by Bec McMaster
Thief of Dreams
Bec McMaster
Copyright © 2019 by Bec McMaster
All rights reserved.
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Thief of Dreams
When Prince Keir of the Court of Dreams sends out a summons in search of a bride, the Wraith King sees a chance to steal the powerful Dragon's Heart. He sends his best thief, Zemira Az Ghul, to penetrate the court as one of the potential brides.
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All Zemira wants is freedom from the chains that bind her to the king, and if she finds the relic she'll have it. But the Court of Dreams is more dangerous than she ever expected, and Zemira must soon choose between her freedom—and her heart.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Promise of Darkness
Also by Bec McMaster
About the Author
1
The Wraith King sits on his throne, ghostly pale hands resting on the arms as I enter the audience chamber, my heeled boots clicking on the polished obsidian tiles. I briefly consider telling him the flickering sconces and smattering of winter-scoured skulls are precisely why the gilded fae courts consider those of my kind abominations, but I like my tongue where it is, thank you very much.
Raesh Ghul, the Wraith King Beyond the Shadowfangs.
Master of Bone and Death.
The creature that holds my fate in his clawed hands.
A crown carved from a troll's skull rests on his long, raven-black hair, and those bottomless eyes lock on me with an eerie intensity. Intimidating, to say the least. A pale wolf pelt rests over his bare shoulders, a golden chain around his throat dripping with tiny glass vials. Wisps of insubstantial light fill them, an almost hypnotic glow. Subtle, he is not.
And capturing his attention is never wise.
But nobody ever called me wise before.
"You sent for me, Father?" I ask, trying to stop my gaze from sliding to those glowing glass vials. Especially the one in the center, where a tendril of glowing white light senses my presence and reaches out to press itself against the glass.
I yearn for it too. Yearn to be whole again.
"You're late."
"I was training," I reply. "Forgive me for not anticipating your desire to see me. It seems the messenger was waylaid."
"Your sister managed to arrive on time."
What a surprise. "One of her many attributes."
I pause below the dais, next to the kneeling supplicant already waiting there. Black silk flows from her shoulders and her shining black hair is woven into a dozen braids as she keeps her head bowed. Once upon a time, we were reflections in a mirror, but Soraya no longer has an interest in being the other half of me.
And for some reason, she didn't want Father's messenger to reach me.
"I see no need to delay further on pleasantries. I have a job for my thief."
"I can do it, Father," Soraya says, looking up from her kneeling position. "Let me do it."
This captures my interest. There's no love lost between my sister and me, but she has her gifts. I have mine. While Soraya can stop a man's heart with a single smile, I can pluck the last coin from a miser's purse while he's watching it.
She must still be smarting from that failed assassination attempt last month.
"This job is delicate. It requires the best," Raesh replies. "I've spent three thousand years waiting for this chance, and I will not see it slip through my fingers." He leans forward hungrily. "A single failure means we will never get such a chance again."
Three thousand years?
"You want me to steal from one of the fae." Of the long-lived races, they're the only ones who've been around that long—and survived.
It wouldn't be the first time I slipped among the lighter courts. After all, it's why I was created; a half-fae, half-wraith creature that can pass as either, though my features throw more toward my mother's people than my father's.
Thank the moon.
My father's ghostly pallor would not go well with the simple black velvet doublet I wear. It wouldn't go well with anything.
Except perhaps a coffin.
Perhaps that's why he likes his bleached skulls so much?
"Not just one of the fae," Soraya interrupts angrily. "You're asking her to pull the wool over the eyes of a ruling prince. Zemira's shown her weakness in the past. I am the best. I was your Champion. Her heart is too soft."
And yours made of solid stone. If you ever had one.
But that's neither here nor there.
"What's the job? Which ruling prince?" I ask. There are over two dozen fae courts, each lovelier and more dangerous than the one before it, but fae males rule only a handful. "Court of Shadows? Court of Blood? Court of Storms?"
Fingers crossing behind my back, I hope and pray it's not the Court of Storms.
Prince Angmar still resents me for the loss of his trident. Each court's power is focused through a relic of some description that is tied to the ruling prince or queen, and there are whispers his manhood wanes without it. I'm told my head is worth its weight in gold to him, and I much prefer it where it is.
Those black eyes lock on me again. "I want you to steal the Dragon's Heart from Prince Keir's Court of Dreams."
And now the floor drops out from under me. "Are you insane?"
Breaking into the Court of Dreams is a death trap.
There's only one way in and out—a heavily guarded portal—and nobody knows where the portal leads. Nobody knows where the Court of Dreams even resides. Some whisper of an Other World, created by the dreams of dragons long ago, but nobody actually knows. It's not located on any of the continents I know of. It may not even exist.
Just a tale woven of myth and shadow.
"Some say there is no Court of Dreams," I protest. "That it was lost to memory, and that—"
"It exists," Raesh snarls, his claws digging into the arms of the throne. "Though Keir tore it from the mortal world long ago, and its only been seen rarely ever since. There is rumor the portal is waking."
"I'd be working blind," I blurt. "There's no schematics, no information about the Dragon's Heart or where he hides it…. Nobody's even crossed the portal into the Court of Dreams in—"
"Three thousand years," Soraya mutters.
I shake my head. "It can't be done. My magic works perfectly to help me slip about unseen in fae palaces, but I can't cross the portal without Keir—or one of his guards—knowing. I can't even activate the portal without his say-so. You're asking for the impossible. The Court of Dreams is dangerous."
And then, of course, there's the Prince of Dreams himself.
He alone stood apart during the Dragon Wars all those years ago. He faced the combined might of the fae courts when he wouldn't agree to their terms, and when they threatened him with annihilation, he simply tore his court from the mortal plan
e and vanished it.
"No, you cannot cross the portal without Keir knowing. Unless, of course, the portal is open and you have an invitation," Raesh purrs. He looks entirely too pleased with himself.
"I must have misplaced it," I drawl, heart still pounding.
"Not you, specifically. Keir's sent out a Summons."
A Summons.
A bride hunt.
Every fae princess in the land will be waiting with bated breath for that invitation. Keir's may be a name whispered in hushed tones in case he overhears, but he's incredibly powerful. A living legend. Rich. Dominant. The ultimate catch for any female with breath in her lungs.
Good luck to the poor soul who lands him.
But it might be a way in.
I hold up my arms, releasing my grip on the glamour that keeps my true nature under wraps. A faint, unearthly luminescence begins to glow beneath my skin. Without glancing at my reflection in the polished obsidian floors, I know my eyes have become completely black, the thin tracery of blackened capillaries lacing through my cheeks, and my hair gleams like silver under moonlight. "Somehow I doubt the Prince of Dreams thought to include one of the Forbidden on his potential bride list. Wouldn't want to taint his precious blood."
"No." Raesh tosses me a scroll. "But here's a list of those females that have been granted such an invitation."
There are nearly two dozen names on the list.
And suddenly I know what he's suggesting.
All I need is an invitation and a name not my own.
None of the princesses of the Blessed Courts, for they're too well known. But there are the names of more obscure titles here. Lady of the Golden Dawn. Duchess of Goldenrod. Lady of Greenslieves.
Nobody would miss any of them.
And there's a fair chance no one has seen any of them.
The courts keep to themselves, after all. The Seelie Hegemony still stands, but that doesn't mean the Blessed Courts don't hold a dagger to each other's throats even as they're promising smiles.
"It's still incredibly risky," I breathe, though my mind is whirring with thoughts and plans.
The Wraith King holds up one of the glittering soul-traps he wears around his neck. Inside it glows that silvery pale spark, an amorphous wisp of shape trapped inside its crystal prison.
Stolen from me the day I was cut from my fae mother's womb.
"Bring me back the Dragon's Heart," he purrs, leaning forward on his throne, "and I will grant you the rest of your soul."
Freedom.
He'll never be able to wield it against me, never hold it over my head again. I sense Soraya's head turn sharply to track me. She too is bound by such a trap. She too hungers.
Now I know why she wanted the job.
"Done." The word is on my lips before I can even think it through.
Soraya shoves to her feet. "A dangerous task to risk on someone so unworthy. Perhaps you think her the best for the challenge, but to send Zemira alone could be dangerous. Let me go too—as her maid perhaps. They'll expect at least one attendant."
And she'll be there to steal the job the second she gets a chance.
"Your skills at dissembling are meager at best," I shoot back. "You'll give me away before I take two steps—"
"So we're to pin all our hopes on you?" she sneers.
"Tell me again: How is the Lord of Mistmark? Still alive? Still breathing? Why is that?"
Soraya takes a step toward me, fists clenched, but I face her just as determinedly. All the bloody years between us rise like vengeful ghosts. Sisters are both your greatest strength and greatest weakness. Only she can get close enough to deliver a merciless strike, because some part of me will always let her, every time. She's broken my heart a dozen times, and I, no doubt, the same.
But this time, I can see the blood drawn is hers.
And that makes me wonder, just a little, about the Lord of Mistmark.
Who should be dead.
Because my sister speaks the truth.
She is the best. She does not fail.
Raesh examines us both, a small smile crossing his mouth. "An excellent proposition, Soraya. You will attend your sister, though you will not hamper her." He tilts his head to me. "This is why you were born," the king replies. "Don't fail me."
I wouldn't dare.
Because Keir is not the only dangerous trap I have to avoid.
Now I have Soraya to contend with too.
2
"You said it wouldn't kill her," I hiss, as the sound of someone dying floats down the stairs of the inn in Hawkesbury Shrewd.
"Her ladyship's retching. Not dying," Soraya replies. "And her guards will bring the local herb woman to tend her. She'll recognize the smell of Monksflower and diagnose her with a nice peaceful two weeks in bed to recover. Perfect amount of time for us to get into the court, steal the Dragon's Heart, and get out."
"Oh, of course. An easy little trot," I reply snidely. "Nothing to worry about at all."
"Move," Soraya whispers harshly, shoving me in the back. "We haven't got all day."
Poisoning a Fae princess is probably the lowest I'm prepared to sink to avenge my family and protect my people.
Probably.
But then the Lady of Greenslieves has the one thing I need to pull off this entire caper.
An invitation.
The Dragon's Heart is one of the most powerful relics ever crafted, the stories say. It anchors the Court of Dreams to the mortal plane, so that the court can come and go at will, the Wraith King told me. Strong enough to break the curse on my people and vicious enough to turn its wrath upon the Seelie Hegemony.
We'd no longer be trapped beyond the Shadowfangs. No longer cursed to a miserable half-life.
But if I succeed, this will mean war, and I'm not certain how I feel about that.
A bloody war ahead of me, all for the price of my soul. I shouldn't care. The fae hunt my kind. Long ago, I might have dreamed that they'd spare me for the half of my blood that belongs to them, but those dreams have long since turned to dust.
I'm not fae.
Not with even a whisper of my father's taint in my veins. I'm the monster that cost my mother her life, to be hunted and destroyed.
They'll never forget it.
"Stay here and guard the stairs," I mutter.
"Like a little servant bitch."
"You wanted to come."
Rolling my eyes, I step into the shadows beneath the stairs and twist through them until I'm slipping into the shadows inside the Lady Merisel's room.
This is the fun part.
The room opens up around me, draped in veils of darkness that steal all but the brightest light from the world. Nobody can see me here in the shadows, though I dare not step into the patch of sunlight that gilds the wooden floors.
Shadow Walking's an old, rare gift passed down through my father's bloodlines. Few wield it these days. Lucky me.
We weren't always wraiths.
Over three thousand years ago, the Dragon Wars obliterated most of my people. Those that survived were exiled from the Fair Lands and found shelter in the harsh, inhospitable mountains they call the Shadowfangs.
The Forbidden, they name us, though we once bore another.
The Unblessed.
The Courts of fae and beastkin alike, where no fae was too hideous, too twisted, too imperfect to be accepted. Unlike the shining, glittering Courts of the Blessed, where perfection is revered and the powerful rule with an iron fist.
Our imperfections cost us.
King Anselm of the Court of Dawn was the first to proclaim us tainted. He urged the Blessed Courts to wipe our "blight" from the world and formed the Seelie Hegemony against us.
The Unblessed fought to hold on to their lands, but Anselm fashioned a powerful weapon that drained the fae magic from our flesh and cost us the war.
One by one, the dark fae fell, until my grandfather, Prince Rakulh, used his darker magics to curse us into a new form. Not quite fae. Not quite dar
k fae. Faded from our past grandeur, our immortal lives forever lost to us, along with our most dangerous magic.
He was the first wraith.
And as the years passed and the curse crippled him, he died with a pledge on his lips: One day the Forbidden will rise again and retake our lands.
One day, the war will start again.
But to do that we need the strength to shatter King Anselm's weapon.
Shadow Walking is a fae gift. An Unseelie gift.
One that shouldn't exist in my mortal body following the Purge, though my father finally found a means to circumvent the curse that restricts us.
And if any fae of the glittering courts knew I had the gift, they'd hunt me down and obliterate me.
The sour stink of vomit fills the air as I ripple through shadows, searching the room. Soraya and I have spent more than enough hours listening to Lady Merisel and her maids chattering about how excited they are about the Summons to know we're not looking for an actual invitation.
No, we need a charm.
Imbued with enough of Prince Keir's magic to protect its bearer from the lash of the portal's magic, it serves to keep the uninvited from attempting to penetrate his court.
For a second, I almost feel a moment of pity for poor Merisel. When this goes down, she'll be blamed.
Then I catch the glint of fine golden thread twined across her gowns, and the spill of silk and golden jewels that tumble from her travelling trunk.
Merisel is Blessed.
She's never known a moment of pain or torture in her life. Never had half her soul stolen from her. Never been hunted purely for the mistake of her birth or the ghostly luminescence of her skin.
I pluck the golden charm—the one that will protect me from the portal's magic—from beneath her jewelry box. The second I touch it, it evaporates into the shadows with me, and I tuck it inside my leather waistcoat.
