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Rev chuckles as he murmurs. “That’s the queen in you talking, Sassy. While I love it, now we have to go smile for the cameras and pretend we care about the Chamber of Commerce.”

At the moment, I definitely do not care about the fucking Chamber of Commerce, but okay.

We move toward the main street, the security shifters gliding around us like shadows with teeth. Behind me, the mayor and his cronies are already grumbling about uppity witches as if I can’t hear them.

That will hurt them later, but in the interest of getting done with this nonsense, I'll let it go this time. Fidget settles back into my hair, wings folded tight, and I feel the tiny animal’s heartbeat sync with my own. He’s ready for whatever comes, and so am I.

Ravenhold has no idea what kind of beast they’re poking, but my intuition says they’re going to find out before the end of the day.

Forty-Three

TIERNAN

There’s a moment after a crowd has been put in its place—a half-breath where the entire city seems to pause, waiting for who will fuck up next. In that slice of silence, I tip my chin once, giving the signal for everyone to move. Rev sweeps forward, every inch the pop star and prince. Sassy falls in at his left elbow, her chin up and arms loose at her sides. Dezi stays a step behind, silent as spilled blood on marble, and I take up the right flank, boots rolling heel-to-toe like we’re pacing out the length of someone’s grave.

I cannot wait for this damn visit to be over.

There are three types of crowd here—fans with faces pressed against barriers, dignitaries in official court colors, and then the nether class of hangers-on who aspire to be photographed near royalty so they can tell the story later. My security cats, all in matching black with silver-threaded armbands, regroup instantly: two in front, two behind, each a silent shadow slicing off approach vectors with surgical precision. The move is so practiced you’d think the mayor’s retinue would recognize it as a wall, but the idiot ignores it.

A couple of bureaucrats—pale with smiles that never quite reach their eyes—hustle forward to catch up with the hapless moron, one tripping over the trailing hem of his cloak. The mayor himself finally pivots on his heel and forces a smile that hits every camera in a five-block radius as he pauses in front of a statue.

“If we’re to keep the Prince’s schedule,” I say in a voice flat enough to cut through a brick wall, “we cannot stop at random photo op spots. Delays reflect poorly, and the Prince expects this to run precisely.”

The Fae politician takes in my expression, and that plastered-on grin twitches. He stammers a reply, but then thinks better and bows his head a full inch lower. Spinning back to the front, he nearly smacks into a town guard who, to his credit, doesn’t even flinch.

Yes, keep your big yap shut and get us where we’re going, dickhead.

Rev dials his wattage up, throwing dazzling smile-bombs and finger-gun salutes to the fans as we walk. It has the effect of a light bomb—every flash goes off in unison, guaranteeing at least a hundred memes by sundown. The prince doesn’t care, though, because the more attention they pay to him, the less they’re paying to us. That’s good for many reasons, and he’s smart to court it.

Dezi slides closer to me. The vampire’s hands are clasped behind his back, but he radiates a cold menace that can clear a room. He meets the mayor’s backward glance with a look so predatory that the man actually loses more color. I know for a fact there’s no compulsion magic in play—this is just the pure, ancient threat of someone who’s eaten weak-ass men like our host for breakfast.

We hit the first big intersection—what passes for the ‘Commons’ in this city is a rich person’s mall built for the criminally ostentatious. All the buildings are three stories tall, windowed with thick glass, and sport signage in either gold leaf or magic-glow. There’s a bakery styled like a crypt, a tailor with mannequins suspended from invisible wires, and a barbershop with a neon guillotine instead of a pole. Every third window is packed with faces or upraised phones, some live-streaming the walk, some just hoping for a glimpse of my old friend.

The mayor tries to pivot us into a side alley with banners strung overhead—hand-painted with his own campaign logo and I kid you not, a cartoon of his face winking. Before he can get a foot in, I take two steps forward, angling my body into his path. “Our schedule is the main thoroughfare, with designated stops for press and commerce. Any deviation will be considered an act of disrespect toward the heir to Daybreak,” I say in a calm, flat tone.

This fuckin’ guy is going to make me knock his ass out, if Knuckles doesn’t do it first.

His face spasms, but he relents, hands flapping to direct his aides back to the original route. I watch closely, listening to see if he’s also giving them any instructions we should know about. I do not trust this douchebag, and the longer we’re with him, that feeling grows.

The vampire leans in again, his voice pitched for my ears alone. “The one on the right—his aide—will try something again at the market. Watch for it.”

I clock the man, not just for his too-smooth walk but for the way he keeps eyeing the press crowd like he’s looking for a specific face. “Good to know.”

As we get further into town, my eyes never stop moving to check for trouble—windows, rooflines, reflections in the glass, anything that doesn’t belong. The crowd thickens as we walk; the noise rising and falling in little eddies around us. A block later, the mayor tries to speak to the prince, but the sound gets swallowed by a hundred simultaneous camera flashes and at least two pixie drones zipping overhead. He ends up just gesturing grandly at a set of double doors with wrought-iron filigree, and we step into the first of the vendor stops, right on schedule.

Being boxed in is not my idea of a good time, but it wasn’t as dire when the schedule was made months ago.

Inside, the store is all white marble and glass shelves, and I notice the displays are locked in place by enchanted locks. The shopkeeper—a nervous goblin in formalwear, ears pierced with little silver clocks—bows so low she nearly sweeps the floor with her nose.

“Welcome to Family Jules, honored guests. I am Jules, as was my mother before me, and so on. Please sample our latest handmade designer pieces.” She pops open a velvet tray lined with crystal rings, each one shaped like an animal—a fox, an owl, a serpent, a horse, a bird, and a bat.

Rev’s eyes go right to the bat ring. He picks it up, weighs it in his palm, and grins. “This matches your copilot, Sassypants,” he says, offering it to Fiadh. “Would you do the honor?”

I slide a fraction closer, eyes narrowed as I look at the ring. It appears to be normal; I don’t see moving parts or an obvious threat like an internal barb. Arching a brow at the vampire, I wait for him to squint at it, waving his hand casually. When he gives me a nod, I look at our mate to let her know it should be okay. Fi slips the ring onto her finger, and Fidget comes out of her hair to investigate. The bat circles the ring three times, and then climbs back into place, chittering in approval.

Is that just a quirk, or did the unknowing basilisk stumble onto a pet that has familiar possibilities? It’s a question for later, when we’re alone.

The mayor and his trio hang near the door, trying to pretend they aren’t sweating nervously. I use the distraction of Fiadh admiring the trinket to check the rear approach and the sight lines out the window. My gaze slides to the entourage again just in time to spot the mayor’s aide tapping at his phone, and then holding it low at his side. It could be nothing, but given this town’s behavior, it probably isn’t. That fucker just made my shit list. I pull my phone out and shoot a quick text to one of my cats, and pocket it before anyone notices.