The Court of Mortals (Stariel Book 3)

by AJ Lancaster

  The duchess was lounging on a chaise amidst a flock of admirers. Oh, I can see why Aunt Sybil disapproves of her. Hetta, however, felt a flash of envy for her dress, a daring confection in pink silk. The duchess was a statuesque woman, much younger than the duke, unmistakably fashionable, and unmistakably risqué, from her bold outfit to the sultry smile she wore as she leaned towards the man she was sharing the chaise with. Hetta did a double-take as the crowd parted slightly, revealing the man’s hair: Rakken. He laughed at something the duchess said, and the chocolate-rich sound rolled over the duchess and her flock, drawing them in like moths to a flame. Apparently he does flirt with everyone. Marius gave a small, disgusted huff.

  A harried Bradfield appeared suddenly at her shoulder.

  “Ah, old girl, you made it!” he said, stopping to greet her though he was clearly in a hurry. He caught their line of gaze. “Ah, yes, eye-catching, isn’t he? No idea who he is, but I’m grateful for the timely distraction of Her Grace.” He grinned. “Her favourite artiste is going to have bloody hell to pay if I don’t get down there and rouse the rabble soon.”

  “This is Bradfield, Marius.” Hetta performed the introductions.

  Marius was stiffly correct, which meant he was feeling self-conscious. “Good evening, Mr Bradfield,” he said, eyes darting everywhere except to the man in front of him. Hetta heaved an internal sigh. Honestly, Marius, you are your own worst enemy sometimes.

  Brad was too distracted to notice. “Good to finally meet Hetta’s older brother.” He made a face at Hetta. “Sorry to leave you to these wolves—got to dash. You know how it is!”

  “I do,” she said. “Go, Brad! Break a leg!”

  After Brad had disappeared in the direction of the door, Hetta wondered whether to interrupt Rakken or leave him to it. Leave him to it, she decided after a moment. His flirting would probably do more to endear the fae to the duchess than anything Hetta could muster, and hopefully the duke would be too drunk to notice. She talked to the assorted aristocrats instead—or rather, they talked to her, all desperately wanting to know who Rakken and Catsmere were. Did that mean she could count this as a clever political venture? Word would certainly get back to the queen, if nothing else, but it didn’t feel very clever, attending parties while Wyn was still missing. But what else was I going to do? Sit at home and twiddle my thumbs, hoping for him to fall out of the sky?

  “Well, they’re both fae royalty,” she told everyone who asked. There didn’t seem much point in pretending otherwise, and aristocrats liked titles. “Like the queen’s honoured guest who’s been missing these past few days.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “My fiancé, though we’ve not yet announced it, of course.”

  This generally made people gape and resulted in one of two responses: an urgent need to excuse themselves so they could go away and whisper to their friends, or increasingly inappropriate questions which she excused herself from with teeth bared in a barely civil smile. No one reacted as if they knew anything about Wyn’s disappearance.

  “You’re good at this,” Marius said quietly after they’d extracted themselves from another conversation in which no one knew anything useful.

  “Ha!” Hetta said bitterly. She gulped down a flute of iced lemonade. She’d much rather be drinking the strong liquor on offer, but she wanted a clear head.

  “Well, better than me, in any case,” he clarified with a grimace.

  “You don’t have to stay with me; I know you hate this kind of thing.” She was tremendously grateful for her brother’s presence; it would’ve been so much worse facing this crowd of strangers alone.

  He rubbed at his temples in the way that meant he had a headache. “If you think I’d leave you alone in this pit of vipers… No.” He contemplated the wider room. “Do you think they’re actually finding out anything useful or just enjoying themselves?” he complained, and she saw he was watching Rakken dance his fingers lightly up the sloped back of the chaise, inches away from the duchess’s shoulder. Her lips were half-parted, and she coloured as he asked her something. “He doesn’t really see humans as quite real, you know. We’re just amusing toys to him.”

  “I think they do want to protect Wyn from their sister, though,” she said, not disagreeing with his assessment. “I’m hopeful that their attitudes towards humanity will improve with exposure.”

  Marius gave a short laugh. “With exposure to this lot?”

  “Well, they should feel right at home, shouldn’t they? Backstabbing and posturing?”

  He laughed again, but it faded quickly as he frowned down at his own drink. They were standing next to the bar, a brief respite from the crowd. “But should we really be encouraging people to welcome the fae with open arms? They’re not exactly…good.”

  “What about Wyn?” she asked quietly, a strange, painful tightness in her chest.

  “He’s different,” Marius said. “More, I don’t know, human.”

  That’s why he’s in this mess now, she couldn’t help thinking. Rakken and Catsmere wouldn’t have put on the dismae at the queen’s command. She surveyed the room, trying to decide where they should go next. There was still another half-hour before the curtain rose.

  “Hetta!” a familiar voice said behind her, and she turned to face, of all people, Lord Angus Penharrow.

  His presence was so completely out of place that for a moment all she could do was stare blankly at him. What was Angus doing here? The duke and newspaperman’s words had been enough to make her suspect his involvement, but this seemed like confirmation. Angus didn’t look nearly villainous enough in his evening finery, but Hetta glared at him anyway.

  “Penharrow,” Marius said curtly, shoulders going up like a cat’s. “What are you doing here?”

  Angus gestured at the bar. “Getting a drink,” he said blandly. He took in Hetta’s dress. “You look lovely, Hetta.” He frowned as his gaze snagged on the ring.

  “What are you doing here in Meridon?” Hetta repeated.

  “I do do business in town, occasionally. You don’t hold a monopoly on the city.” He shrugged, and the lights glinted in his warm brown curls.

  Hetta eyed him incredulously. “Are you trying to tell me it’s coincidence you’re here at my old company’s play?”

  A hint of chagrin crept into his expression. “Ach, very well. No, it’s not a coincidence that I’m here tonight, though I truly do have other business in town I’d already planned. But I did come here tonight to talk to you, though I’d hoped to be somewhat subtler about it.” He grimaced around at the party, clearly ill at ease with the nature of it. “Can we talk somewhere quieter?” He glanced at Marius. “Alone?”

  “Absolutely not,” said Marius flatly. “Do you want to tear my sister’s reputation to ribbons in front of half of Meridon society?”

  Hetta didn’t actually think she had any good name left to ruin at this point, but she appreciated her brother’s support nonetheless.

  “Bradfield gave us a box for the night,” she said. “You can come and talk to both of us in there.” She narrowed her eyes. “As it happens, I would quite like to ask you a few questions myself.”

  34

  Box Seats

  The box had five seats upholstered in plush red, but Hetta was too agitated to sit. Instead she went and stood by the heavy decorative curtains that framed the view. It felt jarringly strange to be in a Meridon theatre with two people from Stariel. The stalls below were beginning to fill, people’s voices echoing as they shuffled into their seats. A fake, empty throne sat on the stage in preparation for the first scene, covered in glittering jewels that were paste beneath the illusion. Hetta grimaced; it reminded her unpleasantly of the bejewelled throne room in ThousandSpire.

  Angus came to stand beside her, leaving Marius awkwardly cramped into the space by the door. The boxes weren’t really made for milling about in.

  Angus looked between them, a crease forming between his brows. “Have I done something more than ambush you to make you angry? Yo
u both look like you could spit tacks.”

  “What did you say to Lady Peregrine’s about me?” Hetta said, working her fingers restlessly into the tassel of the curtain tie-back.

  Angus rocked back on his heels. “Lady Peregrine’s? The gossip rag?” he repeated, sounding genuinely puzzled before his eyes widened in realisation. “I heard there was an article slighting you. You think I went to the papers about…Prince Hallowyn Tempestren?” He said the name with distaste, but it wasn’t that that sent a cold shiver over Hetta’s neck. Catsmere had said not using true names was merely a precaution, but it still made her uneasy, as if Aroset would spring suddenly from the upholstery.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve acted dishonourably,” she said icily, but her certainty was fading in the face of the anger in Angus’s eyes.

  Angus’s mouth thinned, but he held back his instinctive response. “I suppose I’ve earned your suspicion, but I had nothing to do with that article. You truly think I’d take your affairs to the press, Hetta?” He shook his head. “I told you I’ve no taste for seeing your name raked through the mud.”

  Hetta met Marius’s eyes. He grimaced, his face in deep shadow at the back of the box. “I believe him.” He paused and then added, challengingly: “But you’re happy enough that Wyn’s suddenly out of the picture, aren’t you, my lord?”

  Angus shrugged but directed his answer to Hetta. “I’m not going to pretend I think he’s worthy of you, though actually, no, I’m not happy with the way he’s disappeared, leaving you alone to hold off scandal.”

  “I’m hardly alone, Angus,” Hetta said, waving a hand at Marius. She smiled. “My sister and aunt are also in town.”

  “Your family can’t protect you from the talk, though,” Angus pointed out. He hesitated, glancing fleetingly at Marius.

  A horrible suspicion dropped into her stomach, and she held up a hand to interrupt him. “Angus, if your next words are anything resembling an offer, I shall have hysterics.”

  Marius choked.

  “You’ve never had hysterics in your life, Hetta,” Angus said, but there was a deflated angle to his shoulders. He had been going to say something along those lines. Oh, Angus. She reminded herself of his treachery; she definitely shouldn’t feel sorry for him.

  He took the setback with grace. “Very well, I won’t add to the awkwardness then, so you can stop spluttering, Valstar.” He shot a wry smile in Marius’s direction before turning back to Hetta. “That’s not the only subject I wanted to broach, though. I wanted to warn you about the Conclave.”

  Hetta blew out a breath. “You already warned me about them, Angus.”

  He shook his head. “The situation has changed. Someone tipped off the Chair—no, not me, Valstar”—he added at Marius’s accusatory “Ha!”—“and I’m fairly certain that you won’t receive an official summons to the next meeting; he’ll try to deliberately exclude you.”

  “Why? Ratifying my membership on the Conclave should be a simple formality.” But she knew why, though she wasn’t sure if the Conclave cared more about the fae business or if they were primarily concerned with her being young, female, unmarried, and ‘unvirtuous’. The latter made her angry but was easy to brush off. The Conclave had had far more scandalous members than Hetta, and she’d force them to acknowledge that, if she had to. But the fae—the Conclave weren’t wrong to be concerned about them as a whole, even if they were wrong about Wyn specifically. Dash it—why did Marius have to be right? Was she being a bad lord, not thinking more about what was good for Stariel rather than just her own interests?

  Below came the sounds of the orchestra’s warm-up, punctuated with conversation and the occasional louder burst of laughter. Footsteps passed the box door as the duchess’s partygoers made their way to their seats.

  “The Conclave want to discuss you without your being present—decide if you’re ‘respectable’ enough,” Marius guessed, anger stirring in his tone. “They have no right to make such judgements. It shouldn’t matter in the slightest how respectable she is; she’s still Lord of Stariel.”

  Hetta laughed bitterly. “And it would be the highest of hypocrisies for them to declare me not respectable enough given that I know at least one of their members is conducting a very torrid and scandalous affair entirely in the public eye, and no doubt half of them are doing so privately.” Fire simmered under her skin, itching for release, and she took a deep breath. Her pyromancy had been slowly gaining in potency since she’d bonded to Stariel, but she hadn’t lost control of it since she’d been a teenager. She wouldn’t do so now.

  “Your brother is correct about the Conclave’s motives,” Angus said quietly. “Though they’re concerned about this fairy business as well. But I agree with you both, and no, not just because I wish to be back in your good books, Hetta. I wanted you to have warning of it, so we have time to plan.” Something in his expression hardened. “We must not become like these Southern nobles, driven by petty rivalries and desire for the queen’s favour. The North shouldn’t be divided against itself. Especially not at such a time, with change on the horizon whether we would have it or not.” He glanced at her necklace again and shook his head. “Fairies. I never imagined we’d have to deal with such things.”

  Marius jerked suddenly, alarm in every line, just before the door slammed open and Catsmere stalked in, a sword in one hand and power rolling off her in waves. She brushed Marius aside and bounded over the seats to land next to Hetta, staring keenly out over the balcony.

  Angus gaped at her; the movement had been too smooth to be possible, especially in a dress, though Hetta realised now that there were slits all the way up to Catsmere’s waist, and that she wore loose-fitting trousers beneath the exotic bronze-coloured over-dress.

  Catsmere’s attention flickered out over the stalls, searching for something. The room was suddenly filled with the scent of rainstorms, mixed with notes that made dread seep into Hetta’s stomach: copper and old-fashioned roses. Aroset’s magic.

  “You should leave, Lord Valstar,” Catsmere said without taking her attention from the auditorium. She looked across to the stage and stiffened. Hetta followed her gaze down to the throne, which rippled in a very alarming and familiar way a split second before a portal opened and something hurtled through it.

  35

  The Kutrass

  “Get down!” Catsmere snarled, brandishing her sword.

  Hetta’s first, confused impression was of a monstrous stick insect made of blades and wings. It fell out of the portal in a mess of oddly jointed limbs and flitted up straight for their box.

  Catsmere met it with her sword, but it was only a glancing blow, and the creature darted back, making an angry rattling sound with one set of wings.

  From below came a cheer, and Hetta had a confused second of incomprehension as to why anyone would be cheering the attack. Surely she wasn’t that disliked? But then she realised—illusion. The audience thought it was part of the special effects for the show, starting early.

  The creature hovered, trying and failing to get past Catsmere’s guard while Hetta and the others scrambled back from the balcony. Fire boiled up beneath her skin, but she fought it down. The tight confines of the box were far too flammable.

  The monster abruptly changed tactics, swooping up and out of view. Had it given up? But then the box shuddered as something heavy landed inside the box above them. Oh no. Hopefully it had been empty.

  A razor-sharp claw stabbed through the ceiling above her, and she flung herself away from it, landing in a tangle on top of Angus. His eyes were very wide, but he wrapped an arm around her waist and hauled them both up, towards the door.

  “Open the door!” she prompted Marius, who was still frozen in shock. He jerked into motion, clumsily reaching for the handle as the creature stabbed more holes through the ceiling. Ceramic fragments ricocheted off the wall, and Marius yelped as one stung his cheek.

  They tumbled out into the hallway, just as the ceiling collapsed. The
creature tore its way through after them with a shriek of triumph, and Hetta got her first good look at it: six spindly legs tipped with blades and hard, metallic silver wings. Its eyes were obscenely large, multi-faceted like an insect’s and covering the entire upper half of its head.

  Had Catsmere been caught under the falling masonry? She’d been on the other side of the box, but the creature wasn’t heading in that direction now. Instead it clicked two of its bladed claws together with a horrible sound like glass-on-glass and hurtled down the hallway towards them.

  The eyes gave her an idea. There was no time to think or weave anything complicated, so she closed her eyes and drew in as much calm as she could—a feat in itself, under the circumstances—and flung simple light at the creature. Lots of it.

  The monster stumbled, temporarily blinded, slowing its rush. Hetta and the others sprinted down the hallway into the bar. It was emptier than before but not empty enough, with a few drunken stragglers still scattered about. The monster followed them in, shaking its head in irritation, its spinning wings loud as struck blades.

  “Over here, beast!” Angus shouted, throwing a heavy ornament at the creature. It struck just behind its head joint with about as much effect as a cushion.

  Flammable theatres be dashed. Hetta abandoned all attempts at calm and let fire run down her arms, pooling in her palms, heightened by fear. But before she could throw it, Catsmere was suddenly there in a blur of grace and violence. There was a whir of blades followed by a heavy, fleshy sound, and before Hetta could quite process what had happened, the monster’s severed head rolled to a halt at her feet. She stared down into its dimming many-faceted eyes and struggled with sudden nausea.

  “Hetta!” Her name came from two directions at once: her brother and Angus. She looked to Marius. A single drop of blood had rolled down his check where the ceramic shard had hit him before, and he rubbed it with the back of his hand without thinking, then scowled as he realised he’d only smeared it. But, she thought with relief, if he was scowling in distaste, he wasn’t seriously hurt.