Holly looks at me, unsure of how to play this. We decided that we wouldn’t reveal ourselves to August until we were absolutely certain that he wasn’t in support of Marik. But I never anticipated that he’d think we were with the High Court.
He grips the armrests and leans forward. “What’s going on here? We’ve done everything you’ve asked.” His tone is no longer controlled. Fury laces every word.
“August,” I say softly. He turns to me in confusion, at the informality, the lack of title. “We’re not with Marik.”
“Who are you?” he asks, then looks back to Holly. “I don’t understand.”
Holly’s mouth opens and shuts, and she looks at me again, mouth twisted into a grimace.
Here goes nothing.“August,” I say softly. “It’s me. It’s Mae.”
His gaze sharpens as he truly looks at me, head to toe. “You’re not wearing a glamour.”
I stand and undo my coat. I pull my shirt up and reveal the sigil on my ribs. “This mark allows me to change my appearance.”
He shakes his head. “That’s not possible.”
“It’s dark magic,” Asmo explains, now standing beside me. In solidarity or protection if this goes wrong, I’m not sure.
August flinches. “What do you want?” he repeats, tone somehow even harsher than it was before. “Did Astrid report something that wasn’t to her liking?”
“What? What are you talking about?” I ask.
“I have listened to and abided by every request. So, if there’s nothing else, I’d like to return to my family,” he says coldly. He stands and points to the door. “My guards will see you out.”
“No, August, listen. We’re not with Marik. Please, hear me out,” I plead.
August extends his hand, and ice begins to coat the floor, slowly creeping toward us. I open my mouth to explain more, but before I can, Asmo summons a dagger from Elle’s belt. In one swift motion, he snatches it from the air and slashes the sigil through my shirt.
I yelp, more in surprise than pain.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, then takes the knife to his ribs. His features slowly shift back to his real ones—his frame lengthening, his hair turning a shade darker, and his eyes shifting back to their pools of darkness, the fern-green forming around his iris, the silver cutting right through its middle.
“What is going on?” August asks—no, commands. “What is this?”
“August, just listen to me,” I say. “The Mae that’s on the throne isn’tme.”
He pauses. “What do you mean?”
“We’re confident Elle is pretending to be me. We think Marik is using this same dark magic to change her appearance to make it look like me. But it’s not. We’ve been in hiding since the wedding.”
August looks at Asmo. “And what about you? That’s your brother on the throne. You’re telling me you have nothing to do with that?”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you,” Asmo responds coolly. Normally, an insulting nickname would have been tacked onto the end of that.
Such restraint.
August looks back at me, his arms now crossed, the muscles strained. “And I’m just supposed to take your word for it?”
“Think about it. What’s your last memory of me on the night of the wedding?” I ask him. He just stares back at me. “Think,” I urge.
“Cora had just fired a bolt of lightning at you and you died.”
I take a cautious step closer. “And? What happened after that?”
He stares up at the ceiling for a moment, but then says, “I don’t…I think Luca and Ivan dragged your body away.”
Asmo nods emphatically. “Yes. Holly and I defended them as they did.”
