by May Sage
King of Ruin
Lords of Sidhe Book One
May Sage
Contents
1. Seven Crowns
2. Warnings in the Rain
3. Taken by Surprise
4. Whispers from the East
5. Enemies
6. Open Heart
7. A Strange Duel
8. Lack of Knowledge
9. Hidden Motives
10. Weakness
11. In the Dungeons
12. Paths
13. Iron Laws
14. A Reception
15. A Dangerous Dance
16. A New Circle
17. Tentative Friendships
18. Lord of Silver
19. The Silver City
20. Guest of the Crown
21. Heavy is the Head
22. A Dangerous Oath
23. Complications
24. Tales of a Queen
25. Well Met
26. Blood for Blood
27. Gods of War
28. Temptation
29. Spells of Flesh
30. Into the Woods
31. Words and Souls
32. Blood of Tartarus
More from May Sage
King of Ruin
Lords of Sidhe Book One
By May Sage
Edited by: Victory Editing and Theresa Schultz
Cover by: Clarissa Yeo of Yocla Book Cover Designs
Photography by: Wander Aguiar
Created with Vellum
Seven Crowns
Most of the creatures assembled on the floating dome above the surface of the endless torrential waters of Sidhe were cruel. Others, cunning. Some, wise. All were beautiful, from the dainty, delicate winged pixies flying around their masters while carrying bluebells and riding dragonflies, to the tall, sturdy, green-skinned woodland fae with branches for hair and moss on their skin.
Among the cruel, cunning, wise, and beautiful, Caim liked to believe he distinguished himself by also being the only one with drive, focus, determination.
The scent of wine mixed with blood coated the air, along with the taste of every pleasure of the flesh and mind. The lords of Sidhe were seldom as wild and extravagant as they were on this occasion.
The lords of the Silver, Gold, Iron, Brass, Steel, Nickel, and Bronze circles met every seven years to discuss their affairs and keep the peace. A tradition started by the very first queen of Sidhe, and though it had been long since their world had crowned a monarch, still they honored it.
In the old days, there had been offerings to the gods and demons of the underworld after each conclave.
There would be no tithe today. Just politics and revelry.
Mostly revelry.
Caim inclined his head as he passed by Cassian, his kin, a man he detested nearly as much as any other member of the gentry. Nearly.
"Cousin. What do you suppose our uncle is discussing over there?"
The regents of each circle sat around an octagonal table, where only one seat remained vacant: the throne. Upon a large dais cut from one single tree trunk, carved by pompous and meticulous artists—who'd made it overly complicated and, no doubt, hard to dust—it was garish and outdated.
Though they were close, none of their words could be heard, not even by those blessed with the power of reading minds. Their council was shielded by dozens of spells. Caim couldn't say he cared either way. Let them talk. He knew that what they discussed was of no consequence.
Nothing ever changed in Sidhe. He'd opened his eyes three hundred years ago and in all his life, there had been nothing new, exciting, or interesting. It would be another thousand years ere the lords implemented any reforms in their world.
"Starting a Regent’s Day, no doubt," he replied. "Uncle Theron is fond of hearing himself talk of...well, himself, I suppose."
Cassian laughed good-heartedly.
"Come. We must talk. It has been long since we've conversed. How is the capital?"
Caim lived with Theron in Argentas. Both orphaned before reaching maturity, he and Cassian had been raised by the regent together, though when they'd come of age two hundred years ago, his cousin had been quick to return to his land in the south, as far from the authority of Theron as possible.
While Caim understood that impulse, he had too much ambition for returning to shadows. The keep he’d inherited to the west was quiet and irrelevant. He remained by Theron's side, serving him in all things. In the last two centuries, Caim had made himself indispensable, his eyes fixed on the ultimate prize.
His uncle preferred the company of men to that of women, which meant he wouldn’t father a natural child. He wouldn't live forever; the old goat was on his twelve hundredth birthday, and the lord sitting on the regent's chair seldom saw a new moon without having to spit out poison or avoid the sharp angle of a blade. Caim may be Theron's successor after the lord of Silver passed into legend. He was the best choice. The only logical choice. He had to believe he would be named heir.
And then, things would change in the circle.
Things would change in all of Sidhe.
Cassian led him to the closest banquet table and filled his horn with thick purple wine, while eloquently blathering on about his domain, his flowers, his lakes, and his women.
Caim smiled and pretended to laugh when he was obliged to in order to appear civil. Cassian was an idiot, yet his company was still preferable to anyone else's here.
Caim's eyes fell on a familiar man. He'd arrived fashionably late, to ensure he was noticed by all. Golden hair, pearl-white skin, and eyes the color of the setting sun—Lyr was still as charming and magnetic as ever. To those dumb enough to be enraptured by him. One of the nephews of Echterion Gaios, lord of the Iron Circle, he was Caim’s equal in station. Caim was known as an advisor, Lyr, as a warrior. Both were ruthless to their foes, but only one of them had a reputation for being treacherous to his friends.
Caim stiffened.
The day of the tithe was uncommon for various reasons; one of them being that no lord was permitted to fight—drawing blood here would mean forfeiting their lives.
Watching the smug, wretched, deceitful bastard parade about always made Caim wonder if the punishment would be worth it, just to see that swine croak at his feet.
The lords of Sidhe were continually at war, outside of the day of the tithe. During the last open battle between Ironers and Silverfolks, Lyr had been the one who'd murdered Caim's family. Not only his father and mother—lethal generals. That, Caim would have understood, accepted. But Lyr had also claimed his sister's life, although at twenty-five, Nera had been little more than a youth. Caim shuddered as he thought of the horrors she must have lived through in the Iron Circle. Among the Aos Si, they were known to be the cruelest, the most twisted. She would not have been given a quick death.
"Ah. Yes. Our friend is as popular as always."
And he was. Women swooned as he blew them kisses, and men converged at his side, begging for attention.
Lyr attended each of Sidhe’s festivities, ordered that sweet wine flow down public fountains on summer days, held tournaments and entertainments every other week. He was seen as a man of the folk.
There was no king. There would be no king of Sidhe again. No one was foolish enough to pay the price attached to their crown. But if it had been up to the people, they would have chosen that prancing peacock out of love. Or they may have elect Caim to be high king of Sidhe, though if they did so, it would be out of fear.
Caim was Lyr's opposite in every way. Physically, for one. Caim had dark hair, a honey-gold complexion, and eyes cold as ice, marki
ng him as Silver to the core. But that wasn’t what they feared. Caim was Theron's first advisor, and his counsel more often than not was, “Burn the traitors. Skin them alive, publicly, so that they may serve as examples. When they deserve it, take everything they hold dear and force them to live with no hope.” He was merciless and had little patience for politics. Though he understood politics well enough, kissing babies had never been a priority for Caim. He was a true unseelie lord, unapologetic about his nature. The seelie like Lyr pretended they were something else, lying with every smile since they couldn't do it with their words.
It was no wonder that, when the octagonal table where their lords were talking exploded into a billion pieces, all eyes turned to Caim.
Although Lyr was the one who smiled.
Warnings in the Rain
Mel whistled happily as she stirred the questionably fragrant contents of the black lead cauldron simmering behind the counter of her store.
"Tell me this isn't another batch of liquid nightmare." The familiar voice came from right behind her.
Mel turned to find a short, curvy, bronze brunette who made up for her adorable curls and sweetheart face by wearing ripped jeans, a leather jacket, and Doc Martins.
"Once. I brewed liquid nightmare once, a year ago."
"And I still can't sleep without my nightlight," Julia said.
Mel decided not to point out that her best friend would have been just fine had she not decided to taste the merchandise.
"Who buys stuff like that, anyway?"
Mel shrugged. "Scorned wives, students who got bad grades, people who don't get a promotion. It's their business. As long as they pay me a hundred a flask, I’m happy."
Julia rolled her eyes. "Witches are so mercenary."
Mel could have said she wasn't a witch. Sometimes she longed to confide in someone—anyone—especially this lighthearted, friendly librarian who'd offered her friendship without asking questions. Still, some truths were pointless. Or dangerous.
In her case, both.
So, Mel let Julia believe she was just one of the many run-of-the-mill covenless witches in Paris.
Mel had opened her shop in the City of Light three years ago. She had one real passion, and one set of marketable skills—so she decided to sell both. Half of Mel's Cauldron was a bookstore, and the other half, a potion store.
Julia used to work in one of the big chains up the road, but she'd hated the impersonal rows of bestsellers from big names. After passing in front of Mel's, she came in and asked for a job. The rest was history.
It had been a long time since Mel had enjoyed companionship. She owed a lot to Julia.
Every member of her family had told her that she'd never make it outside of their clan, that she'd come running back before the year was through. Her kind could travel for a time, but they needed a home to return to, as well as a true sense of belonging. Over the first few weeks, and months, Mel had wondered if they'd been right. But then, Julia had bulldozed into her life, and now she called Paris home.
Mel ignored the fact that this arrangement was temporary. That soon, Julia would die. The girl was twenty-seven. She had, what? Sixty years?
While Mel was almost three hundred years old and might not die until the end of time. Unless someone killed her. Mel doubted anyone would even try.
"For your information, this isn't magic. It's lentil soup."
Julia wrinkled her nose. "All things considered, I'll take the nightmares."
Mel gave Julia her best glare. "I'm using the recipe this time. I followed every step. I'm certain it'll work."
"Melpomene, oh wise, beautiful, mysterious one, I love you. And I'll be booking us a table for after the book club. Fancy some Senegalese food? I heard of a little restaurant on Avenue Parmentier."
Mel didn't spare her an answer, concentrating on her soup. She was an expert potion artist—her mixtures were well known in the world of alchemists, sorcerers, witches, and mages alike. Eminent figures came to her for advice on complex magic brews. It was just soup. She could do this, dammit.
The shop, usually closed at seven, kept its door open on book club days. In walked Lucille, and then Amandine, Anais, and Sylvain, the lone man who attended their weekly paranormal romance book club.
The small group soon assembled around her cauldron, sniffing the air, leaning forward hesitantly. "What is that?"
"A potion, evidently, dummy," Anais said, rolling her eyes at Sylvain. "It couldn't possibly be food."
Sometimes, living in France—where most people could make soufflés, eggs Benedict, and Iles Flottante—sucked.
“It is food!” Mel replied, pouting.
She was determined to prove them all wrong this time. She scooped a bit of khaki-green lentil soup in her spoon and sniffed it. She could smell the marjoram, rosemary, oregano, and lavender, which was a good sign, right? She tried it.
Then she froze as the flavor hit her tongue. Why was it so grassy, grainy, and…green? It tasted green. And not in a good, smoothie kind of way. She’d overdone it on the herbs, especially the oregano, and she couldn’t, in fact, taste lentils.
Jesus. Not even a transfiguration spell would fix that.
What the hell? How did it taste like week-old road kill? Pauline, the one who'd posted the recipe on Marmiton, guaranteed a succulent result. Better than sex, she'd said.
Well, Pauline needed to invest in a new vibrator, stat.
"Dammit."
"Our table's at nine." Julia grinned, batting her long black lashes innocently.
Mel grimaced. "Just because you were right doesn't mean I forgive you. You should have faith in me. It's your duty as my friend."
"My duty is to make sure you don't poison yourself.” Her friend circled her shoulders with her arms and squeezed her close. “Just give up. The ingredients don't deserve to be treated like this."
Julia was just so straightforward it was almost rude. Mel usually loved it.
They moved from the potion side of the store to the reading nooks near the bookshelves and started to discuss their latest novel.
Not many books were ever translated into French, to Julia's endless frustration, so they'd taken to holding an English session on Tuesdays. The Thursday evening club, sticking to the native language, was far more popular, but Mel had to admit, she preferred Tuesdays. The intimate setting meant that they'd gotten to know each other.
They ran over, as they usually did, so Mel and Julia practically had to run to the eleventh arrondissement.
There was no sense in taking the metro at this time of night from Rue Beranger in the second to Avenue Parmentier in the eleventh. It was just a fifteen-minute walk, but when it started to rain, Mel wished they'd called a ride.
She didn't mind the rain. At all. It made her feel happy and warm deep inside, calling to a part of her soul nothing else could touch.
That was the problem.
"What's wrong with your eyes?" Julia asked, frowning.
Mel glanced at her friend, and pulled the hood of her jacket down over her eyes. She didn't need to ask what Julia was seeing.
Mel had brown eyes, so dark they almost seemed black.
Usually.
Not in the rain, though.
"Nothing." Thank goodness Mel had thought to wear her hood. At least Julia couldn't see her hair.
"I would have sworn…"
"It's probably just the streetlights." Each word hurt as it came out, because Mel hated to lie. Abhorred it.
But there was one thing she loathed more: putting humans in danger. Any human at all. They were so weak, breakable. Her clan saw it as their duty to see that no supernatural creatures threatened their already dreadfully short existences. If Julia knew what she was, what she truly was, and she got tangled up in her world? She’d end up suffering for it eventually.
Immortals couldn’t simply hurt each other so, instead, they hurt the easy prey around them. Like everyone who’d lived a few centuries, Mel had some enemies.
In the
rain, when she felt her immortal self stir beneath the surface, she remembered that Paris wasn't hers. As much as she loved it here, this city could never be a true home.
There was no place on Earth for a goddess.
The food was excellent, as usual; as well as being an irritatingly competent cook, Julia also had a knack for finding the best places to eat.
They were enjoying a glass of wine after their African fish stew and rice when Mel felt a shift in the air, then the hint of a familiar presence. Her gaze darted to the restaurant's window, and she stiffened.
She wasn't surprised, or even really annoyed. She'd expected a visit soon. Even back when she’d still been working for them, her clan used to check on her every decade or so. She knew that it was out of concern more than anything else. They cared. There was nothing wrong with the place she'd been raised or with her family. Most of them, anyway. The problem was that they'd tried to make her fit inside a specific mold she wasn't built for.
While they'd let her go, allowing her to make her own decisions, Mel knew they'd expected her to fail and promptly return to the path they wanted her on. As she’d failed to do so, it was natural that they’d reach out.
It took them four years to show up this time. If she was honest, she'd actually expected a visit way before today.
"Excuse me, I have to take a call." Lies, lies, lies. Mel’s jaw tightened. The words felt like curses on her tongue.
"Do you want my umbrella?" Her friend moved to retrieve it out of her bag.
Mel shook her head. "I'll be fine. It's barely raining anymore."
