I blink, unable to believe what I’m seeing. What I’m doing.
Thorne utters another demand. “Keep the knife there until I say otherwise.”
“Daughter,” Father says, “why are you doing this?”
A desperate sob escapes my throat. “It…it’s not me. I don’t want this! I’m not doing this!”
“Stop!” Thorne’s shout makes me jump, and I hear a startled squeal leave my mother’s lips. I don’t know who he was talking to but sounds of shuffling movement cease. “If anyone takes a single step closer, she’ll slice his throat, and she’ll slice deep.” To Father, he says, “Order your servants out of the dining room.”
“Leave,” Father barks, and I catch sight of the three servants scurrying out the doors. Then to the room at large, he says, “Stand down. She can’t kill me. The blade isn’t iron. If it were, I’d feel it against my skin.”
My eyes move to my hand, to the way my thumb presses against the side of the blade, where the base meets the handle. If the blade were iron, it would be burning me right now. Father’s right; as a pureblood fae, an iron-free knife is hardly a threat.
“It may not be iron,” Thorne says, “but if she cuts the right artery enough times, you can still bleed out before your fae healing kicks in. The knife is sharp enough to cut bone. She could sever your head from your neck, should I demand it. Will you fight your own daughter? If you struggle against her, I’ll have her cut her own throat instead. I assure you, she’s just as much of a victim in this as you are.”
Stars above, there goes my only thread of comfort. Tears stream down my cheeks as I try with all my might to pull away, but it’s no use.
Father must see the effort in my eyes, for his shoulders relax the slightest bit. Taking on a diplomatic tone, he says, “What do you want, Mr. Blackwood? Is it money you’re after? Did you trick her into giving you the power of her true name? That practice has been outlawed in every court. If you manage to leave this room alive, you’ll be severely punished no matter where you try to hide.”
“No such tricks were necessary,” Thorne says. “And I have no need for your royal funds, for I’m quite a wealthy man as it is. Though I suppose I should introduce myself.”
I expect him to speak again, but all I hear are gasps and frantic whispers. I can’t bear to take my eyes off the place where the knife meets my father’s throat, too afraid that if I do, the blade will sink into his skin. Not that I have control either way.
“The dragon,” someone whispers from the table.
“It’s him! Morgana’s husband!” says another.
“No, not her husband. He’s…he’s…”
With bated breath, I manage to drag my gaze from the knife to Thorne. There he stands looking much like he did this morning during the dance I’d forgotten we’d had. Horns curl from the sides of his head, and dark wings splay out behind him. Features I never saw him have in any of my dreams. Not until this morning. Does that mean Thorne Blackwood is…fae? My eyes dip from his horns to his rounded ears. Only pureblood fae have pointed ears, which means he’s at least part human. But how is that possible? Mr. Blackwood is supposed to befullyhuman.
My mind reels as I continue my assessment of him. His spectacles are gone, as is his shirt. I catch sight of the black ink I’ve seen in full only once before, in a dream I thought was fantasy. More and more, I’m losing the luxury of doubt.That one dreamhad to have been real, for the snakelike patterns trail over his skin in the same places they did then, looping over his upper arms, his shoulders, and dipping beneath the waistband of his trousers. I know for certain how they wrap around one thigh, ending just above his calf.
“You’re Morgana’s son,” Mother says through her teeth. “Her wretched little boy, Vincent.”
“You should be asleep with the others!” Father says. “How are you here?”
“That’s not what’s important now,” Thorne says. “What’s important is that Vincent is yet another pseudonym. My birth name will make everything clear for you. But first,” he slides his gaze to mine, “remember what I told you today about the curse that was placed upon you.”
A single memory begins to open, shrouded by hazy bits of conversation that remain lost to me. Only one sentence forms clearly in my mind.
The banshees cursed the Briars’ nextborn to be bound by iron if it ever touches her flesh.
“My name,” Thorne says, “is Vintarys.”
More gasps and whispers erupt from around the table.
Dread strikes me before the truth does, but my comprehension isn’t far behind.
Ancient fae language isn’t a subject we spent much time on at the convent school, as the words are rarely in use in seelie society. But I learned a handful of terms, particularly those that held importance during the human-fae wars.
I remembervintarys.
I know what it means.
The word leaves my lips in a whisper. “Iron.”
16
