“Likewise, Mayor,” Revelin replies, his tone smooth as silk and twice as slippery. He arches a brow, waiting for the man to acknowledge any of us, and when he doesn’t, I feel the anger flit through the bond with our coven.
Knuckles bristles beside me, a caged storm ready to break free. Dezi’s hand finds her arm, light but insistent.
“Not worth it,” he whispers, loud enough for only our ears. She exhales sharply, her glare softening under his influence. “Your home is... uniquely adorned,” Dezi continues, his voice dripping with faux admiration as he surveys the garish decor.
The mayor preens, oblivious to the sarcasm, droning on for a few moments about the architecture and design crafted by his talented wife.
“Quite remarkable,” Khol interjects, his own mockery veiled behind a grin. He knows how to play this game—we all do, in our own ways.
But he’s a lot less veiled than the rest of us in his contempt and anyone less oblivious than this idiot would catch it.
Revelin catches Fiadh’s hand, drawing her closer. His casual embrace is protective, an unspoken reassurance that doesn’t go unnoticed by anyone, least of all the fuming Mayor Knobbleton, whose face darkens further at the sight.
“Allow me to introduce my daughters,” the mayor says, his voice tight as he gestures to the trio of Fae ladies, each more eager than the last. They simper and curtsy, batting their lashes and curves at the Prince.
“Delighted,” Revelin lies effortlessly, even as his arm remains firmly around Fiadh. “These are my special friends, Fiadh Morgenstern, Tiernan Puck, Dezi Ruby, and Khol Bedia of Briarvale.”
Their faces reflect just how much they don’t give a fuck to the point of being hostile.
The tension is thick; the air charged with unspoken challenges and forced civility. I step in when needed, deflecting attention from Fiadh during the following small talk with practiced ease. Revelin leans down, whispering something to her that elicits a begrudging laugh, and I’m grateful for any lightness he can bring to this farce.
Then, as if the gods themselves have heard our silent pleas, the bell chimes, signaling our reprieve. It’s a call to the grand ballroom, and none too soon.
“Saved by the bell,” I quip, guiding our group away from the mayor’s clutches.
“Or damned by it,” Dezi mutters, the edge in his voice sharper than any knife. We slip through the doors just as his patience reaches its end, the threshold a line between duty and desire to give the mayor what for.
“We should make the most of this escape,” I say, leading the charge into the vast expanse of the ballroom. The evening is far from over, but for now, we’re free from the clutches of Arrowwood’s finest—or worst, depending on how you look at it.
The gala sweeps into motion,a whirlwind of gossamer and garish gold that makes me want to blend into the shadows. But there’s no such reprieve for us—not tonight. I scan the crowd, my gaze darting from one glittering guest to another, as we navigate through the throngs of admirers encircling Revelin. Fiadh, like a thorn among roses, keeps close to Rev, her eyes sharp and searching.
“Can you believe this?” Knuckles mutters, nodding towards the head table where Mayor Knobbleton holds court, his family conspicuously absent. “They’re just props to these people.”
“Charming decor to brag about is accurate,” Rev replies with a sardonic tilt of his lips, his arm slipping from around her shoulders only to capture her hand. “Shall we?”
Oh, this is a terrible idea.
The call for a reel slices through Fiadh’s retort, her face a canvas of panic as Rev tugs her towards the dance floor. I suppress a grin; our girl’s not one for the spotlight unless it’s on her terms.
“Go easy on her,” I chuckle under my breath, knowing Rev’s hearing won’t miss it.
“Always,” he promises, just before they’re swallowed by the sea of dancers.
Dezi takes that opportunity to slip away, a shadow amongst shadows, his charm as potent as any spell. This is his element—gathering whispers, secrets coaxed from loose tongues and careless hearts. We’ll need every scrap of information he can glean about the council’s machinations and the sinister undercurrents of this murder.
Fucking vamps are sodramatic about it, though.
The music picks up pace, a lively tune that sets feet tapping and skirts twirling. I keep one eye on the revelry and another on the periphery, where danger might lurk.
“Mind if I cut in?” Khol asks, appearing beside the dancing pair with an impish smirk.
“Dick,” Revelin exhales, irritation painting his features for a split second before composure returns. He passes Fiadh’s hand to Khol with a mock bow and retreats to our table, now a sanctuary amid the chaos.
The basilisk guides Fiadh expertly, steering her through the dancers with a predator’s grace. They reach a spot with a clear view of the entire ballroom, and she lets out a reluctant laugh as they move closer to us. I appreciate that as someone grabs the Prince to dance, and he cannot protest enough to keep them from insisting.
I have to watch them both, and they definitely need to be within earshot.
“Never thought those dreadful dance lessons would come in handy,” Fi admits, her movements fluid despite her protest.
