“Creepy,” Hart notes. We hum our agreement.
“Come,” the queen demands as she gracefully steps off the sleigh and strides up the stairs. She doesn’t look back to check if we are following her. Where else would we go?
I scramble to my feet as Malachi is the first to exit. He offers me his hand and guides me off the sleigh, dropping a quick kiss on my lips. The tingles are brief but welcome. “We’ve got this. You are the woman who faces down dragons and bends the rules to her will. You upturn tradition and defy the odds every damn time. This will be no different.”
A smile graces my lips as the others clamber out behind us. Ice warriors form from the ground before they march us into the castle.
While it’s pretty, all gleaming lines and sparkling brilliance, it’s also sparse, like the bare minimum of character and comfort. The only decoration is in the form of life-sized figures carved from ice. They are meticulously detailed and chilling. Give me a dragon’s cave any diurnal over this.
The grand hallway echoes with our footsteps as our distorted reflections follow us into an enormous dining room. A massive chandelier hangs from the arched ceiling, where stalactites form a stunning display. No portraits or art decorate the walls, and a chilly atmosphere not caused by the climate hangs over everything like a cloud.
A massive banquet covers a long table, and the guards herd us toward the chairs with determination. Nash protects my back from being touched by them, but I notice the grimace on Malachi’s face when one bumps into him.
The queen waves her hand, and the guards shatter into a million pieces, their shards bouncing off the walls before being absorbed by the floor. Effective cleaning tool, if not a little brutal.
The genie pops into existence over the table, wrestling Sir Sweeps-A-Lot. “I’m returning your infernal broom. He doesn’trespect my rules. Even the capons know to not follow me into the bathroom.” He blinks as he takes in the tense scene.
“What is that?” the queen demands.
“‘That’ is a he,” Genie declares. “And what are you?”
“The queen,” she snaps.
The genie rolls his eyes and studies me. “You seem tense. Do you need to make a little wish?”
“I do not,” I answer.
“Well, holler if you change your mind. I have some cleaning to do since he decided to sweep my rug. A rug that has touch issues and is now hiding under my bed, just when I’d gotten him not to freak out every time someone new came around.” He poofs out.
“Wish?” the queen asks with a glance my way. Sir Sweeps-A-Lot sulks behind my chair.
“He’s a genie,” I explain. “They grant wishes.”
“But only to their owner,” Charming grumbles. “Trust me, I tried.”
He did? What did he wish for? He side-eyes Gwyneth. Aw, Prince Poopfloof is really in love.
“Interesting. And how does one become an owner of a genie?”
“Nobody owns anyone. He’s fulfilling a service,” I correct.
“Are there limitations?” she wonders.
Gwyneth shakes her head at me in warning. I can’t decipher normal conversation, and now she’s trying to have a telepathic one?
“I’m not sure,” I decide. “You’ll have to ask him.”
Gwyneth pinches the bridge of her nose. Clearly, I didn’t read her mind correctly.
“Eat. You must be starving,” the queen instructs.
My hand starts toward a plate of steaming, weird little buns. They smell delicious. Meat and vegetables, if I had to guess.
Nash snatches it in his and kisses my knuckles. “We’ve already eaten. Thank you for your generosity, though.”
Oh shit—the warning not to eat anything.
The queen gracefully lifts a goblet, swirling a dark liquid. “Drink. We have much to discuss.”
