ME: You think?
GIYA: No clue, but hurry back. Veroli is chomping at the bit to do your hair and makeup.
ME: OK.
After shutting down our little chat, I squinted to discern the patrons seated at the bar that girdled a thick glass cylinder lined with every alcoholic beverage imaginable. The color-changing bulbs that floated like jellyfish within the wide tube didn’t afford much light, yet it took me mere seconds to spot Joshua Locklear.
The Earthly-born Daneelie, who’d moved to Neverra at seven years old and misbehaved almost every day since, was a big man, with a head of hair so blond it looked almost white. Said head was currently bobbing to a beat layered over sultry female vocals. As though sensing my approach, it turned in my direction.
“Hello, little princess.” He raised a tumbler of something green to his lips. “Saved you a seat.”
I climbed onto the stool and crossed my legs. “Call me that again, and I walk out of here.”
He shot back the green stuff, then tapped his index finger against his glass.
The barmaid, whose flexible screen dress lit up with moving images of the various cocktails on York House’s menu, gave him a refill. “What can I get you, hon?”
“Just some water, please.” I stared at the patrons closest to us. Although more than a few stared back, all were strangers. Still, I regretted having dismissed my earlier disguise of a bald septuagenarian.
“You do realize you’re old enough to have alcohol. I mean, according to human standards, you are eighty-n—”
“What is it you want, Josh?”
“Straight to business, huh?”
“I agreed to meet you here because I owe you. However, I need to get back to Neverra soon, so make it quick.”
“Have you ever owed anyone a gajoï?”
Not for the first time, I regretted asking Josh to take the downfall for my little illegal dealings. “No. You should feel privileged.”
“I do. I feel very privileged.”
The barmaid came back with my water.
When she left, he said, “A person, who’d rather remain anonymous, recently told me about a supernatural prison Gregor and your grandfather Linus created centuries ago.”
My eyebrows drew together.
“Apparently, it’s only accessible in Neverra through a portal that magically relocates itself every month.”
I let out a disbelieving grunt. “I may be gullible, but come on.”
“I’m not pulling your wing, Amara.”
“I don’t have wings.”
Smiling, he spun on his stool until his broad body was angled toward me. “Figure of speech.” Josh’s shoulders, like most Daneelie shoulders, were wide, and his biceps bulged from hours spent in water. My arms weren’t as defined, but that probably had to do with the fact that my preferred means of locomotion was flight.
Josh was pure Daneelie; in other words, he couldn’t fly.
I was a mix of everything: Seelie, Unseelie, Daneelie, and human. Which meant I had blood, fire, iron, and water coursing through my veins. I was a lethal faerie cocktail who could live underwater, in the sky, and on Earth.
“I swear. No joke.” Josh’s freckled face puckered. “My source tells me the portal’s presently located in the ceiling of the Duciba, more precisely in one of the leaves of the golden circlet mural your aunt Lily painted. Since I’m locked out of Neverra, I can’t check it out myself.”
“Wait. This source of yours actually saw it?”
“Yeah.” He speared his freckled fingers through his nose-length bangs and shoved them off his forehead. The rest of his hair was buzzed close to his scalp. “If you look long enough at the leaf, the paint ripples. Like a faulty projection.”
“Okay . . . And what does this prison have to do with our gajoï?”
“I believe Kiera might be in there.”
“Kiera?”
“My sister. The one who didn’t make it into Neverra.”
Didn’t make it was putting it nicely. Kiera had tortured my aunt and uncle when they’d visited the Daneelie camp back in Michigan a little over an Earthly century ago.
“Um. You do realize that if time in this prison moves like it does around here”—I gestured to the bar but obviously meant Earth—“her chances of being alive are extremely slim.”
He shot back his drink. “Time doesn’t move the same in there as it does in the human world. ’Parently doesn’t move like in Neverra either.”
Instead of asking how it moved, I said, “So, you want me to ask my father about it?”
“Hell, no. He and Gregor will zip up the portal.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“I want you to go check it out.”
“You want me to go through a prison portal?”
“Just to take a peek, then jump back out.”
Even though the air wasn’t cold, and I was made of fire, Joshua’s suggestion chilled me. “If it’s a real prison, I doubt I can get in.”
“All you need is a handful of salt to gain entrance. Then again, you’re the Trifecta—”
I hated that nickname even more than I hated the boy who’d come up with it.
“—you could surely get in with a drop of your potent blood.”
“Josh—”
“Or I can tell our dearest king about your little transaction.”
I pressed my lips together, ruing the day I’d struck a deal with this man whose criminal record ran the gamut of peddling Daneelie scales on the Earthly black market to arms dealing.
“Amara Wood, take one look inside, and then we’ll be fair and square.”
The use of my full name, combined with the firmness of his demand, locked in the repayment of his favor. I’d heard of the pain associated with gajoïs but had never experienced it first-hand. As an invisible fist gripped my gut, I swore I would never again strike a faerie bargain.
Never.
I flung my palm against my abdomen. “Fine.” Not that I had a choice.
The pressure inside my body vanished instantly, but it would return if I tried to renege on the claimed gajoï. There was no messing with fae magic.
Smiling, Josh knocked back his drink. “Oh, and, Amara, get to it quick. The portal changes location in five days.”
I sipped my iced water, wincing when I swallowed, expecting pain that thankfully didn’t come. “Have you considered the possibility that I won’t be able to get in, salt or no salt?”
“Yes.”
Why, oh why, had I let Joshua Locklear take the blame for my mistake? I tapped a button on the countertop to get the barmaid’s attention. “Can I get two shots of tequila, please?”
“Tequila?” Josh whistled. “Damn, Prinsisa. Here I’d pegged you for a prosecco girl.”
“I don’t like bubbles.” The same way I didn’t like the idea of peeking into a supernatural jail. “Anything else I should know about this place?”
“It’s a prison, so don’t expect rainbows and unicorns.”
I rolled my eyes as two shot glasses filled with clear liquid appeared in front of me. I lifted the first and tossed it back, the alcohol singeing my tongue and throat. Josh tried to grab the other, but I made the glass levitate to my mouth, sprinkling some wita to hide my little magic trick from human eyes. After pounding it back, I floated the glass back down to the counter. Unseelie mind control might’ve been one of my favorite powers.
“Showoff.” He signaled the waitress for some refills.
I longed for the alcohol to loosen the dread clinging to every organ in my body. A supernatural prison. Geez. I’d rather he’d asked me to kiss a dile, poison and all.
“I’ll try to do it tonight.” I licked the bittersweet dregs of alcohol from my lips.
The Plexiglas stool squeaked as he crossed one foot over his opposite knee. “I almost wish I could take it back.”
“Take what back?”
“The gajoï.”
I grunted. “You’re telling me . . .”
Whoa. Nasty. I wrinkled my nose. “You did not just suggest that.”
He laughed. “Don’t look so appalled. I’m a very good lay.”
“You’re gross.”
“Never thought I’d agree with Trifecta on anything.” The familiar voice made my spine tighten and my eyes close.
How I wished I could open a portal and jump into it. Why couldn’t portal creation have been part of my arsenal of superpowers? Remo Farrow—aka my worst enemy—had joined the party. This was shaping up to be the worst night of my life.
“Propositioning your princess gives me grounds for immediate arrest.” Even though my eyes were still closed, I could imagine Remo’s golden ones, all shiny and smug. There were a few people Remo disliked more than me, and Josh was one of them. My mother was the other.
To this day, Remo was convinced that she’d killed his grandmother for her dust. Remo’s mother, Faith, shared her son’s belief. Neither mother nor son believed Stella Sakar had attacked my mother first—and not even once, but twice.
“Sorry to interrupt your little date,” Remo all but spit, “but the wariff and your father need to speak with you before dinner, prinsisa. They’ve tasked me—since your guards proved extraordinarily inefficient—to bring you back to Neverra immediately.”
My eyes flew open. First Giya, now Remo. Maybe this wasn’t just another silly revel. “I can bring myself back.” I asked the waitress to beam over my bill. After I wired the money, tagging on a hefty tip, I stood, careful not to brush up against Remo and the three lucionaga he’d brought along—two males with inflated muscles, and a female guard, whom I’d heard was lethal with blades. “Worried you needed backup to get me home, Farrow?”
Remo’s face darkened, turning the same burnt-copper shade as his hair. “Actually, my desire to protect the women in your family is so very lacking I thought it sounder for you to have others around if anything were to happen to you.”
“More like you’re worried about your own safety around our prinsisa,” Josh lobbed in good-naturedly.
“Careful, Daneelie,” Remo growled.
Josh rolled his shoulders back, the tendons and joints rippling underneath his short-sleeved white tee. He reclined against the bar, propping his elbows on the black glass. “Are you going to gas me for voicing what everyone else is thinking?”
Even though I disliked Remo, I disliked bullying more. “Stop it, Josh.”
“I’m merely defending your honor.”
“I can defend my own honor,” I said.
Remo’s fingers flexed. “So can I, Trifecta.”
“Whatever.” I started to walk away, when Josh called out, “Don’t forget our date tonight.”
My stomach rolled from the reminder—a mix of nerves and magic. Had he needed to use the word date? Actually, it was probably better everyone considered my meetups with Josh that way so they didn’t question my true motive.
Denim-guy, who was still hanging around the entrance of York House, looked on as we left.
“Eyes off her ass. She’s not legal,” Remo snarled before lengthening his strides to catch up to me.
Not that he actually cared if people ogled me. He just enjoyed throwing around his weight and power in Neverra and on Earth. Power he got from being Gregor’s favorite grandson and the draca’s stepson.
I’d had many talks with my father about having Remo demoted, but he’d said that unless Faith’s son committed a grave mistake, he couldn’t lawfully have him kicked out of the guard. He’d even told me to prepare myself for Remo becoming the next wariff, and then he’d warned me that certain enemies made excellent allies in politics. I didn’t understand how he’d put up with Gregor, and told him that if I ever became queen—I was in no hurry to take my father’s place—and Remo was wariff, I’d have him fired. My father had sighed and reminded me that I was young and naïve and had so much to learn about running a kingdom. I’d stomped out of his chambers.
That was thirty Earthly years ago—I’d been eleven years old. I’d never brought up Remo Farrow since, even though I watched the lucionaga like a quila, waiting for him to slip. Unfortunately, Remo was extremely careful, as though he knew I was paying attention to his every move.
“Is your father aware of the sort of men you’re dating?” Remo asked.
“It’s none of Iba’s business who I date.”
“I beg to differ. Who you date reflects on the crown.”
I slanted him a look. “Spare me the unsolicited advice.”
“If your father asks, I won’t lie.”
I rolled my eyes. “Knowing you, Iba wouldn’t even have to ask; you’ll volunteer the information.”
“If I suspect your tryst endangers the crown, then I’ll share my concerns.”
If the elevated Old York sidewalks weren’t crawling with people, I would’ve run back to the portal to avoid enduring a single more minute in Remo’s presence. “Enjoy your days of power, Farrow. Once I’m crowned, you’ll be lucky if you get a job taxiing a runa.”
Remo smirked, obviously not taking my threat seriously. Why would he? He didn’t take me seriously. “How did you even get into York House, Trifecta?”
If he was trying to get a confession out of me, a confession that could lead to a hefty fine and an argument with my parents, he could hold his breath. I masked my annoyance under a plasticky smile. “I promised the owner I’d hang out with him after my date with Josh.”
Remo’s nostrils flared. I could tell he was thinking vile thoughts about me, probably lining up some new rumors about the princess’ loose morals and limbs. There was nothing the petty tyrant enjoyed more than smearing my good name.
I used to care but didn’t anymore. Or at least, I cared less. “And my name is Amara. Use it.”
He smirked. “You’ll always be Trifecta to me.”
“Technically, Trifecta’s wrong since I’m also part human.”
“I’m aware, but Quadfecta doesn’t roll off the tongue as nicely.”
I stopped walking so suddenly that Remo ended up a couple feet ahead of me. Keeping my voice low so that the three lucionaga trailing us couldn’t hear, I said, “I wish Nima hadn’t stopped at your grandmother; I wish she’d eliminated every last one of you.”
Remo’s lips thinned, and a vein pulsed at his temple, underneath his raspberry-shaped birthmark.
I almost felt guilty, but the Farrows—Gregor, Faith, Remo, and even his little brother Karsyn—were all hateful and manipulative. The sort of family who felt like they were owed the crown, and whom I suspected one day would try to steal it. Not that I’d let them.
I conjured up my dust, cloaked myself in it to make humans believe they were looking at a flock of pigeons, then pushed off the sidewalk and flew over the passing magnetic train. When I reached the traffic light, I pressed my palm against the green bulb. The stamp on my wrist—a rosette—flared, and then my body was sucked through and spit back into Neverra.
2
The Political Match
I emerged from the dark, gelatinous tunnel into the Gorge of Portals located in the heart of Neverra, between the forest of calimbors, trees so thick and tall their crowns seemed to kiss the purple sky, and the Pink Sea that resembled a plum-tinted mirror at night and glistened rose-gold in the light of day.
When red hair began rising from the slender disk under my boots, I dove off and bobbed in the air, waiting for Remo to tell me where the meeting was taking place. Was my father in the calimbor that housed the Duciba, or in the hovering palace he’d built over the Pink Sea from volitor fronds and stone quarried from the Five, the gray cliffs that cinched the Valley of Hunters?
After the Caligo Dias—the Day of Mist—Negongwa’s tribe had finally been invited to settle in Neverra. The Hunters, along with their bodiless Unseelie brethren (most of them had claimed human forms since, but the older ones had chose
n to remain specters, unwilling to constrain their spirits to flightless, aging bodies), had chosen to live in the valley.
Giya and her twin brother Sook lived there with their parents, in a palatial stone wigwam. I stayed over whenever I could, not so much because I didn’t like my cottage on the sea, but because my cousins were my best friends.
My only friends.
Remo hopped off the portal, his lucionaga uniform, a black bodysuit made from a coated, laser-proof weave, contorting around his solid frame.
“Where is my father?”
“In the Duciba.” Remo’s tone was as frigid as his expression.
As the three lucionaga popped out of the portal in their golden firefly forms, I flew toward the base of the great tree that had once lodged Neenee Lily’s favorite candy shop. Iba had requisitioned the first five floors of the calimbor after the Woods’ palace had slipped off the mist and shattered into large chunks of pink quartz and clumps of moss-flecked stone.
The remnants of my grandfather Linus’s legacy had been transplanted to the middle of the forest of calimbors and had become a playground for young fae. As a child, I’d spent afternoons hopping from one eroded chunk of quartz to the next with Giya and Sook. We’d pretended prickly mikos and poisonous capras slithered in the mossy space between.
Before the Year of Flight, the year Seelies learned to harness their fire, our game had been particularly fun because I could still fall. Unfortunately, my Year of Flight had come early. Right after I’d turned four, I’d slipped but failed to tumble, levitating instead. My cousins had gaped, then told me I wasn’t allowed to play with them anymore. That night, Nima and Iba called the family together and sat us all down. Our four parents reminded us that we all had different powers, but that deep down, we were all the same—all of us faeries.
Even though Giya and Sook apologized, their ostracism intensified when my parents threw a huge banquet to celebrate my achievement. Iba was particularly proud, because most Seelies learned to fly in their fifth year and had to be taught. I’d picked it up without anyone’s help an entire year early.
It took my cousins several days to come to me and admit they’d been jealous and missed me in the playground. They’d hurt me, but I’d forgiven them because I wasn’t the type to hold grudges. Except toward the Farrows. I held a massive grudge against that family for sullying Nima’s name with their false accusations.
Reckless Cruel Heirs Page 2
