Page 184 of Blood of the Fairest

"Don't be slow, it's exhausting. Magic, obviously."

He folds his own arms, and I can't help eyeing his hands. Where are the claws I felt before? Despite the wings, horns, ears, eyes, and so on, he still looks far more human than I anticipated.

"Why the hell did you dance with me?"

"Again, with the slowness. Does your mind retain nothing? You weren't mollified by my last gift, so I said I would find what you desire so that we can be done with this nonsense. Therefore, here."

Malivant snaps his fingers, and more shadows appear beside him. When these ones disperse, I choke at the sight of the Pied Piper standing there, wrists tied in front of him.

If the Pied Piper is shocked to be here, he takes it remarkably well. His asymmetrical gaze sweeps over the guest room before he spies me.

He blinks, then gives a little wave despite his bound wrists, one side of his mouth lifting.

His long, bone-white flute is tucked into a bag slung over his back. He's wearing the same dual-green ensemble as yesterday—but now there's a glowing ring of runes slowly revolving around his neck, like a…collar.

"Crones," Eris swears from the mirror, realizing at the same time what's going on.

What. The. Fuck.

I look at Malivant in utter disbelief. "You are not trying to gift me the Pied Piper right now."

"I'm not trying, I am. I'm sure he is going to make a fine plaything for you."

Plaything?

That's it, I hate this asshole more than anything. I hate him more than lip-smacking Stooges and the spittle of condescending men—I hate him even more than the thirst scorching my throat and making my stomach scrape together.

"Like hell, he is. I don't want him."

The piper glances at the faerie beside him. "Don't feel too badly. It's the thought that counts with these things, and I was a lovely thought."

Pretty voice or not, either that guy is off his rocker, or he just has a fucked-up sense of humor.

Malivant ignores him, miffed at me once again. "But you agreed his music was a beautiful gift."

Oh, my fucking god.

"Yeah, a beautiful gift—as in, he's gifted. Not as in gift him to me, you sociopathic fucking faerie!" I explode, throwing my hands into the air.

The air chills around us as Malivant stares me down, a scent like spiced smoke drifting to my nose.

"You will watch how you speak to me," he warns in a tone that implies another death threat.

He can threaten me all he fucking wants, because this is not happening. Taking a deep breath, I pray to whatever goddess exists in this world for the patience of a saint, since I absolutely do not fucking have it.

"Dear Wrath. This," I gesture at the collared piper. "—is a man. You cannot give someone a man as a present. Signed, The Comb Throwing Mortal Who Is Not Accepting Your Screwed-Up Gift."

"I fail to see what him being a man has to do with anything. You liked him. I've gifted him to you. Therefore, your ire toward me should be lessened," he says as if it's the simplest thing in the world, and he can't fathom how I haven't grasped it yet. "If you're done being dense, the spell around his throat shall cause pain to your gift if he ventures too far from you. It is only visible to magical beings, so⁠—"

"What? Absolutely fucking not. I refuse, end of discussion. Set this poor man free right now," I demand.

"Poor?" the piper repeats. Then he sighs. "It's the clothes, isn't it? They're pauperous, I admit."

Once again, Malivant looks insulted at the suggestion, his amber gaze narrowing on me.

"I will not repeat this ever again: One cannot refuse a gift from a faerie. If you do not want this piper's flute as a plaything, make him your court jester."

"That's no good, I've got no sense of humor—but my flute is no jest," the piper grins at me.