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“Neither do I,” Khol mutters, and for a moment, he and the leopard are perfectly aligned. “But we are protected by other things as well—more than anyone knows.”
A knock comes sooner than I expect—a soft, polite tapping at the suite door. The air shifts as everyone gets into formation; Tiernan takes point, Khol covers the rear, Dezi and Revelin flank me on either side.
Our door opens, and the same goblin from before—Flitwick, I think—waits on the threshold, wringing his hands. “Honored guests,” he says, voice trembling. “The Court is ready for you. Please follow me.”
Revelin turns to me, voice low and meant for my ears only. “You’re not playing princess for them. You’re just surviving dinner.”
I wish I believed that, but I know how my luck runs, and what we’ve seen of Faerie thus far.
Squaring my shoulders, I nod as the group falls in behind our escort. We step into the corridor, each of us cloaked in power and nerves, the buzz of enchantment still prickling under my skin. The march to the dining hall is short but heavy with the kind of tension you only get before a bloodbath.
If this is what being a lost royal feels like, someone can have it back. But I’ll be damned if I let them see me sweat.
Here’s hoping none of these fuckers have silverware sharp enough to cut through the enchanted dress.
The dining hall is what would happen if a cathedral and a torture chamber had a kid and raised it on Grimm’s fairy tales.
It’s obsidian from floor to ceiling, with pillars stretching to the high ceiling like fossilized nightmares. The tables are so polished they reflect the candlelight in oily rivers, and above it all, hundreds of crystal pendants float midair, each cradling a single candle flame that flickers in shades of silver and white-blue. The effect is mesmerizing, almost narcotic, and if not for the rank tension crawling across my skin, I might actually appreciate it.
But I can’t because who knows how many people in this room suspect who and what I am, so they want me dead.
The goblin valet leads us to a set of doors carved with lunar phases and inlaid with what I hope is just mother-of-pearl, but in Faerie, you can never be sure. The doors swing open without a sound, and instantly, all eyes in the room are on us.
Correction—all eyes are on me and Revelin.
We’re announced by the Vizier himself. He steps onto a dais and sweeps an arm out, voice ringing with perfect clarity. “His Royal Highness, Prince Revelin Puck, heir to the Daybreak Court. In attendance with his Highness: Dezi Ruby of the ancient vampire bloodline, Tiernan Jinx, personal guard to the Prince of Daybreak, Khol Bedia of Briarvale, and…” he lets the silence stretch, milking it like he’s paid by the second, “…Lady Fiadh Morgenstern, consort to the Prince, of Briarvale.”
Why the title? Is this fucker going to out me to everyone despite the Council’s wish for me to remain hidden?
I haven’t even finished processing the word ‘Lady’ before the room shudders with a chorus of gasps and murmurs as I enter. A handful of the nobles look like they just swallowed their own tongues. At least three pairs of eyes narrow in naked hatred, but most just stare with a hunger that makes my skin itch. I don’t know why they’re all so fucking gobsmacked, but it’s creeping me out big time.
I feel Khol tense beside me, hear Dezi’s low, amused hum, and catch the briefest look of worry pass over Revelin’s face before he smooths it away.
My mates sense the change, too, so this is not good.
We are guided to a table near the hall’s center—prime real estate for social predators. Our chairs face the dais, which holds a miniature throne for the visiting royalty I know to be the secret council. Above the thrones, a stained-glass dome fractures the moonlight into constellations that twist and shift, replaying scenes of ancient battles and coronations on the ceiling in a slow, silent ballet.
The servants are wraithlike, drifting in on slippers that don’t make a sound, setting out obsidian plates and silverware. There are a dozen other tables, but even with a hundred guests, the space is mostly empty air and echoes.
“Remind me never to host a party in Faerie,” I murmur as I sit, hating how the skirt of my dress pools around me.
I swear I can hear the stars sewn into it whispering, but I don’t know if that’s their magic or mine.
Revelin grins at me ruefully. “This is a good turnout for a Court dinner. They have so many at home that people skip them.”
“Give it time,” Tiernan mutters, not looking up from his methodical survey of exits, guards, and the tables within stabbing distance.
Dezi slips into the chair next to mine, keeping a hand on my wrist under the table. “You are doing well, witchling,” he whispers. “Continue using a fake haughty demeanor to scare off anyone who might try to engage and we will get through us without incident.”
I want to laugh. “You know that’s not how this works.”
He gives me a smirk, arching a brow. “Humor me, and everyone will be rewarded when we are alone again.”
The first course arrives as we’re chatting; it’s something gelatinous and luminous, served in a crescent-shaped dish. I poke it with my fork and watch the entire thing quiver as if it’s alive.
“What is this?” I ask, suspicious.
“Lunar aspic,” says a passing servant with the faintest hint of glee. “Harvested from the tides beneath the palace. It’s said to reveal secrets if consumed on the full moon.”
