Reckless Cruel Heirs

by Olivia Wildenstein

  After I landed on the mossy ground, I pushed my curtain of black hair behind my ears and glanced over my shoulder. Sure enough, the recipient of my grudge landed beside me. “Are you going to stalk me the entire way?”

  Mouth as tight as his shoulders, he gestured toward the dark entrance at the base of the calimbor. “My orders were to deliver you to your father.”

  “I’m not a package.”

  His golden eyes narrowed. I tried to remember what color they’d been before he was made a lucionaga but couldn’t. Oh no, wait. Poison green. That was how I’d described them to Giya the afternoon we’d watched Remo and his friends play Floatball, the Seelie version of basketball—the nets were crafted from hovering volitor fronds, but the ball was human-made, and when it fell, it fell fast. The players spent more time divebombing after it than scoring points.

  I spun away from his venomous glare, speed-walking toward the giant tree edged in silver starlight. As I walked, boots squishing the moss, bobbing faelights overhead illuminating the path that led into the council house, I wondered what was so urgent. Did Iba need to coach me before I met with our illustrious revel guests? I was already well-versed in regal manners thanks to the etiquette classes I’d been subjected to since I’d popped out of my mother’s womb. The only upside to those classes was that Giya and Sook had to take them with me, so when we were bored, at least we were bored together.

  Not that we were ever bored long around Sook.

  The minute I stepped inside the Duciba, a hush fell over Gregor, Silas, and my father. Curiously, they were the only three people present. Usually there was a representative from each fae faction, but apparently, this wasn’t a Neverrian matter . . . this was an Amara matter. I raised my gaze to make sure no one else was there, but not a single lucionaga hovered. My eyes snagged on the gold circlet mural five stories up from where I stood. I studied each leaf in search of the one Josh had described, but then remembered I wasn’t alone, and staring at the ceiling would raise some eyebrows, eyebrows I definitely didn’t want to raise. I snapped my gaze back to my father, to the leaf circlet glimmering atop his gelled-back, golden-blond hair. I’d gotten Nima’s hair and most of her features, but my eyes were all Iba, a sandy-blue ringed by a stroke of teal.

  “You wanted to see me?” I said, approaching.

  Silas smiled at me. Even though he was Remo’s stepfather, and Faith’s husband, Farrow blood didn’t flow inside the draca’s veins, so I liked him.

  “Shut the door behind you, Remo,” Gregor said, hazel eyes flickering in the twinkling faelights gathered over his white hair like a swarm of gnats.

  The hinges on the great door groaned as Remo and two fellow guards started to pull it shut.

  “Remo,” Iba called out, “this matter concerns you, too.”

  I frowned, searching my father’s face for a hint of why this matter concerned Remo. Skies, I hoped this wasn’t some sort of parent-kid sit-down to force us to be nice to each other, because that was never happening.

  My heart quickened, my fiery, iron-loaded blood swooshing around my body. “What’s going on?”

  Iba looked at Gregor.

  Dread hardened my stomach like Josh’s claimed gajoï. I didn’t like the solemn look that passed between both men.

  Remo came to stand between the draca and wariff. If our parents hadn’t been present, I might’ve asked him if he felt so threatened by me that he needed to be bookended by a dragon and the prime minister.

  He must’ve gleaned my thoughts from the tipped corners of my mouth, though, because his scowl turned positively searing, as though, any minute now, some of his fire would leak right out of him.

  “Amara, I know I promised to never force your hand or heart, but you’re almost eighteen, and unless you’ve been extremely discreet,” Iba said, “I don’t believe you have a boyfriend.”

  All the blood in my body converged inside my cheeks. “Excuse me?”

  “A boyfriend? Do you have a boyfriend?” Did Gregor really mistake my embarrassment for a lack of understanding? “A fae one. Human ones don’t count.”

  Remo’s murky stare brightened. If he mentioned Joshua Locklear, I’d toss a handful of dust in his face, not enough to kill him, but more than enough to make him gag until the morning.

  I folded my arms, on my guard now. “I don’t see what my age has to do with me having a boyfriend.”

  “Tradition wants Neverrian women to bind their essences in the Cauldron before their eighteenth year,” Gregor explained.

  “That was in the olden days,” I volleyed back. “This tradition no longer applies. Right, Iba?”

  The crow’s feet bracketing my father’s eyes deepened as though he were in pain. Since his health was fine, I assumed the pained look was for what he was about to say. “You’re the prinsisa, Amara. Even though we’re no longer enforcing this tradition among common Neverrians, we believe the royal family needs to uphold this custom.”

  Was he saying what I thought he was saying? After feeling overwhelmingly warm, a chill tiptoed down my spine.

  “Therefore if you have a boyfriend, you’ll need to end things promptly.” Gregor’s hazel eyes shone as brightly as the faelights spangling the dark hull. Had he put this heinous idea into my father’s head? “At least until after the wedding. What you do once you’re married is entirely up to you.”

  I opened my mouth to ask if this was some practical joke, but only trapped air puffed out. I looked around the circle of men. My gaze lingered on Remo, who was positively gloating, before sliding back to Iba. The tightness between his eyes tempered my anger but in no way my docility.

  “Nowadays, most people get engaged at thirty,” I said. “I don’t see why I need to rush into this.”

  Gregor looked down his hooked nose at me. “Stability appeases people.”

  Iba sighed, then rubbed his jaw, smooth from a fresh shave. “It would be a political match to reassure the people, Amara. As the future queen, you need to understand that politics will always play a role in your life.” His hand arced back toward his black tunic hemmed in gold thread. “Besides, this is an engagement, amoo, not a marriage.”

  I understood what he was saying; I’d heard the story of how my parents ended up being married a thousand times. “So, I won’t have to marry whoever it is you want me to get engaged to?”

  He didn’t respond. I wasn’t sure how to interpret his silence.

  “Who’s the unlucky candidate?” I deadpanned, which made Gregor guffaw.

  He tried to school his cheery features into his usual imperious mask, but his smile wouldn’t flatten. “You inherited your mother’s humor.”

  “I also inherited her poisonous blood.” I directed my taunt at Remo, who didn’t even have the decency to flinch. What had I expected? That he’d suddenly grow a conscience and apologize for the rumors he’d spread when I was thirteen? “So, who?”

  Gregor slid his arm around Remo’s shoulders. “My grandson.”

  The ice inside my body expanded. “No way.” I shook my head and stepped back. “Absolutely not. Anyone but him.”

  Remo raised twitchy fingers to his remarkably pale forehead, thrusting his amber bangs aside. Good. At least he’d been blindsided too. For some reason, that reassured me. Not much. But enough not to declare wita warfare.

  Outside the great tree, thunder cracked.

  Iba strode toward me and laid a palm on my shoulder. “Amara, please calm down. I’d like to avoid Neverra getting pummeled by a hurricane tonight.”

  “I’ll get engaged, just not to him.” I was shaking as hard as every leaf on the calimbor.

  Iba angled himself so that his back was to the three others. In a voice that barely carried over the rolls of thunder, he said, “Please, amoo. I need you to do this for me. Please.” Then, lowering his voice even further, he added, “I promise you won’t have to marry him.”

  Tears of indignation stung my eyes. “It’s not fair.”

  “Unfortunately, you can’t rule a king
dom with your heart; you must rule it with your mind.”

  “You married the love of your life.”

  Iba dropped his mouth to my ear. “And you will too one day. This is an alliance. Nothing more.” He pressed a lock of hair behind my ear as he pulled up to his full height, then gripped the back of my head and kissed my forehead, imprinting his apology on my skin.

  Ugh. Remo Farrow. Out of the thousands of Neverrians, why did I have to braid my essence in the Cauldron with my wickedest enemy?

  “Maybe he has a girlfriend?” I shot out, snatching at one last shred of hope.

  “He has many,” Gregor said. “Had many. He’ll convene them all tonight and end things.”

  Many? I wrinkled my nose. What girl in her right mind would voluntarily date the arrogant bagwa?

  Remo’s face pinkened. Since I hadn’t called him the Gottwa word for jackass out loud, I assumed his high color was due to disgruntlement.

  He cleared his throat. “I’ll behave appropriately during our engagement.”

  Lucky. Me.

  3

  The Preparations

  Although the downpour had thinned, my discontentment hadn’t. As we flew back toward the royal gardens, raindrops plopping on our bodies and hissing off instantly, Iba apologized for forcing my hand. I didn’t say anything because guards were trailing us, and I didn’t want to give them fodder for gossip. Their barracks were surely filled with enough juicy court tales as it was.

  The moment my boots made contact with the garden moored to the Pink Sea by hundreds of anchors, our guards scattered to the different lookout points of the maritime castle. Only two hovered over our heads, high over our heads. High enough to afford us privacy.

  My father’s undereye circles marred his tanned skin, somehow making his eyes appear darker, as though his fatigue had leaked into his irises.

  “Iba, can I ask why we need this alliance at least?”

  “Let me worry about that.”

  “I’m not asking for details.”

  Iba glanced around him, then tipped his head toward the gazebo he’d had built to celebrate my Year of Flight, an architectural gem of white wooden lattice and powder-pink drosas.

  “Make it rain again, Amara.”

  Once we stepped inside, I lifted my hands, curled my fingers, and visualized a downpour. Threads of liquid magic swam through my fingers, making them glitter blue. I slashed the air vertically, and needles of rain followed my hands’ path, creating a din that would veil our voices from neighboring ears.

  “This is about Kingston.” Iba’s voice was barely audible over the rustling petals jeweling the gazebo.

  I hated Remo, but when Iba’s half-brother had been alive, I’d hated him more. “He’s dead . . . isn’t he?”

  Back in my grandfather Linus’s day, it was fine—normal, even—for married fae to have multiple partners. What wasn’t acceptable was to bear children out of wedlock. Bastards were unequivocally put to death, even royal bastards, which had spurred Linus to lock my father into a marriage with his pregnant consort. Thankfully, the Day of Mist happened, and Iba was spared marrying Angelina, Kingston’s mother.

  After Linus’s death, Iba changed the law about bastards, which had not only benefited Angelina, but also Gregor since his daughter had been born out of wedlock, and even though Faith was an adult by the time the fae world found out about her, the wariff’s child would nonetheless have met a cruel end.

  “I’ve heard disquieting rumors, Amara. Rumors that he wasn’t executed.”

  I blinked, the images of Kingston’s coup spooling through me like barbed wire, catching on the leftover scabs fear and horror had scored over my heart that day. Iba had been flying, and then he’d been falling, trailing smoke like a crashing rocket, while Nima and I had watched, powerless, from the Pink Sea.

  Four years had gone by, yet the memory was still fresh and raw.

  “I think Gregor hid him somewhere and is grooming him for a second coup.”

  My heart came to a violent halt.

  “Silas is trying to find out more. In the meantime, he thought an alliance with his son could keep us safe since Gregor’s affection for Remo surpasses his hatred for me.”

  “Why doesn’t Silas look into Gregor’s mind?” One of the draca’s powers was to read what hid inside our heads.

  “Gregor would know we were onto him and would either move Kingston before we could get to him, or launch an attack of his own. I might be the king, but I don’t delude myself into thinking that I have all of my subjects’ votes.” My parents’ regime had the full support of Unseelies and Daneelies, but these two castes of faeries together only made up a quarter of the Neverrian people. “When Linus fell, many fae wanted to see Gregor on the throne.”

  I chewed on my bottom lip, finally grasping the necessity and urgency of this engagement. “Do you think Remo knows anything? Has Silas read his mind?”

  “Even though Remo looks up to Silas, the boy’s loyalties lie with his grandfather. But, Amara, I don’t want you to worry. I’m handling this, okay?” Iba stroked my cheekbones, which were prominent like Nima’s, a remnant of our Native ancestry. “Let me pretend to be a good father and keep the weight of the kingdom off your shoulders while I still can.”

  “Pretend? You’re the best father, Iba.” When I was a little girl, and it was bedtime, Iba would put everything on hold and sit by my side, armed with patience and an endless collection of stories. My favorite was the one about the day he’d agreed to be linked to Nima through a brand that still flared on Nima’s hand and Iba’s palm every time her pulse accelerated. It was my favorite because it was the night he realized he was “a goner” as he liked to say.

  “Even though I broke my promise to you?”

  I sighed. “With good reason.”

  “Come here.” He pulled me into a hug.

  “Does Nima know about . . . everything?”

  A soft snort rumbled from Iba’s chest into my ear. “I haven’t been turned into a houseplant yet, so no.”

  I pressed away from him. “Nima would never kill you.”

  “She might try once I break the news Faith will become your future mother-in-law. Promise to keep me safe?”

  I shook my head, a smile playing on my lips. “Gregor was wrong.”

  “About what?”

  “About my sense of humor; I got it from you.”

  Pride made his chest puff out a little. “Damn right, baby girl. Now, put a stop to this drab weather and go get ready.”

  Nodding, I slashed the air vertically again, but this time from moss to sky. The raindrops froze before steaming away.

  “Amara Wood?” A high-pitched voice carried over the frolicking Pink Sea and through the latticework of the gazebo that stood on the edge of the garden like a lighthouse. “Are you playing with the weather again?”

  Iba smiled, and I grinned back.

  I peeked through the cage of drosas at the deck of my hovering bungalow where Nana Vee stood with her hands on her hips.

  “You better go before Veroli fords the bridge to yell at me for keeping you away.” Iba’s eyes glinted with humor.

  Not many people could give Iba an earful, or call him by his first name, but Nana Vee, who’d raised him before she’d raised me, had that privilege.

  “Coming!” I stepped out of the gazebo but paused. “Will you tell Nima before dinner?”

  Rubbing the back of his neck, Iba glanced at the acre of landscaped shrubs and trees upon which he and my mother had built their cozy nest of glass and stone.

  When Iba still hadn’t answered, I asked, “Want me to come with you and hold your hand?”

  He chuckled. “I promised Gregor I’d wait until dinner to tell her. He wanted Cat to hear the news at the same time as Faith.”

  “Fun times ahead.”

  “Oh, yeah. I’ll be the one with the crooked crown and the half-empty bottle of whiskey welded to his palm.”

  “Save me some?”

  “Hmm. Aren’
t you underage?”

  I cocked an eloquent eyebrow. “If I’m old enough to get engaged, then surely I’m old enough to drink, don’t you think?”

  He relented with a smile. “Fine. Fine.”

  “Amara!” This time my name was accompanied by rhythmic thumps against the wooden bridge.

  “Uh-oh. She’s coming for me.”

  “Better run.”

  I spun around and all but smacked into a cluster of tall, green daffos. I pressed away their trumpet-faces, then rounded the thick trunk of a mallow tree, its cloud-like violet crown injecting the air with a treacly scent that turned my stomach. Many fae smoked or ate the purple fluff on a regular basis. Not me. And not even because my parents had warned me against drugs, but because the one time I’d tried mallow, I’d been convinced my skin had grayed and fissured.

  “Amara Wood, you are very late.” Nana Vee sounded winded, as though she’d paced my bedroom for hours before plodding over the bridge.

  “Yes, Amara Wood. You are very late.” Giya was leaning against the back wall of my bungalow, arms folded in front of a gown made of so many layers of white chiffon she resembled a Glade pearl.

  “Dinner’s in thirty minutes. Thirty minutes!” Nana Vee’s red cheeks puffed. “And you aren’t even bathed.”

  “I’m sorry. I was talking with Iba.”

  Giya’s gray eyes sparked silver in the purple dimness. I could tell she was dying to ask what about but refrained from doing so in front of Nana Vee.

  Harrumphing, Veroli cut her eyes to the opposite side of the garden as though ready to march over to my parents’ private rooms and bang on their glass door. If dinner hadn’t been in a half hour, I bet she would’ve done just that. “Your bath must be cold.”

  I smiled down at the short fae, whom I considered my grandmother and not my nanny, the same way I considered Pappy’s wife my grandmother, even though I shared no blood with her. I’d never known Nima’s real mother. She’d died long before I was born. Apparently, Gwenelda had siphoned her soul by mistake. Sometimes when Nima watched Giya’s aunt, her wistfulness was so strong it felt almost solid.