by Bec McMaster
One of those dark eyebrows lift. "I should say the same. This is my palace. I'll skulk behind columns if I wish to."
I can't help myself. A smile curves my lips. "Hiding from your flock of pursuers?"
"The question is: What are you doing here?"
I bat my lashes at him. "Hoping to ensnare a certain handsome fae in my web"—his smile widens—"only to have you stumble into it instead."
I make a sound of disgust, and the prince actually laughs.
He lets me go, one thumb stroking the tender inner skin of my elbow, but as his laughter fades, those dark eyes dart over me and I realize he's not fooled. I didn't answer his question, and he knows it.
"I was trying to find the rose gardens," I admit. "They say the palace is beautiful, but the gardens are... another thing entirely. After dinner, I felt the need for some fresh air."
Away from the syrupy sweet threats thrown my way and the pathetic way some of the princesses have been trying to capture Prince Keir's attention. Calliope chose to stay. I think some part of her enjoys watching them pander to him.
"Then you are going the wrong way," he says.
"Was I?" Oh, the horror.
Prince Keir seems to make some sort of decision. With a dangerous smile, he holds out his hand. "Let me escort you."
This is... not ideal.
"Don't you have princesses to pursue?"
"Perhaps I'm pursuing one right now?"
For some strange reason, it seems I've caught his attention. Of course. I almost close my eyes and slap my own forehead. I'm the one female not at the gathering tonight. The one female not trying to crawl into his lap.
And he's the typical predatory fae male.
They prefer to be the pursuer, not the pursued.
I just posted an enormous glowing dare above my head.
Perhaps I can scare him off?
"I would just love to explore the gardens with you," I say in a voice dripping with sweetness as I accept his arm. "What lady would not care for such delightful, exclusive company?"
It's clear he doesn't quite know what to make of this statement as he leads me toward the gardens. I burble a handful of answers to his vague questions on the way, careful to smile a little too widely and bat my eyelashes whenever he looks at me.
I'll make him regret this little sojourn.
Fey lanterns glimmer through the trees. Leashed lightning, they call it, and it casts a soft blue glow over everything.
Once again, the shock of his appearance takes my breath.
He towers over me by a good five inches.
His eyes seem laced with silver tonight, instead of their usual gold. Lightning dances in those stormy depths, hinting at the turbulence within, as he watches me. "What do you think? Do the gardens hold up to your expectations?"
We're not talking about gardens.
"The gardens are everything I expected them to be."
"You seem disappointed."
"I'm not. The Court of Dreams is lovely." I turn to a rose and brush my fingers over its satiny petals. "It's just.... It doesn't feel real, in some way. Everything's too perfect. There are no blemishes. No slight imperfections. Did you notice every rose has the exact same number of petals? And not a single thorn. This is a dreamscape, isn't it? You created this."
As if to prove my point, the golden medallion around his throat winks in the light. "Yes. You do not like it?"
"Of course I like it. It's perfection. But it's not real."
"You're not interested in illusions?" he asks as he steps closer.
"I'm not interested in lies."
Reaching out, he brushes his hands over my eyes, and I close them. Thumbs caress my eyelids, but it's not merely a sensuous feeling. It feels like he's brushing cobwebs from my eyes.
"Open," he whispers, "and see the truth."
Color drains from the world around us as I blink. The fine details smudge, the lines blur, and then.... Then I'm looking at a world of imperfection. The roses still nod and beckon, but they're no longer uniformly perfect. Crushed petals roam underfoot. Vines snake up the cracked stone walls that enclose the garden.
It's wild and untamed, and still beautiful.
Perhaps even more so, for its realness.
"Oh, my," I reply, taking two unsteady steps forward and trailing my fingers over the petals. "How much of this place was created by you?"
"All of it," he replies, and there's something in his eyes as he looks across the gardens himself. "Haven't you realized why it's so difficult to get into the Court of Dreams? It's not real. It's a world within a world, and I rule it."
"Just as difficult to escape it, I presume?"
His smile holds an edge. "If I will it, yes. It is not merely dreams I can twist."
Nightmares, too.
Wraith's balls. I just walked into a trap. One that can snap closed at any moment.
Wrapping my arms around myself, I stride to the edge of the balcony that juts out from the mountainside. Lush shadowy lands stretch out below. Glittering lights from the town far below. "Am I even really here, or am I asleep in that glade? Is this all in my head?"
Are you in my head?
"Pinch yourself," he suggests.
It's ridiculous, but I do. A flare of pain skitters through my nerves. Real. Some of the tension leeches out of me. If it's real, then I can escape it.
"I've been here over three thousand years, Merisel. The world has grown more real over time, imprinted with my every thought, my every desire." Which would explain the nubile serving girls. "Even without me, it would still exist. The Court of Dreams has taken on substance over the years. Weight. These lands are real now, though woven of magic, with pure Chaos as its bedrock. It's an Other World."
Other Worlds are the stuff of legends.
Spun into reality by the dreams of dragons, they're dangerous, alluring places. The dragons are all gone now, slumbering forever in the stone of the earth. But the worlds remain.
You can reach them only by portal, and you must obey the laws that rule them. Dangerous lands. Dangerous courts. Entering one could cost you your life—or gift you with riches so powerful, you will forever live a blessed life.
And this one no less so, ruled by a prince so powerful he's managed to create it himself.
A shiver runs down my spine. The Dragon's Heart must be even more powerful than I imagined. No mere fae could create something like this.
"Are you trying to avoid me?" he murmurs suddenly. "I noticed you went out of your way to sit at the other end of the table at dinner."
It's the first time I've looked at him since he removed the glamour from my eyes.
Not a damned thing has changed about his face.
Ugh. It was not an illusion.
Why couldn't he have had something lopsided about his smile, or his eyes less luster? "I'm not avoiding you."
His smile stretches as if he senses my displeasure. "Then you have some issue with this face? You rarely look at me."
"No issue. You're definitely the prettiest in all the lands," I say, referencing the old story about a long-shattered court and a magic mirror.
He laughs. But it swiftly fades. "Prettiest?"
Oh, so someone doesn't like that?
"You would make an exceptionally handsome match with the Lady Altrea. Or perhaps the Princess Ismena. Anyone beholding the pair of you would be blinded by your beauty."
If not by Ismena's venom.
"You do not count yourself among such ranks?"
"A lowly lady like myself does not dare dream."
He steps forward as if to pursue me. "But that is the purpose of a Summons. Every female here tonight has a chance."
I glance across the gardens, wrapping my arms around myself. I'd hoped not to capture his attention, for twisting my way through wordplay is not my best asset. Be bland. "You're too kind."
"But you don't want a chance," he swiftly notes.
Damn it. It's a fine line I walk. Don't capture his attention, but don
't have him dismiss you either. "Of course, I do. It would be a coup for my family. A strong alliance with a powerful court."
All things he'd expect me to say.
"Lie," he whispers, as if he can taste it on my tongue.
"It's not a lie," I protest.
The prince reaches out and touches the tip of his finger just beneath my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. They blaze, full of mercurial temper. "Now you're insulting me."
"I mean no insult."
A dangerous smile touches his mouth. "That one tastes a little like the truth, though it's not entirely there. Yet. It makes me curious. You have no liking for this Summons. Do you know what I think?" he murmurs.
"What?"
"I think, for all your talk of illusion and lies, you shroud yourself in them."
It strips the smile from my lips. "What?"
"You play courtier with a honeyed tongue. You dodge and deflect with assured grace. Every word you've spoken tonight has been a misdirect, a gilded statement." He leans closer, and my back meets the wall. There's nowhere to go. "You're not the only one who's not interested in lies, my lady. Why are you here if not for me? What does the Lady Merisel want?"
Probably to stop retching.
He's good. And I cannot afford for him to rescind the invitation. Not just yet. I've barely had a chance to look around. If he can pluck the lie from my tongue, then I need to get better at deflecting him. "Perhaps she wants freedom?"
He stares at me for a long, slow minute.
And then he nods.
"It's not that I'm not flattered, my prince," I swiftly say. "But... I'm not entirely certain an alliance between us serves my interests. You seek a bride, and no doubt when you find her, you intend for her to live here with you. You're a powerful prince who rules this entire court, but what would your bride become?"
"She would sit at my right hand."
"And would she be free to make her own choices? Her own decisions? Would she rule jointly, or would she be your plaything?"
His brow furrows. "I have no interest in pretty playthings."
"But you haven't thought about it," I press, tipping my chin up higher. "You have us all dancing to your tune, but what would change when one of us becomes victor? Would I be free to come and go as I please? What does the Prince of Dreams want? What role does he see his bride fulfilling?"
"What do I want? A queen to serve at my side, to rule forever with me. And she would have her freedom, to a degree, as long as she knew she was mine."
"But would you be hers?" I whisper.
His gaze drops to my lips. Hands press against the wall on either side of my waist.
Nowhere to go. No escape.
Only the hard cage of his body.
"I would be hers," he promises. "Forever and always. If she gave me her trust, she would have mine. If she gave me her heart, she would have mine. If she gave me her soul...."
Her soul.
Panic flares within me. Of all the things he could ask for, he cannot have that. I don't even own it myself. Yet.
"But would you be the first to offer your heart?" I whisper. "Or would you demand hers first? You speak of trust, but I'm not entirely certain you can give it."
"Three thousand years is a long time to know the kiss of betrayal."
And that's all I can offer him.
I close my eyes, breathing in the nearness of his body. "A heart—a soul—is no mere thing to trifle with. Without trust, can either be given?"
The shadows pull at me, and I'm surprised by how strong the urge to flee is. It's just a man. Just a prince. Just a promise of carnality.
He wouldn't be the first I've twisted around my finger, though it's the first time I've wanted to play back. And that bothers me a little.
"Can I trust your intentions," he muses, "when you seed your truths with lies? Can I trust your keenness when you admit you have doubts? When your father no doubt pushed you to accept this invitation?"
"Can I trust my prince when he offers me the world but admits there are conditions? As for truth, you asked me why I'm here." Heart pounding at his nearness, I glance up. "I'm here to see if I can steal your heart. It's the only thing I'm interested in."
His eyes narrow. "That almost sounds like truth."
That's because it is.
I just didn't say which heart I meant.
Pressing a hand to his bare chest, I almost gasp at the heat of his skin. His pulse races beneath my palm.
What would it be like to allow this?
To let him steal a kiss?
It isn't in the plan.
But for just one moment, I long for it.
What would it be like to know love? To know trust? They're words woven of golden dreams, but they tempt like nothing else can.
Even as they ruin me.
There can be nothing but betrayal between us. One day this male will be my enemy. I despise the role my father has forced upon me, because what the prince wants is tempting.
I have known nothing but betrayal my entire life.
I have become its instrument, and I hate what the Wraith King has wrought of me. What is the price of a soul? The downfall of another? War? Death?
Hate?
I can bear these things, for the taste of freedom is even more tempting than the idea of this dark prince's heart. But the thought burns, set ablaze in my chest.
Prince Keir must see the hint of longing in my eyes, for he leans down and his lips come into focus for the first time all night. For such a harsh, intense face, his mouth is pure softness, pure sin. I freeze as I realize exactly what he intends.
But it's not with horror.
All of that heat cages me in, my breasts suddenly straining for the press of his chest to mine. It's been years since I've tasted the flesh of another's body or danced that wicked dance.
His breath whispers over my sensitive lips, and I realize I'm going to allow this. Worse. I intend to relish every moment of it—
And that's when the screaming starts.
5
We jerk apart, and suddenly blood rushes back into my brain. What was I even thinking? Or was I thinking at all? For none of this was in the plan.
Saved by someone's scream.
"Stay there!" Keir snarls, and then he's vanishing into the gardens, sprinting toward the castle.
Fae males and their arrogance. Oh, let me swoon.
I haul my skirts up and find one of the blades strapped to my thigh. More screams are pealing through the air. Perhaps Soraya grew weary of waiting for me. Maybe she's slaughtering that precious flock of doves inside.
Or maybe Ismena or Narcissa had the poor sense to mock my sister.
One can hope.
But even as I sprint toward the palace, I know I'm not going to be that lucky.
Blood splashes the marble floors of the hallway, and there's a long, bloody mark where someone tried to crawl away. The clash of swords echoes ahead of me, and there's this horrible, awful snarling sound that sends a chill down my spine.
I don't know where Keir's gone, but he's most likely headed directly to where the sounds of fighting echo.
Stalking along the hallway, I hold myself right on the edge of the Sift, just in case I need to get away suddenly.
One step around the next corner and I'm confronted with a sight directly from my nightmares. Lady Altrea stares blankly at the ceiling, her throat torn out and the skin around it bleached of all color. She was one of the females in Narcissa and Ismena's alliance, and though I wasn't fond of her, no one deserves this.
I kneel beside her, closing those cerulean eyes even as I examine the wound. There's something not right about it. Long, bloodied gouges like teeth marks have torn her throat right out. But it's the grayed edges that look unnatural, as if something's tainted the flesh.
A grunt huffs through the hallway behind me, and every hair along my spine rises.
I'm not alone.
Spinning to my feet, I catch a glimpse of a creature warped of pure s
hadows stalking toward me. It lifts its muzzle to the moon and howls.
A Wyrdwolf. Twice the size of me and covered in dense black tufts of fur. A ruddy light glows behind the cage of its bleached ribs, as if its heart is forged with the light of a dying star. It looks like it has crawled out of some grave somewhere, and its putrid breath fogs the air, stinking of rot.
A nightmare twisted directly from the Shadow Realms. After all, the Court of Dreams is but one Other World. There are more. And they're not all as pretty as this one.
"Mother of Night, protect me," I whisper, taking a stealthy step back as the Wyrdwolf advances.
No Sifting will save me now. Wyrdwolves have the ability to Shadow Walk too.
It ripples toward me, red eyes glowing and its bloodied maw dripping crimson with Altrea's blood.
I hold the knife low. Good, cold iron crafted by a goblin smith that fused pure shadows to the blade. It can cut through anything, but as I see more of the Wyrdwolf, I'm suddenly not so certain of that. Iron can kill any of the fae. I have to hope it will be enough.
Shouts echo behind it.
The Wyrdwolf's ears flicker back, and then it launches forward, aiming for my throat.
I Sift to the side, my iron raking along those rotten ribs. And then I throw myself forward into a roll, momentarily thanking every master in the training camps for pushing my body to the brink all those years ago.
There's no time to think or dwell. Only time to move. Every animal instinct I own is telling me to get out of there, but what if it follows me through the shadows?
"Merisel!" someone yells, and then the prince is there, striding along the hallway with his robe flaring wide behind him.
His skin is gilded with light as his magic spills out of him, and it glows in his eyes. Keir twists his hands, and golden chains shoot out from his palms, lashing around the Wyrdwolf's legs.
I roll under its abdomen, slashing up with the knife and spilling hot entrails across the floor. Then I'm gagging as the stink of it hits my nostrils with the force of a runaway carriage. I didn't get any of it on me, did I?
"Get out of the way!" Keir snarls, weaving his hands together in a sinuous dance. The chains work their way around the creature's body, twisting brutally into shadowborn flesh.
