by A. K. Koonce
Hemphway shuffles in the doorway, clearly uncomfortable with my snooping. I pull the paper out of the pocket and give him a reassuring pat on the shoulder.
“Hemphway, I’ll be sure to send a gift to your quarters for your loyalty and silence.” The paper shines like decorative wrapping paper. On it, a small list is scribbled out.
Goat’s blood, lavender herb, ashes of a loved one, the right eye of crow, and the hair of an elder goblin. So, either Donovan was baking the world’s most disgusting cake, or he intends to do some dark magic. This can’t be a good thing. No, I know this isn’t a good thing.
I shake my head, mostly to myself, and tuck the paper back in the pocket. Carefully, I tug it out so that it shows just enough, like I found it.
Sweat drips down my neck. I wipe at it and try to clear my throat. Instead of clearing my throat, I produce yet another cough. This one louder than the others, and it feels like hot iron claws up my throat as it comes out. My entire body feels clammy.
Hemphway takes a large step back from me, pointing at me with astonishment as silver blood collects on my sleeve.
“Princess. You are sick.”
Every breath I take feels dire and scarce, as if any of them could be my last. My hands shake as I wipe at my mouth.
I need someone I trust. Anyone…
“Take me to King Iri. Now,” I demand.
In a whirlwind, we leave behind the armory, the door swinging open behind us as he ushers me through the passageways. We don’t slow to wave at the gasping guards or worry about a leisurely pace to calm my aching feet.
Not when the curse is trying to kill the Cursebreaker.
Sixteen
Goddess Save the Queen
Bear
Towering over the map of our four kingdoms, I fight a yawn. Small figures are arranged in groups to resemble the armies that camp along many of our borders. Not my armies, but the armies of other kingdoms ready to sweep my kingdom out from under me the second people start to rebel.
The illness, the worry, and the conditions of poverty that have spread like wildfire across the nation have left us vulnerable. I hate being vulnerable. My father raised me to never appear weak. And because of him, I’ve fought to keep this kingdom. And it has cost me far too much.
My eyes feel heavy, my vision blurring between hard and heavy blinks. I should go to bed. I should call for dinner, then get to bed. The late nights I spend hovering over this ridiculous map or listening to those complete idiots I call advisors are starting to wear on me. I shove back my hair and lean further into the cushioned seat.
I had considered eavesdropping on Syren as she strolled from the chapel arm-in-arm with my weapon’s master, Donovan. He’s a squirrelly man who always tells me exactly what's on his mind. I don’t trust him though. It’s nothing against him, I can’t even trust my priest in this shaky kingdom.
What’s on my mind now is why he has taken such an interest in Syren.
I tracked their steps through the winding halls till I was certain Donovan was only taking Syren back to her room. I followed them, watching from the shadows of doorways and hiding in the tiniest spaces that would fit my bulky form. They were unaware of my presence. It’s a trick I learned from my father. How to hide things like secrets and bruises.
Hatred, even.
Donovan has friends to help the kingdom in all aspects. Secret friends. Deceitful friends. I don’t ever want Syren to be one of Donovan’s conspiring friends. Following them made me feel guilty, though. A feeling that doesn’t overcome me often or easily. Yet it was enough to make me turn back long before they reached her room.
Syren seemed to fancy Donovan’s presence. She practically leaned into him as they walked together. The sight of it made me sick. Sick with anger and jealousy. Jealousy makes me pathetic and weak. I refuse to be either of those things.
So when I returned to my room, I let myself review the positions of each waiting army. I fiddled with the tiny figures, arranging them neatly in their respective places, and ironed out the wrinkles in my long map, until there was nothing left to do but stare down at the desk and wallow in my endless worry.
Easily, I remember the image of Syren on our carriage ride home today. Her whole body was alight with new ardor that I can’t quite wrap my mind around, but I easily recognized. Determination. The feeling had suffused her with a new kind of glow. It not only scared me but thrilled me when I saw it.
“One day, I will prove you wrong. And I pray that you will rot in every toxic word you have spoken over me.”
Every other time Syren made threats or tried to undermine my authority, I never quite believed what she was saying. However, when she spoke to her father, I knew she would see it come to pass. Her father may not believe in her, but by Goddess Celeste above, she believes in herself.
Quick footfalls approach outside my door and instantly, my body goes tense. The doorknob jiggles but doesn’t open. Banging against my door makes it rattle loudly on its hinges.
“Bear, Bear!” The voice calls out, fear nipping every syllable.
Without thinking, I’m across the room, pulling the door open so hard it slams into the wall with a hard crack against the stone. Syren pants on the other side. Her time on the island had made her skin glow with the sun’s blistering kiss, but now she looks ghostly.
My attention immediately falls to the silver blood dripping from her nose. Her feet stumble to keep her upright as the guard reaches out to steady her. Blue strands of her hair hang limply down, heavy with sweat.
“Syren,” I whisper, dragging her into my room.
That sniveling, worthless guard, Hemphway, squeaks in my doorway, “Would you like me to fetch the physician?”
“No. She’s fine.” Growling, I point angrily out the door. “Leave us.”
“I don’t feel fine.” Syren coughs into her hands, wet silver blood coating them. I lead her to my bed, sitting her on the edge of the maroon comforter.
“You are going to be fine.” Worry etches her beautiful face, dragging the plump pout of her lips down into a souring frown. No matter what I say, she doesn’t believe that she’s going to be okay, and that reads clearly on her features.
“Am I going to die?” Her whole body trembles, and she hugs herself, mindless of the blood that leaves handprints on her dress. The violet in her eyes looks more vibrant as the whites stain with silver.
“You’re not going to fucking die.” I grab her shoulders, wrapping my hands around the delicate lace of her dress, and stare desperately at her until she nods. Then I leave her sitting there.
Urgency is the only thing that keeps me moving, hunting. My hands feel empty and unsure the moment they leave her. But I won't let this illness take her away. She’s too important.
Crossing the room, I scrounge through drawers and shelves, cursing myself for not remembering where I put stuff. Even goddessdamn important stuff like this. Finally, in the last drawer of my dresser, I see the white vial shoved beside clothing, and I pull it from its hiding spot.
“Drink this.” The cork top pops loudly. Offering the glass bottle, I thrust it toward Syren’s paling pink lips.
“What is it?” she stammers.
So untrusting, it bewilders me. She’s gravely ill, and she still thinks I would poison her. If I wanted her to die, I could have watched her do the job herself about a hundred times now since I met this reckless woman.
“It’s going to save your life. So don’t ask questions.” With my thumb I part her mouth and poor some of the liquid in.
She swallows it messily but shakes her head and hisses. “That tastes like horse piss.”
My arms wrap around her small frame, and I hate that I haven’t fucking held her enough like this.
“Well, in a few minutes, when you start to feel more yourself, you can tell me how you know what horse piss tastes like.”
Another shudder passes through her and she hugs herself more tightly in my arms. I’ve heard stories of some fae who die slower than
others when the illness hits them. They tell of how the brittle fingers of death make everything feel so cold. As a fire fae, nothing is cold to me and describing death in such a way somehow makes it more terrifying. Like death would dare to pry away the one small comfort my magic has to offer while it laughs in my face.
I climb into the bed next to her and wrap my arms around her. Syren tries to pull away, but I don’t let go.
“Aren’t you lucky you get to be wrapped up with me in bed, yet again,” I purr into her ear to distract her.
“I don’t,” she coughs, “think lucky is the right word for it.”
“What would you call it then?” Releasing just enough of my magic, I warm my skin further, the sensation making her shoulders fall away from her ears and the grip of her crossed arms loosen as she melts against my chest.
“Perhaps I would call it misfortune. I’m very unfortunate.”
“Poor you,” I breathe into her neck, letting the strands of her blue hair tousle against my face. She smells like coconut. “You must live a rough life as a pampered princess who gets to marry the most handsome king in all of fae culture.”
Pink returns to her skin, the shivers slowing as the magic works its way through her system. It’s quick-working. I’ll definitely be thanking that witch next time I buy from her.
“Hardly pampered.” The humor in her voice fades.
Banishment wasn’t meant to ruin her life. It was meant to preserve mine. My last fiancé, Princess Emella, left me in the dead of night and didn’t return. She didn’t leave a note or say goodbye. Then, when I found another water fae who could be the answer to everything, all I heard were the rumors that she was wild with men, disrespectful with authority, and refused to follow the rules.
It scared me shitless. So, yes. I refused the marriage. I hadn’t expected her father to not want her back. To cast her future at my feet as if I cared what happened to her. So I sent her away. Which happened to only make matters worse, surprisingly.
When I found her with wind-tossed hair and scraps of a gown clinging to her form, she hadn’t wanted to leave. Which made me think she thrived on that island. But isolation is a dangerous thing. Having no contact with your family, friends, or even just a run of the mill fae is haunting. Syren won't admit it, but I think the idea of the island still scares her.
Being alone scares her just as much as being with me scares her.
Just another grudge and another wall that stands between us. If we know what’s good for us, what’s good for our people, we will get married. I don’t want a queen that talks back or that hijacks the day and decides to play in fountains. Do I?
I did too much to not focus on this kingdom. I can’t be distracted. Ever.
She’s the first woman who lacks any sort of respect for my title. While she is knowledgeable and well-versed in etiquette skills, as every fae of royalty should be, she doesn’t make use of them. Syren doesn’t hang on my every word or even pretend to be attracted to me. She just doesn’t.
And that pisses me off. Until it doesn’t. Sometimes I find myself so entranced by the atmosphere she has about her that the anger just escapes me. It’s replaced by a deeper, scarier feeling. Want. I want her. She’s my only option, and the worst bet I could make. She better sure as hell save my kingdom.
“You’re looking better.” I lean slightly away, trying not to let my gaze linger too long. “Do you feel any better?”
“Surprisingly, yes.” Her trembling hands clasp in her lap, her body tilting away from me.
I can take a hint, even when I don’t necessarily want to. So I let her go and lounge back onto the blankets.
“If you have a cure, why don’t you use it?” she asks quietly, still unable to make eye contact with me.
She thinks so little of me. Thinks I have the answers and refuse to share them with anyone else. It’s hard not to take offense.
“I only had the one. It was made for me, if I were to get sick. That vile was costly and the ingredients rare. To have more of that made, I would have to give up my entire kingdom.”
Because the price would be their lives. Dark magic is a twisted bitch like that. The price to save ten thousand fae, is the death of ten thousand fae.
I earned that vial with my father’s life. The witch gave it to me as a coronation present.
“You wouldn’t give up your crown to save them all? So many innocent lives.” Her knuckles whiten as she clenches her fists. She wants to hit me with those fists.
The witch has secrets. And I’m enchanted to not share the way her magic works.
Not even with my mate.
“I will never give up my crown. I’m not that king,” I say instead. “I’ve accepted that I’m not the king that people will fawn over. They think I killed my father out of petty revenge, and that’s fine. I don’t want their thank you’s and adoration. The sooner you can accept who I am and who I am not, the better our marriage will be.”
Her violet eyes light up. They flare with anger as she stands. “I don’t want to marry you, Bear.”
“I don’t want to marry you either, but alas, there is no other choice.” I roll my eyes and tuck my hands under my head and stare up at the dark twinkling ceiling. “And I’ll take a thank you for saving you anytime now. It seems thank you’s are as easy for you as apologies are for me.”
“Oh,” She laughs haughtily. “Thank you so much, Your Royal Jackassness. Thank you for saving me from death so you could damn me with the living. How will I keep from swooning at your feet?”
I smirk. Even though I know I shouldn’t. I know it’ll press all of her buttons. And I really want to press all of her buttons even if it continues to keep us at arms-length and never anything more. Because it feels good. The burning tension between us feels better than fucking, I swear.
“Yes, much better.” I close my eyes, knowing my kingdom is still safe. My crown is still mine to keep, with Syren at my side.
The mattress shifts beneath her small body, and my heart stumbles the moment smooth thighs slide over my hips. The sexiest sight I’ve ever seen greets me when I open my eyes, and she’s staring down on me, long hair curtaining around the sharp angles of her face.
My brain tells me this is a trap, but my dick doesn’t listen. Hesitantly, my palms settle on her thighs where her dress is bunched up, barely covering her from my drifting gaze.
My heart thunders in my ears, and I have to wet my lips to even get a word out. “You’re going to make me crazy, Syren Stormson.”
Her gentle hands push up the planes of my chest. Her nails stab into my skin like little knives, and I don’t know whether to grimace or groan.
“Do not ever save me again,” she threatens.
I study her as she glares down on me. I think it’s her way of telling me not to selfishly save her if I’m not willing to do the same for my kingdom.
She shoves off of me so hard, her knee slams into my cock. She saunters off, banging the door behind her.
She leaves me how she always does:
Filled with undeniable lust and unending annoyance.
Seventeen
If Looks Could Kill
Syren
I’m feeling better. Bear’s mysterious cure did its job. Even if I don’t understand what brought on the sudden sickness. Everything here is as confusing as the King who rules this land.
But today I’m not going to dance around his foul mood.
Guards lounge around the open arena. Many have their shirts dangling in their hands or twisted and folded behind their necks, leaving their beautiful muscled chests bare. There is chatter and laughter and even friendship here. The scene trudges up old feelings from my practices with my father’s guard. Some of those men raised me. My father definitely blamed them for my foul mouth and recklessness every chance he got.
It’s a shame I have to break this up. The guards’ nonchalant demeanor and all the fun and games end when they see me storm between the stone columns, heading straight for the fighting grou
nd. Jaws drop when I pull a dull sword out from the large barrel of extras that sits on the arena’s edge.
Even when their voices lower to whispers and they watch me with careful eyes, the constant sound of metal-on-metal doesn’t stop. The two men fighting aren’t aware that I’ve approached. Nor do either of them know how much of a pain in my ass it was to find this place.
I had to drag it out of Hemphway, and even then, he refused to escort me. He fears Bear more than he fears me. Which in my opinion is stupid.
Miranda advances on Bear, swinging his sword up and around. He’s so close to winning I can almost taste Bear’s loss as if it’s my own triumph. However, Bear swivels and the hilt of his sword makes contact with Miranda’s gloved wrist. Miranda curses and his weapon clatters loudly to the ground.
Bear holds the sword under his friend’s chin with his favorite eat-shit grin. Miranda pushes the blade down with one hand and rolls his eyes.
“Yes, yes, nothing like feeding your ego first thing in the morning.” Sweat makes Miranda’s red hair slick against his forehead. Even in his defeat, he walks with his head held high as he retrieves his weapon from the concrete.
Bear pulls his shirt up over his brow, wiping perspiration from his face. Under the sun, shining from the heat, he looks like a god. Sweat clings to every hard line of his chest. His skin glows, his physical form is so much larger than the other fae milling around, and the carefree joy on his face gives him the appearance that he couldn’t be bothered by anything because he controls it all. That is, until he sees me, of course.
His face falls. Letting his blade hang in his hand, he saunters over to me. His attention divides between the determination on my face and the sword balanced in my palm.
“Syren!” Miranda calls cheerfully as he jogs to catch up.
“Hey, Miranda.” I give him a small bow of my head.
“What are you doing out here? Shouldn’t you be meeting with the party planner I sent your way?” Bear steps closer, his long legs stealing away too much space between us.
