“We are kings; we can do anything.” Pierre Roy polishes his crown of golden thorns with a long thumb. “Besides, we will be augmenting the supply of potable water.”
Still care to pledge yourself to this man?Lore’s mild tone sparks my already fiery temper.
I shoot a glare his way.Why don’t you worry about your own fucking betrothal?
His mouth bends with the murkiest smile, one that says:Look at you breaking your vow never to speak into my mind again.Or maybe his warped lips say:Enjoy lying in the filthy bed you’ve just made for yourself.
“What are your thoughts on this salt-blasting compound, Mórrgaht?” I snap.
Lore presses his chair back as though to stand, but he doesn’t. He merely hooks his ankle over his opposite knee and reclines in his seat, settling in. “Crows have no need for salt or serpents, so it matters little to me.”
“Except”—I match his smile with a frigid one of my own—“you’ve need for me still. You said so yourself.”
“Only until Meriam is found.” Wisps of darkness rise from his iron pauldrons. “Which should be soon thanks to Dante, who’s put his very best trackers on the job. How fortunate that our ambitions align.” Lore’s gaze wanders toward the Lucin Fae King, who sits erect and quiet on his chair. “Both of us desiring a wardless world. How spectacular it will be once the Shabbins roam free.” Lore plants his elbow on his armrest and rests his chin on two curved, iron-tipped fingers. “Right, Regio?”
Why does it feel as though Lore is taunting Dante?
The embellishments in Dante’s braids clink as he squares his shoulders. “Who isn’t eager for Shabbins to roam freely once more?”
Um . . .him.
When serving girls approach, balancing plates covered by gold cloches, I tear my attention off the goading monarchs.
If the food is here, then why aren’t Sybille and Eponine?
Dread begins to froth behind my breastbone as I scan the castle grounds for two women in fancy gowns. Did the Nebban princess really take my friend to the kitchen, or did she lead her into some dungeon?
Thirty-One
As our decorative plates are swapped for ones topped with food, Lore says, “Actually, Pierre, questing to retrieve Meriam aside, a marriage with Fallon would prove an advantageous alliance for our two monarchies. If you’re still interested in binding yourself to Zendaya’s child, we can work on drafting a proposal after lunch.”
“I’m very interested.” The Nebban King’s eyes slither over what he can see of my face, which is not much considering I’ve swiveled fully toward Lore to better glower at him.
Unlike you, I didn’t actually have the intention to bind myself to someone for personal gain.I press out of my chair. “I’m afraid the heat is making me feel faint. Thank you for this enlightening get-together, Maezza. Where do you suppose I can find Syb and Eponine?”
Dante brackets his plate with his forearms, slender braids rushing over his gold jacket as he looks left and right. “That is an excellent question. Guards, where have the women gone?”
“To the healer’s,” one of the white-robed men announces. “The princess was feeling under the weather.”
Dante clicks his fingers. “Escort Signorina Rossi there, and see that she is given something to counter her lightheadedness.”
Pierre rises from his seat. “Mademoiselle Rossi.” He shoots me a smarmy smile as he takes my hand. “Such a pl—”
A dark shape coalesces between Pierre and me, all at once springing his fingers off mine and forcing my body to fall back.
Black swords slide out of scabbards just as deafening caws resonate throughout the stone terrace, tightening my marrow and detonating my pulse.
The darkness surrounding my body is so thick and absolute that I assume all five of Lorcan’s crows shield me even though I’m not the target of those obsidian blades.
“STOP! Everyone stop!” Dante shouts. “I will not have blood spilled on my terrace. We have a treaty, which I intend to uphold. You want to fight, you fight on Nebban soil, but Luce remains neutral. Pierre, Lore, call off your warriorsnow!”
It takes several heartbeats for the Nebban guards to sheath their weapons. And then a few more heartbeats for the Crows to land and Lore to reform.
He no longer sits, though. He stands. Right in front of me, his body outlined in smoke. “You are not to touch Fallon Báeinach.” His neck rotates slowly as he takes in the rest of the Fae as though to extend the sentiment their way.
“I wasn’t going to bleed her, you raging buzzard,” Pierre grumbles.
The gold fabric atop my heart palpitates. Oh my Gods, was that his intent?
