Reckless Cruel Heirs

by Olivia Wildenstein

  He stared to the side again, played with his lobe again.

  “No: It wasn’t an accident, Trifecta.”

  The vein under his birthmark throbbed.

  “Gejaiwe . . . have you finally seen the light?”

  He snapped his eyes back to mine. “What I saw was a scene that might’ve been fabricated for all I understand of this place!”

  I crossed my arms. “Trust me, if you witnessed me calling your eyes poison-green and using flowery descriptors for your personality, everything you observed was very factual. As factual as everything I observed.”

  He gave his jaw a workout. “Except your grandfather’s awfully lively for a dead person.”

  A growl vibrated at the back of my throat. “Because Cruz Vega brought him back to life.”

  “Your little hero.”

  My blood heated so fast I thought my fire might’ve come back, but when I tried to produce flames to char off Remo’s eyebrows—apparently, I was spiteful like that—no fire lit up my tattooed palm, or my untattooed one. “What is your problem with him?”

  “My problem is that everyone’s so obsessed with him. He didn’t single-handedly save Neverra. My grandfather was right there, helping him.”

  “Aw. Are you lacking recognition?”

  “I don’t give a shit about recognition, Trifecta.”

  I glowered at him, and he glowered right back. I tried to reconcile my heart breaking over his death with the way my heart felt at the moment. I wasn’t sure how long we glared, but I suspected the pie was now as cold as the world we’d left behind.

  I pushed off the island and shook my head. “Your family’s so blinded by hatred for mine that you guys wouldn’t see the truth if it smacked you in the face.”

  Remo pressed his lips together, almost making them vanish. Unlike mine, which took up way too much space on my face, his lips were on the thin side.

  “And it did smack you in the face. And you still refuse to believe it.”

  I strode toward the swing door when he said, “My brother’s dust. Can you use it?”

  Even though I didn’t feel like giving him an answer, I did feel like knowing, so I swept my fingertips to the sapphire whorls on my palm. Slowly, I tugged my hands apart.

  Between them stretched three twinkling, golden strands. Their presence beamed some light onto my dark mood. I stared at them in awe and then in fear. What if I pulled the wita out completely, and it didn’t return into my palm? The thought made my hands jerk away from each other. The ribbons of dust shriveled before slipping back underneath my skin.

  Remo’s sigh was audible. “Never thought I’d be glad that my brother attacked you.”

  I sought out the trapped dust again, stretching it out, before pressing it back into my palm like an accordion. I even began to shape it, managing to turn it into a rose, thorns and all. The flower bobbed in midair, resembling a real one, feeling like a real one, its petals velvet-soft.

  I traced the edge of a green leaf. “You’re such a hypocrite.”

  “A hypocrite?”

  “You might not have wanted him to kill me, but I bet you enjoyed the show.”

  “If I’d enjoyed the show, I would’ve sat back and watched it play out. I wouldn’t have intervened.”

  He’d only intervened so his brother wasn’t offed on the spot. Instead of sharing my theory, I asked another question that had been on my mind. “Why did you say you pitied the man who’d stand beside me the next time the Cauldron showed up?”

  A beat of silence stretched like wita between us. “Because I’m no fool, Amara. I know you’re not planning on marrying me. And just so you know, you don’t have to use your gajoï to get me away from you; I wasn’t planning on going through with the charade.”

  I trusted he didn’t want to plait his essence with mine, but not wanting and doing were two very different things.

  “You think I’m lying.” Not a question.

  “I think I’ll save my gajoï in case you don’t feel like standing up to your granddaddy.” The rose’s petals fluttered as I spoke. I wrapped my fingers around the stem and squeezed it until the dust liquefied and retreated into my palm, then tipped my head toward the gloves on the sink top. “Your gloves. I hope I didn’t ruin them when I took out the pie.”

  “They won’t fit me anymore. Our hands aren’t exactly the same size, and I doubt the fabric is adaptable in this place.” He didn’t make any move to retrieve them. He didn’t make any move at all. He stood there like a giant piece of scowling granite.

  I walked toward the gloves and picked them up. They’d kept my hands from getting sliced up in Deception Central and had proved a useful barrier against the cold. As I slid them back on, being all out of pockets, I cast a longing look at my Infinity. How I wished I could change out of my dirty jumpsuit. My gaze snagged on the bowl I’d filled. Although there was no soap on the countertop, water would get most of the dirt out, but doing laundry implied getting naked, which I obviously wasn’t about to do in front of Remo.

  I tipped my head toward the upper floor. “Shall we see what’s upstairs?” Or who . . .?

  The moody faerie finally shoved away from the island and lumbered over to me. “You shouldn’t cover your tattoo.”

  In other words, what lay upstairs might go bump. Ugh. This prison sucked so much. “I don’t have a bag or pockets.”

  With a sigh, Remo held out his palm. “I’ll carry them.”

  My gaze slid down his mud-splattered tunic. “You don’t have any pockets either.”

  “No, but I have a waistband.” He hiked up his top, and the thin stream of daylight coming through the window edged the taut skin stretching over a neat stack of abdominal muscles.

  Why was I stunned to discover the boy had a six-pack? All lucionaga had abs.

  “Amara?”

  I jerked my gaze off his stomach.

  “The gloves.”

  I pulled them back off and dropped them into his open palm, careful not to graze his hand.

  “Make a knife.”

  Fear slinked up my spine.

  As he slid the gloves into his waistband, he added, “As a precaution.” Was he trying to reassure me?

  Swallowing, I touched my tattoo, hooking the threads. Unfortunately, I started trembling, and the threads snapped right back into my palm. I tried again. Failed again.

  “Calm down.”

  “I’m trying.” I tried again, and again, and again. At some point, I rolled my fingers into my palms and squeezed them until my nails bit into the dark whorls.

  “Can I try something?” Remo asked.

  I nodded warily.

  He picked up my wrist from where it dangled at my side. “Open your palm.”

  Biting the inside of my cheek, I did as he asked. He pressed calloused fingertips against the trapped dust. Was he trying to extricate it?

  “I don’t think—” My dust seemed to rear in its tracks and pulse harder, wiping away my conviction and the end of my sentence. “It’s responding to you,” I whispered, stunned and worried that if I spoke any louder, it would scare off my dust. Not that dust was skittish, but maybe confiscated dust was . . .

  Remo’s eyebrows dipped in concentration. Slowly, he raised his fingers. Considering how strongly my palm tingled, I expected to see golden ribbons unspool.

  But I was wrong.

  The air between our hands stayed still and dark.

  16

  Standards

  “It was worth a try,” Remo sighed as he pulled his hand back to his side.

  I slid my lower lip through my teeth, partly relieved my dust couldn’t be manipulated by another fae and partly confused as to why it was still swishing around in its tracks like a school of minnows. “It responded to your touch.”

  “That wasn’t the dust, Amara.”

  I cranked my head up so fast my neck cracked. “What else could it have been?”

  His eyes glowed like faceted emeralds. “Your pulse.”

  “My pul
se? Why would my pulse respond to you? I’m not afraid of you.”

  The corners of his lips ticked up.

  “I’m not,” I said, stressing the not part.

  “Well if it isn’t fear, then that leaves attraction.”

  Like a wave, the blood drained from my face before flooding right back inside. “I’m definitely not attracted to you. I have standards.”

  The intensity of his smile turned up. “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah.” Blood still pounded in my veins, but for a completely different reason now.

  He was still smiling. “And what are those standards of yours?”

  “Kindness.”

  “I’m kind.”

  “Not to me you aren’t.”

  I didn’t think his smile could get any wider, but it did.

  “Humble.”

  Still smirking, he folded his arms, which somehow made his chest appear broader.

  “Not redheads.”

  His smirk intensified.

  “And not of Farrow descent.”

  “So, just not me?” He dipped his chin into his neck, grin intact. “Aren’t you going to ask me about my standards?”

  “I didn’t think you had any.”

  His mouth unlatched, and he laughed, a deep throaty sound that made my already rapid pulse strike my neck harder.

  I crossed my arms, matching his stance. “Fine. Tell me. What type of girl gets an invitation into your harem?”

  He sobered up. “My harem?”

  “Back in the Duciba, your grandfather mentioned you needed to break up with all your girlfriends.”

  “Right.” Color crawled along the edge of his jaw. He rubbed his chin, as though trying to rub the blush out.

  “So, Remo Farrow, what are your standards? Besides busty blondes.”

  His head jerked back, and his hand fell away from his chin. “Busty blondes? What in Neverra are you talking about?”

  “Lydia.” I wrinkled my nose at the memory of the waitress who’d all but thrown herself at Remo. “I think she drooled on my wine orb at our engagement revel.”

  “Lydia’s a sweet girl, but nothing more.”

  I racked my mind for other women I’d seen Remo out and about with but couldn’t come up with any. “Have you ever dated anyone?”

  “Dating isn’t my style.”

  “What is your style?”

  “No strings—or Cauldron—attached.”

  I bobbed my head. “Commitment-phobic, then?”

  “It’s not a phobia; it’s a life choice.”

  I bobbed my head some more, not in understanding. On the contrary, I didn’t understand his life choice at all. I’d always wanted what my parents had.

  “Dating isn’t your style either, is it?”

  I stopped nodding. “Why would you assume that?”

  “Because I’ve never seen you out with the same guy twice. Well, besides your cousin, but you’re not dating him. Are you?”

  “Um, yuck. And my not-dating isn’t by choice.”

  He frowned.

  “I’d like to have a boyfriend, but I have trouble relating to human men, and fae ones”—I lifted the hair off my neck and twisted it into a long rope . . . well, this was a weird conversation—“find me intimidating.”

  “Intimidating?”

  “I know you don’t think I’m intimidating, but my dust scares Unseelies, and my blood scares Seelies off, thanks to you.”

  He neither flinched nor apologized for his nasty rumor.

  “And Daneelies, well there aren’t many of them, and they’re sort of a sect. They don’t mix.”

  “Josh looked plenty happy to be around you.”

  “Not that I was ever attracted to him, but now that he sent me here”—I gestured to the kitchen even though I obviously meant the world outside this kitchen—“he’s really at the bottom of my list of potential candidates.”

  His arms loosened from their tight knot. “Good. Because he’s a scumbag.” He turned and pushed open the flap door, then held it open for me to step through. “If we ever get out of here, I’ll introduce you to a couple of guys who’d give up their dust to go out with you. And the only reason they haven’t asked you on a date is because you’re way out of their league, not because they’re scared you’ll inadvertently poison them with your blood.”

  I whirled around, and Remo bumped into me.

  “Really?” I didn’t even try to tamp down my enthusiasm even though the last thing I wanted was for Remo to think I was desperate.

  Studying my parted lips and wide eyes, he said, “Really. Now can you create a sword or something useful out of Karsyn’s dust, so we have a chance of getting back to Neverra?”

  It was silly but knowing someone—several someones—wanted to date me steadied my hands. Not only did my wita respond this time, but I made one hell of a weapon—a dagger so sharp its tip gleamed lethally.

  “A little motivation goes a long way,” I said proudly.

  “I see that.” He shot me a wry grin, that instead of being cold, calculating, or disdainful, seemed genuine.

  And sort of sweet.

  I frowned because I didn’t think Remo was capable of sweet.

  He ticked his head toward the upper floor, and I lowered my dagger to my thigh, then followed him up the flight of stairs that creaked like old bones. The hallway on the landing was wide but dark. Still I could make out several doors. From the metal numbers nailed to each one, I was guessing this was where travelers spent the night back in the real inn.

  Was one of these bedrooms presently occupied by the pie-baking person?

  “Can you trade your butter knife for a gun?” Remo murmured.

  I gaped at my dagger, then at him. “It’s not a butter knife.”

  His expression, which had softened during our conversation in the hallway, narrowed again. “Well, can you turn it into a deadlier weapon?”

  “Say please.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Asking nicely won’t injure your masculinity.”

  He snorted, but his mouth curved. “Please, oh great Amara Wood, can you make a scary weapon out of your”—he gestured to my knife again—“what’s it supposed to be?”

  “A dagger.”

  He smiled, and I swore that for a minute, I felt like I was hanging out with Sook. “Can you turn your stunted dagger into a gun, please?”

  “Stunted.” I shook my head in indignation but squeezed my weapon’s handle. A moment later, the blade transformed into a gun barrel, the rounded cylinder gleaming wickedly.

  Side by side, we walked toward the first door. I raised my fist to knock, but Remo caught it before my knuckles could graze the wood.

  “Why don’t you hum them a little tune while you’re at it?”

  I glowered at him. “Surprising people isn’t sm—” The -art died in my throat when Remo flung the door open.

  I clapped my free hand on the gun’s grip and swung my arms, directing the muzzle toward the bedroom. No one shrieked or raised their arms, because there was no occupant. The bed was done up with a flowery bedspread tucked around fluffy pillows, and the dresser surface was empty save for a white crocheted doily. Nana Vee was a huge fan of doilies and tried to teach me how to make them, but crocheting wasn’t for me.

  Remo ventured into an en suite bathroom. He flicked up the light switch, and although I didn’t expect any bulbs to flare to life, the ceiling lights buzzed and flooded the white-tiled space. He thrust open the shower curtain, and I gasped. Tiny bottles of soap crowded a wire mesh holder. I shoved my gun into Remo’s hands and unscrewed the lid off one of the bottles, almost purring when the scent of sun-warmed honeysuckle hit me.

  I swung around toward him. “I call dibs on the shower.”

  “How about we go check out the rest of the place before you bathe?” He extended the weapon.

  I eyed it, then eyed him, and it hit me that I trusted him. “You can keep it. For now.”

  His pupils pulsed in surprise.


  “It’s a better weapon than your pen,” I added a touch mockingly.

  As he trailed me back into the hallway, he said, “You’d be surprised the damage you could inflict with a well-placed pen.”

  I grimaced.

  A light switch on the wall caught my attention, and I flipped it. When it flooded the dark space, I sighed. Audibly. Bee’s Place felt like the eye of the storm, and I was planning on taking full advantage of the calm and comfort. We could even use it as our base while we built something to reach the portal.

  As Remo opened the door to yet another empty bedroom, I spun to face him, which made him jerk the gun down and grumble, “Do you have a death wish?”

  I rolled my eyes. “My own dust can’t kill me.”

  He popped an eyebrow. “Except it isn’t your dust.”

  I sucked in some air. Even though it felt like mine, he was right . . . it wasn’t. How could it have slipped my mind? “For the time being, and quite possibly forever if we don’t find a way out of here, it’s mine.” I didn’t add that he was probably right about the killing-me part, because Remo Farrow didn’t need any more strokes to the ego. “Which brings me back to what I was about to tell you. I was thinking that I could make a rope with it.”

  A groove furrowed his brow.

  “To hook onto the portal.”

  His eyes widened, but then his tangible surprise vanished underneath a layer of caution. “First we’d need to scale the cliff, and it looked even steeper than in the last cell.”

  “I could make a tool out of my dust to help with that. A pick or something.”

  He bobbed his head. “We could try.”

  “After my bath.”

  “After your bath.”

  “Won’t you take one?”

  “Possibly. But first, I want to meet the person who baked the pie.”

  Hope had filed the baker into a recess of my brain. Sighing, I shadowed Remo as we entered the remaining bedrooms. All were unoccupied. The beds were made, and the bathrooms fully functional. On the way out of the last one, the largest on the floor, a wall of framed pictures caught my attention.