“Apparently, she’d been acting . . . wild for some time after Ríhbiadh’s fall. Ceres thought she may have had an affair with a Crow and that the child inside of her had turned into obsidian, but Crows and Faeries cannot reproduce because of the disparity of their blood.” A beat of silence echoes against the noiseless, airless chamber. “Shifter blood contains iron, which poisons Faerie infants.”
“I heard.” Phoebus had informed me of this after I’d returned to the Sky Kingdom.
“When Agrippina finally came to, she wasn’t herself. She was . . . absent. Could barely feed herself. Ceres blamed me for Agrippina’s despondency. Apparently, teaching our daughter how to swordfight was not a proper pastime for a lady.”
What thewhat? Justus taught Mamma to wield a sword?
His chest lifts with a ragged breath while mine remains motionless. “When I returned from a diplomatic visit to Glace, Ceres was gone, and so was your mother.”
“Nonna said you repudiated them. She said . . . she said you sent them away because it was too shameful.”
“I did no such thing.” He glances over his shoulder. When he sees I’m decent, he turns, pressing a rust-colored lock behind his ear. “Your grandmother blamed me for allowing Agrippina to shadow me during my visits to Racocci. She blamed me for training her to become my successor.”
“Excuse me? Your successor?”
“Agrippina was a most ambitious girl. Smart as a whip. Talented with a sword. She could stand her own against the best of my soldiers.”
“Is. Not was. She still lives, Justus.”
“Perhaps.” He purses his lips as though to smoosh down his frothing emotions. “She gave that weasel Dargento a run for his coin once. Humiliated him in front of his entire battalion.”
My heart swells as I picture the woman I’ve only ever known as apathetic giving Dargento a good thrashing.
“I’m afraid that spurred his antipathy toward you.” After a beat, he adds, “I petitioned for his removal, but Marco was fond of the mongrel.” His gaze becomes distant as though he were back in the throne room with Marco instead of down here with me. After a contemplative moment, he gives his head a little shake. “Gods, how I wish the serpents had snatched him after the attack and dragged him to Shabbin shores.”
I study the man before me, and for some odd reason, I picture an onion. Not because his face is round—the general is all sharp angles—but because he’s astonishingly layered. If all he says is the truth. If it isn’t, then he’s just a cruel liar. “Does salt affect you?”
His head jerks back a little. “Yes.”
“So you’re not ingesting that toxic chemical to make yourself immune to iron and salt?”
“Do I strike you as a man who cares to poison himself?”
“Not particularly, but Dante didn’t either.”
“Dante is a child playing at being king. He seeks out any miracle potion to make himself stronger. That iron-rich chemical Pierre Roy convinced him to take may be a notch less toxic than what the wildlings ingest—”
“The wildlings?” I startle, not expecting to hear about them.
“You know, the wild Fae who tried to kill you. Twice, if I’m not mistaken.”
“I know who they are, Justus. What I didn’t know was that they ingested iron.”
“Didn’t you notice the color of their teeth?”
Black . . .
“Or their inability to use Faerie magic?”
“Because they ingest iron,” I whisper, and although it isn’t a question, Justus nods.
“Correct.”
Well that explains Dante’s rank breath and failing magic.
Iron. How desperate must one be to willingly ingest something that could kill you?
“Who’s in charge of his dosage?”
