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“Nice to see behind the scenes,” Dezi whispers, sidling up with a smirk. “Even if it might be the only one we get before we’re thrown in a dungeon.”
“Don’t be a dick,” I mutter. “Sassy doesn’t need you being the mopey, doom and gloom vampire right now. Besides, we’ve got plenty of tricks up our sleeves they don’t know about.”
That’s for Fiadh’s benefit—I have no fucking idea how we’re getting out of this unless we have help from the outside.
He grins fangily, his red eyes flashing as he looks at our captors. The guards don’t react, but I clock the way the one on the left’s hand hovers near his sword, like he expects Dezi to lunge at any second. I’m sure he would if he thought it prudent, but he’s just screwing with them to test their dedication. A few terrified soldiers might give us an advantage, and we fucked up their captain before. I’m glad the mosquito is still thinking strategically in the face of this nonsense.
The victory parade route winds us past a gallery of failed coups—portraits of nobles who tried and failed to kill the king, every one immortalized in paint and shame. By the looks of them, Midnight’s internal politics are a meat grinder, and these walls are its sausage. I would have preferred to be ‘captured’ in Harvest; their sub-standard soldiers would have been far easier to thwart. Unfortunately, we don’t have the luxury of picking what the universe throws at us, and this Fae heritage bullshit is fucking up our entire plan for Rev’s tour.
I wonder if these douches were tipped off…
We descend two flights into the sub-basement, and there, the air changes from the sweet-smelling magical world of the public face of the court. A damp, metallic smell rests on my tongue, and I sense the very atmosphere being charged with enough magic to make a warlock double-knot his pants. The corridor narrows to a ribbed tunnel, and at the end, a circular door awaits, matte black and veined with embedded silver.
The Vizier turns, eyes catching mine. “None of you are part wolf, right?” he asks with a laugh. “Oh, no matter. We’ll find ways to make you just as uncomfortable as we do the lupine traitors who seek to infiltrate our lands.”
Fiadh snorts, then spits on the floor. “No wolves in this group, sorry. But if you think a little silver and wolfsbane are going to scare us, you’re sorely mistaken. Go fuck yourself, wand licker.”
Yeah, our girl is still in there; her not-so-veiled insult about male magic users struck a nerve with the Vizier, and she knows it.
The door opens, and his guards lead us into the roundest, blackest room I’ve ever seen. The walls are slabs of pure obsidian, polished so deeply you could use them to check your hairline. In the center is one long table, carved from the trunk of a colorful Faerie tree and inlaid with bones bleached to surgical white. There are seven chairs on each side, but only four are occupied.
Nothing good comes from secret underground meetings with evil dudes; my uncle taught me that long ago.
Three robed councilors sit together, faces masked in elaborate silver filigree that glints with every heartbeat. The masks are definitely to show off how much money they can waste on intimidation because they don’t cover all of their features. The fourth seat obviously belongs to the Vizier, who parks himself and taps his fingers like he’s starting a metronome.
Behind him stands a single guard who I know from the coloring is part orc. He will let no one past him unless they kill him for sure. There are no other exits that I can see, but I keep looking anyway. It sure as fuck can’t hurt. My eyes flick to Tier, who is wearing a stern expression, but has concern in his gaze. I move to Revelin, unsurprised to find the prince pretending that he could give a shit less about this ominous lair we’ve been taken to. Finally, I glance at Dezi, hoping the vampire has come up with something, but he’s focused on our mate entirely.
Great. We’re all at a loss.
They seat Fiadh in the hot seat dead center, with the rest of us flanking her. Tiernan takes up position to her left, his back straight and shoulders squared, already casing the room for weaknesses. Revelin slides to her right, hovering so close it’s like he’s trying to shield her with whatever diplomatic pull he has. Dezi and I take the ends, but I think that’s advantageous because we can move if need be.
I’m worried about why they’re focusing on her and how they knew to trap us.
Etched into the obsidian dome above the table are runes that glow in bright jewel tones. I can’t read the language, but I guess they’re anti-magic, with a sub-layer to prevent portal escapes or other Fae trickery used to escape. My eyes cut to Rev, and I notice that he’s clenching his jaw as he stares at the partially masked morons.
The Vizier drums his fingers on the table. The sound is amplified by the table; each tap is a gunshot. “Shall we begin?”
He gestures, and the councilors lean forward. The one in the center speaks first, voice dark and obscured by some sort of cloaking spell. “Fiadh Morgenstern, you stand accused of espionage and the attempted destabilization of the Midnight bloodline. Before we proceed, you will surrender any items, enchanted or otherwise.”
Fiadh’s hands are empty, but she flashes a middle finger with a cheeky grin. “Not a single one on me, jackass. I don’t need a fucking focus item like you losers.”
Come on, Sassy, really?
The councilor on the right tilts her head. “We have confirmed your true parentage,” she says. Her mask is a fox with eyes of raw citrine. “Do you want to admit for the record that our findings are accurate?”
Fiadh’s chin lifts. “Fuck, no. That would be a lie.”
A ripple of amusement comes from under the masks. The owl mask with the onyx eyes chimes in, “The letters you stole contained incomplete verification, so that is correct. Your lineage is disputed by the councilors of magic for the crown of Midnight as well. Do you wish to reciprocate?”
Fiadh glances at me, and I nod. She pulls the parchment out of her jacket and slides it across the table. Dezi begrudgingly does the same with the letters, and I can almost taste his fury at being made to give them up.
“These are your crown’s historical documents, asshole. I assume they’re not fakes, and so yeah, I guess I reciprocate disbelief at their claims. Though, gotta say that I don’t feel like they’re the ones pulling these strings. I don’t see a royal—even a baby one—in here other than mine.”
The Vizier scowls at the papers, his eyes full of rage. “If these are authentic, they would confirm her assertion. But we have not been able to authenticate them, and we have not tested you to ascertain you even have the bloodline necessary to legally make your statements.”
Dezi leans in, his face a mask of faux pleasantness. “Then I suppose you will need to do so before you level false charges against her or any of our family. Holding the Prince is enough treachery, but including his bodyguard and another royal with mates? I may be a vampire, but even I know that will not work out well for you.”
He’s needling the motherfucker, but he’s right. They cannot both claim she’s a fraud, a thief, a pretender and that she cannot contest those charges without some verification. If their own booby traps won’t do it, then other methods need to be used. Otherwise, our absence and missing status will trip alarms somewhere in this damn fortress.
