Page 69

I stop at the double doors. There’s a beat of anticipation like the split-second before a concert’s opening chord, or the moment a bar brawl jumps from threats to flying teeth. Tier shoots me a sidelong glance, and Khol cracks his neck loudly enough to sound like popped bubble wrap. My vampire’s breath is so steady behind us that it helps me gather every bit of nervousness and shove it to my feet. As I look at Rev, his eyes flicker from me to the hinges on the doors, and I catch the barest hint of a smile on his mouth.

Throwing the doors open with both hands like I’m entering Helm’s Deep, I stride forward with a sense of smug satisfaction. The heavy wood and steel swings out hard, hitting the stone walls so hard that the boom bounces across the room and back. Every head in the throne room turns—some slow, some snapping up like they’re on wires—and then there’s total silence. I stand at the entrance, my men bracketing me like bookends, and I let them stare.

This is what survival looks like, motherfuckers.

The throne room feels bigger and meaner than I remember. The dais at the far end is draped in black velvet now, the steps climbing higher than necessary so anyone who approaches has to look up, up, up. My eyes narrow when I note the thrones themselves are empty. There’s a crowd clustered just below the bottom of the elevated area—maybe fifty people, all in varying stages from shocked to horror-struck when they see me. I look down at a floor so polished it’s almost a mirror, and see our group reflected there in a warped, blue-lit vanguard.

It doesn’t matter if they have numbers, Fiadh. Who you are and what you just did is what changes everything.

I clock each person’s face in two seconds flat. Some are open-mouthed, and others are hiding behind their hands or fans. More than a few wear the glassy look of people who had a bet running on my death and just lost the farm. There are no children here, no one under thirty, and the clothes are even darker and richer than before. They must have upgraded the court dress code for my execution.

Good. Let them suffer in their wasted efforts.

My eyes scan the edges for genuine threats to our safety and find two immediately.

Lady Morana—in full ice queen regalia, complete with silver hair coiled high and lips blue as my new tattoos—stands with almost her entire secret council, just off to the right of the dais. She’s watching me with a look that says, ‘I told you so’, as her eyes rove over my family and me.

I mark her as a threat because I do not trust her, nor any of her cronies enough to write it off.

To the left, tucked behind the throne’s curve like a shadow, is the Vizier. Galan’s long-fingered hands rest on a scroll case, and his smile is the kind you’d see on a shark before it bites. I feel the chill from him even across the room. The look in his eyes is prideful, but also filled with hunger, like he wants to be the first to find out what I can do for him now that I’ve been revealed.

I take two steps forward; the guys fan out in a perfect semicircle behind me. Every conversation dies as soon as I am within range of the royal places. It’s a perfect silence—the collective breath of people waiting to see who will die first. I wonder if any of them expected me to bring my entire family with me, or if they thought I’d come crawling and alone.

The latter is probably Fae protocol, but that’s not how I do things.

Scanning the faces for signs of the royal couple hiding, I hold back a growl when I realize they’re nowhere to be seen. Instead, it’s Morana and Galan running the show with a handful of councilors and a lot of fancy wallpaper in the form of minor nobility. The power vacuum is obvious because nobody knows what to do or how to act, now that I’ve forced my way into their stronghold.

I hold the room for a second, letting them sweat as I continue forward while staying silent. My marks flare a little brighter under my skin the closer I get. I look dangerous, and I want them to recognize that it’s not a ploy.

The trek down the carpet is all performance, but the people it’s really for aren’t here—or at least, not visible. The black-and-silver marble clicks under my boots, each step a challenge and a countdown. Intimidation works because the crowd parts so fast I almost believe there’s a force in front of me pushing the sheep aside without a physical blow. Eyes flick from my hands to my face to my ears to the men at my side in fear. I note the smattering of bows—not fully respectful, but enough—from people who looked at me with open contempt yesterday.

I want to sneer at them all, but I’m saving my best for the dais.

My gaze never leaves the thrones at the end of the hall, while the guys keep a rolling scan on the galleries and alcoves. If there’s going to be an assassination, I suspect we’d hear it coming in this echo chamber, but we take nothing for granted. Tier is just close enough to my right shoulder that if I stumble, he can catch me without breaking stride. Revelin is even with my other side as a royal should be, but keeps a half-pace back to give me center stage.

Letting me be the star in this moment probably amuses the fuck out of him, especially since he materialized a damn crown to wear before we came in.

As we make the final approach, the grandstanding of what I believe must be the current crown ‘loyalists’ is harder to ignore. Some old bat in a violet haze of silk gives a faint, “You will be blessed by our King, Lady Fiadh. You are truly honored.” Her companion catches my glare in response, and I swear to fuck, definitely shits himself right in front of us.

There are toadies here, sure, but they’re also filled with more than a little terror. Even the servants give me a wide berth, as if touching the hem of my garment might get them exorcised or possessed.

Hell if I know I can do that, but I’d give it the old college try.

The dais is intentionally higher now—a last-ditch psychological maneuver, as if looking up at those who rule is enough to make you forget how bad they are at it. I have to swallow a scoff as I see the higher cushions on the fancy chairs as well, also designed to make them seem bigger than they are. It’s not a surprise that they’re cowards, but it pisses me off. Absence is a statement of its own, and the disrespect is purposeful.

I’m beginning to wonder if these thieving assholes have any measurable powers—why else would they hide from me and do this amateur shit?

I plant my boots at the base of the steps, spine straight as a sword, and project my voice at the ceiling. “Where are the King and Queen? Did my victory at the trial leave them too terrified to face me?”

My words bounce off the stone, and I hear more than a few gasps.

Behind me, Khol mutters, “Oh, she’s starting like that, eh?”

Revelin snickers under his breath, and I have to resist the urge to make a scathing remark about the lack of balls in the royals here that will really tickle him. While my prince has been quite clear in his opinion of Midnight’s prowess, he needs to project a more diplomatic face at the moment. So I go back to staring at the empty thrones with disdain thick enough to smother the entire crowd.

From the side of the dais, Lady Morana glides across to the center, her expression so composed that it rivals her mask. If she has emotions, they are only visible in the fractional tightness of her jaw. Her cabal flanks her, their movements synchronously predatory, as if they practiced this walk on a runway somewhere.

It shows me how my family must look as we move in a unit, and I’m kind of chuffed.