I need to forget about the Shadowfae King. His fate has nothing to do with me. I don’t owe him anything. I don’t even know for sure if he got me freed.
Even if I wanted to help him, I couldn’t.
I might have some fae blood, but I’m onlyoneperson. Bess was right about one thing: I am a lowly nobody.
7
Sebastian
My cell door slams open, jerking me awake. I open my eyes just as two guards storm in.
“On your feet,” one of them barks.
I push myself up from the floor. My ribs still ache a little from where they kicked me. For the most part, I have healed. It is good to be a fae again. If I had been human, it would have taken much longer.
I stand just as one of the guards grabs my arm.
“Move,” he growls.
What now?
I don’t ask because I know they won’t tell me anything.
They haul me out of the cell and down the corridor, where there are more guards. We climb the stairs. One level. Then another. The air grows slightly less oppressive as we rise higher.
We walk for a time, passing even more guards, who stop to stare. We finally stop outside a series of doors.
“It’s the wrong room,” one of the guards says.
“What do you mean it’s the wrong room?” The guard on my left pushes it open and peers inside.
“The captain said to take him to the room at the end of the hallway.” The first guard’s tone is sharp now.
“We never use that one.”
“Well, we’re using it now. Come on.”
They drag me further down the corridor. The torches here are spaced farther apart, leaving long stretches of shadow between pools of light.
We arrive at the door, and one of the guards knocks twice.
“Enter,” comes a voice from inside.
The door opens, and they shove me through.
The room is smaller than I expected. A single table sits in the center with two chairs. Candles burn in wall brackets. There’s a closed leather case on the table, folded neatly.
A fae male stands behind the desk. He’s wearing the formal uniform of the Shadow Court. On his collar is the insignia of a captain. But it’s the second insignia that makes me take pause.
A crossed blade and a whip.
The mark of a torturer.
He’s tall and lean, with dark hair pulled back and tied at the nape of his neck. His eyes are a cold, pale blue. I’ve never seen him before.
This should be fun.
I wonder what they’re hoping to glean from me. They probably think I’m a sorcerer. That I’ve used black magic to create the marking on my chest. To change my eyes.
