by Jade Kerrion
The fae nodded, his eyes darting uncertainly to his companions.
“Glamour yourself to look like her.”
The fae swallowed, the lump in his throat bobbing. His aura shimmered before reshaping into her.
Not quite her. The fae’s fingernails were not polished and he lacked taste in jewelry, but he had captured enough of her overall appearance to fool anyone from a distance.
“Varian’s never going to fall for this,” the heavily glamoured version of her spoke in his natural voice.
“He’s hardly at his most alert.” Tristan scoffed. “Just keep your mouth shut and look terrified. I’ll do the talking.”
“It’s less than six hours till the full moon. We shouldn’t be scrambling like this right now. You said he would crack.”
“He’s stronger than I expected.” Tristan strode past Nithya, not noticing the mouse crouched next to the velvet curtains.
“You can’t push much harder. If you kill him—”
“He won’t die. Not yet. Not until I decide.”
“We agreed to take over the castle, but you said nothing about what you would do to Varian. At what point did you decide it was okay to torture him?” the glamoured fae asked pointedly. “I hated Prince Rainier, too. We all did—but Varian hasn’t done anything—”
“You are no judge of what he and his family have done to me. They made me what I am.”
“Which is what, exactly? One of the most respected nobles in the land? The youngest member of the council? The prince’s closest friend and confidant? What are you objecting to?”
Nithya quietly kept pace with the fae and mentally applauded the fake version of her. Couldn’t have said it better myself.
Tristan shook his atern bracelet in the false Nithya’s face. “This! My magic—stolen from me before I was old enough to utter a single spell in my own defense. Rainier could have stopped it. He could have prevented all of it if he had been man enough to stand up to his parents and follow his heart, if he had been man enough to marry my mother, or if he had been man enough to stop sleeping with her after he married Sabine!”
“And where is Varian in this litany of grievances you’ve listed against the Delacroix?” the fae demanded.
“He is his father’s son—bound to duty, not to his heart—or he would not feel compelled to cast the Convello in defiance of his own happiness and his life,” Tristan sneered. “Are you afraid?”
“Yes, I’m afraid. The longer this takes, the more likely the prince will still have all his power when it’s time to cast the spell. You’ll have to take the runic collar off him. What’s to stop him from killing you—killing all of us—with a single word?”
“He won’t have but a fraction of his magic then. I guarantee it. When Varian kills himself in the Convello, the final piece of Rainier’s dream dies. In one stroke, I’ll avenge myself against father and son.” Tristan glared at the glamoured version of Nithya. “Now, keep your mouth shut,” he said, earning a mutinous nod from “Nithya” before he flung open the door to the highest room in the northern tower.
Nithya, still shrouded in the illusion of a mouse, clapped her hands over her mouth.
Varian hung from bound wrists, the coarse rope flung over the rafters and anchored to a pillar. Moonlight shafted across his torso, mutilated into torn skin and raw flesh. His head hung to his chest; he did not look up as they entered the room. Was he even conscious?
The fae who wore the guise of Nithya looked alarmed. Apparently, he had never seen the prince in this state either. He retreated, but Tristan grabbed his arm and shoved him forward.
Varian slowly raised his head. Had the commotion wakened him? He stared, his eyes unfocused, at the glamoured fae. “Nithya,” he breathed her name.
She heard love in that single word.
His face…
Her thoughts froze at the impossibility—
Varian was wearing what she had always thought of his princely face. But his magic was bound, constricted by the runic collar, which meant no glamour—
It’s his real face—a face blanched with pain.
The brilliant glow on his atern bracelet flared a split second before the runes on the collar flashed. Varian’s body convulsed with a silent, agonized scream before his head slumped again, consciousness torn from his body.
“Imagine that.” Tristan looked at his companions. “He tried to cast for her. That is what fear does to you.”
Nithya ground her teeth. No, it’s what love does to you.
Tristan walked around Varian’s body like a predator circling prey. His gaze fixed on Varian’s atern bracelet, which glowed more brightly than any Nithya had ever seen. “I want that.” His upper lip lifted into a sneer. “Your will must break. It has to. Everyone else’s does.”
Nithya stared at Tristan. Horror wrapped its hand, one icy finger at a time, around her heart.
The fae wearing Nithya’s face squeaked. “What did you do to him?”
“The same thing Merodes did to me—no more, no less.”
“You raped him?” The fae’s jaw dropped.
“It didn’t work, but it will.” Tristan’s face was set in contemplative lines. “Did you know that valerian suppresses the body without affecting the mind? There’s nothing quite like the terror of knowing exactly what’s happening to you without being able to resist it. I fought Merodes, but I was only a child. I could not win.” His voice hardened. “And neither will Varian. I’ll break him. His spirit will crumble like crushed stone. By the time the moon rises, there will be nothing left of him. The spell will fail even before it is cast. Wake him up,” Tristan ordered.
The guards directed a high-pressure water hose at Varian’s face. He jerked; his scream was the terror-filled sound of a man drowning. His body twisted, but he could not break away from the flood of water in his face.
Nithya had to clamp her hands over her mouth to keep from screaming.
One of the fae guards frowned. “You’re going to kill him.”
“No, I won’t let him die,” Tristan promised. “Not yet.” He waved to his guards to stop.
Drenched, Varian did not shiver. Nithya did not think he had the strength to shiver any more. Her heart aching, she watched as he raised his head slowly to stare at Tristan. “Let her go.” His hoarse voice was scarcely a whisper.
“I will, when you let go,” Tristan said. “I want power. I want magic. I can take it from Nithya—” He tapped on the glamoured fae’s colorless bracelet. “—and it will kill her, although I’m sure I’ll enjoy the process of stripping it from her body, or you can surrender your magic to me.” He allowed a few moments for his words to sink in. “You are a dead man, Varian. Whatever decision you make here, shortly after the moon reaches its fullness, you will die. The only real choice you have is whether Nithya will die too, or whether you’ll sacrifice your magic to save her.”
Varian’s gaze flashed to the fae he thought was Nithya. Anguish seared his eyes. His lips moved, but no sound came out.
Tristan snorted. “Of course not. What other decision did we expect from you? Always duty—”
“Take it,” Varian said lowly.
Nithya could see in his eyes the surrender wrenching his soul.
“Let her live.” Varian’s words were torn from his heart. “You can have whatever you want from me.”
All eyes fixed on him; mouths agape.
No. Nithya breathed out shock and dismay. Not for me. How could she live with the burden of knowing that Varian had chosen to give up everything—his magic and his life—for her?
“Well, then…” Tristan smiled. He pushed the glamoured Nithya out the door. “Bring him to me.”
The guards cut through the rope, and Varian crashed to the floor. The guards dragged him to the table and bent him over it, grinding his face into the wood.
Tristan strode forward, his hand loosening his belt.
Still pressed against the wall, invisible in the illusion of a mouse, Nithya glanced at the two
guards holding Varian down. She searched their eyes for glimpses into their soul. One pair gleamed with cruel anticipation. The other pair remained bored, even indifferent.
Nithya’s eyes narrowed. Her magic wove illusion into the thin fabric of reality, bringing the dead back to life.
Tristan’s eyes bulged. His jaw dropped as his disbelieving gaze shuttled back and forth between the two fae mercenaries holding Varian down.
Lord Merodes and Prince Rainier stared back at him.
“No.” Tristan’s face blanched. “You’re dead. You’re both dead.”
He staggered back, his hands held out in front of him, as if to fend them off. The terror in his eyes was that of a child—too young to talk, too fearful to scream.
Pity swamped her.
One ruined life ruining others, like dominos toppling in an endless cascade.
Her heart clenched.
He would destroy the man I love and damn my country and my people.
Like a noose, her illusions tightened.
The expression on Lord Merodes’s face twisted into a sneer. The mocking gleam in his eyes turned hateful.
Prince Rainier remained coldly detached, his demeanor set in the dismissive boredom of a complete stranger.
Tristan spun and fled from the room.
Nithya swept the illusion away as the two guards turned to each other, perplexed. They saw only each other’s faces.
One of them frowned. “Tristan looked like he’d seen a ghost.”
Or two.
“Tristan panicked. Can’t imagine why, though. He’s been planning this for more than a year. Everything’s proceeding according to the plan.” The other fae mercenary looked at Varian with lust in his eyes. “What should we do with him?” he asked, nudging his head down at prince.
“Give him another dose of valerian and string him back up.”
The lascivious fae frowned. “We could—”
“Not if you want Tristan to pull the prince’s magic back out of you painfully and publicly.”
“He wouldn’t—”
“Whatever’s between Tristan and the prince, don’t get involved. There’s too much festering hate and anger. It’ll destroy anyone who gets in the way.”
Nithya couldn’t agree more even though the warning was wasted on her.
The two guards grabbed Varian and wrapped the coarse rope around his raw, breeding wrists. Varian tried to twist out of their grip, but he could not break free. “Nithya. Where’s Nithya?” he demanded.
“She’s not your concern. You’ve got bigger problems than that little witch.” The fae grabbed Varian’s chin. “Can’t even believe that face is real. All this time, I thought it was just glamour.”
The other fae nudged him. “Let’s find Tristan.”
It did not give her much time. Nithya waited until the door closed and the footsteps faded away, before flinging off her illusion.
Varian was looking in her direction when her illusion shimmered away. His eyes widened. “Nithya?” His outrage trumped his shock. “What are you doing here?”
“Rescuing you,” she said archly. “What did you think?” She looked around for something to cut him down, but all she had was the dagger Louis had given to her before parting ways. She prepared to slice through the rope, but Varian’s words, softly uttered, stopped her.
“You have to leave me. Get out of here. Now. My guards…servants…you have to free them.”
“They’re all right. Louis got them out. Now, I’m going to get you out.”
“And I appreciate the help—” Varian said through gritted teeth.
Nithya’s chin lifted. “But you think I’m out of my league.”
“I don’t want you getting hurt. This has nothing to do with you.”
She glared at him. “That’s where you’re wrong. I love you.” The stunned disbelief on Varian’s face closed like a chokehold around her throat. “I know the words are too late. I know you don’t understand how I can love you and still believe you’re wrong, and worse, defy you, but love isn’t blind, Varian. Neither is it stupidly obedient.”
“I wasn’t looking for blind obedience, but basic honesty didn’t seem too much to ask for.”
“And your basic honesty is why I had to figure out on my own who Dace really was.”
“Glamour is as natural as breathing to the fae. It’s no different from the chemical alchemy you women use to wage war on a man’s senses.”
Nithya’s eyes narrowed. “Did you just refer to my perfume as chemical warfare?”
Varian refused to get sidetracked. “Your illusions with the atern bracelets aren’t in the same category as glamour.”
“There are categories now? Levels of honesty? A one-to-ten scale for deceit?” She glared at him. “This philosophical debate can wait until after I get you out of here.
“I can’t walk. He smashed my knee. I can’t fight—not with the runic collar—but what Tristan wants from me, he can’t take. Not unless he has leverage.” Their eyes met. “That’s why you have to get out of here. If he has you, I can’t win.”
That had to be the most oblique declaration of love she had ever heard. And yet, what did she expect out of Varian Delacroix, prince of La Condamine?
The sound of approaching footsteps yanked their alarmed gazes back to the door. Varian looked at her. His eyes drank in her appearance like a dying man craving a final glimpse of love. “Hide, and swear that when Tristan returns, you’ll get out of here.”
Varian looked up sharply when the door opened. She yanked the illusion back over herself. When Varian looked back in her direction, his frantic gaze swept right over where she was standing. He had not watched her illusion come down; he did not notice the mouse crouching in the shadows.
Tristan, his two guards, and the false Nithya reentered Varian’s cell. Tristan looked pale and shaken, but his jaw was set. “You’re still conscious. Perfect.” He gestured to his guards. “Cut him down. We’re going to pick up where we left off.”
Varian crashed to the floor. His scream was a strangled gasp of pain as his knee crumpled beneath him.
Tristan curled his fist in Varian’s hair and yanked his head up. Tristan’s upper lip lifted in a sneer. “Let’s get this over with.”
“No.”
Tristan blinked. For an instant, he looked young and shockingly vulnerable, before his surprise gave way to rage. “What do you mean?” He flung his arm out at the false Nithya. “Do you want me to kill her?”
“Glamour.” Varian hurled the word through clenched teeth. “Not Nithya.”
Tristan’s face mottled. “Do you dare take that risk?”
“Nithya—the real Nithya—would have fought you every step of the way.”
“The way she fought you?” Tristan asked.
Varian’s bracelet started to glow, but Tristan squeezed his hands around Varian’s throat, choking him. “I never understood it.” Tristan continued in a conversational tone. “You don’t know when to stop. You never acknowledge when the odds are too great. You never step down or back away.” He eased his grip.
Several moments passed before Varian croaked hoarsely, “I can help you, Tristan. It doesn’t have to end this way.”
Tristan laughed. “And what way do you think it’s going to end? You’ve lost, but you’re still trying to save your people.”
“My people matter.”
“Do you think any of this will matter when you’re gone? You’ll be dead in hours. Give me your power, and a part of you will live on forever.”
“I don’t want forever. I didn’t even want a lifetime. It doesn’t matter what happens tonight. I was already prepared to die. My death will change only one thing—their perception of you. The only thing you’ve destroyed is your good name. You have lost.”
“Have I?” Tristan asked. “When I am done with you, the people will spit and curse anytime the Delacroix name is spoken. You will be the last of your house; the prince whose folly ruined La Condamine.”
&nbs
p; “You don’t know the people of La Condamine.”
Tristan slammed Varian back into the wall. “You’ve lost. I crushed you. I raped you.”
“You’ve taken nothing from me.” Varian’s atern bracelet still glowed with the radiance of a small sun.
Tristan’s upper lip pulled into a snarl. He backhanded Varian with his clenched fist. “You will die. I swear it.”
“Death isn’t defeat,” Varian retorted. “But I will undo the mistakes I’ve made. I was so focused on the Convello that I gave you free rein you had not earned. I allowed you to make decisions you should not have. I gave you power and authority you did not deserve.”
“How dare you—”
“I will not let my people pay the price for my mistakes. The council will defend Conrad’s right to the throne. La Condamine will not yield to you.”
“La Condamine should have been mine by right of birth! I was our father’s firstborn son. And I had magic—more than enough magic—to justify my lineage and my rule, until it was stolen from me.”
Varian stared at Tristan. “Do you think that’s all it takes to rule? An accident of birth and a glowing bracelet? You were closer than most ever got to the throne. Did you see and understand nothing?”
“I saw and understood enough!” Tristan roared. “Enough to know that I would never receive justice from a Delacroix.”
“You were the deathbed promise I made to my father. He made me swear to take care of you! I restored your title, your lands—”
“It’s not enough. It will never be enough to heal the scars that go so deep.”
“You didn’t even let me try.”
Tristan’s lips tugged into a sneer. “Did you know that even my mother took your side? She begged me not to go forward with my plan. I had to lock her in my castle to keep her from running to you, to warn you. You were everyone’s favorite child—but only because I never had a chance.” He tightened his grip around Varian’s throat, pressing the steel band of the runic collar deep into Varian’s flesh. “La Condamine will be mine. As will Nithya.”
Varian hurled out the words through gritted teeth. “Not Nithya.”
“Tell me. How did you steal her from me?”
