One
“The captor became the captive. The gatherer, the gathered. The—”
“Aren’t you being a tad dramatic, Picolina?” Phoebus flops down beside me in my Sky Kingdom cell. “Gods, this mattress.”
“It’s too soft.”
“No such thing as too soft. Unless we’re discussing penises.”
“Which we’re not. We’re discussing the man-faced harpy who’s imprisoned me in his stone nest.”
Phoebus flexes his lips into a smile. “Man-faced harpy. Cute.”
“It’s not meant to be cute. It’s meant to be slanderous.” I glower at the ceiling that I’ve glowered at for the last three days. I’m surprised my incendiary gaze hasn’t transformed the wooden rafters to sawdust or pulverized the stone roof beyond.
My friend’s smile only increases. “Although I’d love to discuss your sexy jailer, I’ve come on a mission.”
“Horrible people aren’t sexy. As for your mission, if it’s to get me to come out of this room, my answer is a resoundingno.”
Phoebus stretches his ridiculously long limbs and yawns. “He takes all his meals in his private chambers, so you won’t cross paths with him in any of the taverns.”
Of course, Lorcan Reebyaw doesn’t dine with his people. Kings never do. I still cannot believe I brought him back to life.
Although I’m the maker of my own misfortune, I will never forgive Bronwen for misleading me with her stupid prophecy. Yes, I should probably have questioned it instead of jumping feetfirst into the mission like I jumped feetfirst into the canal the night Ptolemy Timeus threatened my serpent, Minimus.
Any jumping I do from now on will be thoroughly thought-out.
“Tell Syb and Gia to come over with a barrel of wine. Oh, and tell them to bring Antoni, Mattia, and Riccio.”
“Not going to happen, sweets. I’m the only man allowed inside your bedchamber.”
I fling my glower on Phoebus. “Says who?”
“The big bad crow.”
“Serpent ass,” I mutter.
“I’ve always wondered . . .doserpents have asses or just tails? Or are their asses inside their tails?” His green eyes glitter, and although I’ve no doubt these musings have crossed Phoebus’s mind many a time during his twenty-two years of life, at the moment, I sense he’s using these inane questions to soften my mood.
Except my mood will not be softened.
“Actually, that’s a lie. One other man is allowed to come see you.”
I sense he’ll speak my Crow genitor’s name—Kahol Bannock. Sure enough, those are the four syllables that roll out of Phoebus’s mouth.
My father is another male I’ve been refusing to see. I’m not ready to meet the giant with the twisted nose, square jaw, and stony mouth.
I still cannot believe he had a part in making me. And not with the woman I’ve called Mamma my entire life, but with a Shabbin witch.
A Shabbin witch!
Although I’ve yet to confront Lore to learn my full history, I’ve fathomed that Bronwen must’ve been the one to switch Mamma’s—I mean, Agrippina’s—baby with me, and that is what disintegrated the mind of the sweet Faerie I love with all my heart.
Unless Bronwen broke her mind so she’d keep me—the Crow-Shabbin changeling—a secret?
It’s the first time this theory forms, and it makes so much terrible sense that I want to storm the mountain to find both Lore and the scarred soothsayer.
I sit up and ball my fists so hard that my phalanxes whiten. “Fine. Let’s go to the tavern.”
