by J. C. Welker
At the left of the chair, Wulfram stood in fanged importance. Nero stood on the right, embracing the vase, his eyes shining like the blackest of diamonds.
“Maskh,” Anjeline hissed, her power aching against her bonds.
The Prince chuckled, gripping a staff inlayed with ivory and a small moon at its point. “Jinni who has the power to inform soothsayers and inspire prophets.” His voice was silken, as soft as his smile was hard. “Lovelier than you expressed, Nero.”
“As well, full of wishes.” The magician bowed, extending the vase in his hands to the prince. “I’ve gained plenty over the years and now bequeath her to you, Your Grace.”
“Bequeath?” The Prince plucked the vase in his pale hand. At the shift of power, Anjeline felt even sicker. “You mean at a levy, my second-in-command.”
Her insides twisted, realizing Nero’s scheme had come to fruition, his mission to sit at the right hand of the Court. To bring about revenge. “War will be enacted against you,” she said. “You know this.”
“Lady Danu will be more occupied with that maddening human.” The Prince’s gaze spared a glance to his right. “She caused quite a commotion. Should have expected as much from your own flesh.”
Nero bared his teeth in a grin. “Believe me, my daughter won’t be a problem.”
“See that she’s not.” The Prince waved a hand at the alpha.
Wulfram bowed. “The guard is on her scent, Your Grace.”
Panic engulfed Anjeline and her spirals flamed up her arms. “There are rules to wishes,” she said, as though they’d paused in the middle of a conversation. “Agree to my terms if you want them granted, Sithchean.” Her gaze shone a hint of threat.
The Prince sneered at having his name spoken in front of his Court. Sithchean’s eyes turned to the color of ice, two smoldering globes in a snowstorm. A savage beauty. The shadows around him bent to his will, and as he moved, they moved with him. “Wishmaker.” He crooned. “Your rules are known to me, no wishes for killing, no making alive the dead, no greater power than the Divine. What other term do you speak of?”
Nero lifted an eyebrow but remained silent. He didn’t speak that there weren’t any actual terms beside the three rules, or that Anjeline was, in fact, lying about it.
She squared her shoulders, assuming a stance of resolute power, and tracked Sithchean’s features carefully. He couldn’t know how desperate she was. “My term,” she said. “Permit the Fingersmith no foul harm, and you’ll reap all your desires.”
A noise parted Nero’s lips. “You still believe my daughter’s heart will free you?” He took conceited pleasure at her reluctance to answer. “Didn’t you learn your lesson? Again, you betray your own kind. What would Madrath say to your feelings for a human?”
What Anjeline wouldn’t give to obliterate the last remaining ounce of his soul. She understood his game. He had calculated everything on purpose, summoning Sinvad in the expectation he would inform Madrath of her newfound feelings. As if she’d committed a crime. “What do you know of feelings?”
“He will punish you.”
“Then let him.” Anjeline’s essence inflamed against her bonds. Everything she’d done had been to prove her worth, because she’d befriended a human thousands of years ago. Truth now, she would’ve done it all over. Because it all led her to another human. Rebel had managed to unchain her fears, and she wasn’t ready to let go of that, even if it meant sitting in the shadows alone from her Jinn. Even if it meant punishment. “You can force me to cast wishes, take my breath, take my hope, but may the Creator help if you touch her, because I will burn your world to ashes.”
Nero grinned and gave her a wink.
A gesture too familiar. And for a heartbeat, she saw Rebel within the features of his face. She couldn’t fathom him giving birth to such a gentle soul. She longed to rip out his heart for what he’d done to Rebel, to her life. In his hunger for vengeance, he’d forced a mother to abandon her child and turned a brave, miserable girl into a criminal to survive. Surely, if Rebel inherited anything from him, it came from the man he used to be before darkness prevailed.
“Enough,” the Prince said to Nero. “I’ll make do with her as I please.” He licked his lips. “Who cares of a little bandit? Your term is agreeable. Now—cast my wish.”
Anjeline suppressed a smile. She sensed the Prince’s desire—what any pompous devil would want—and she would give it to him. “Let me guess? An endless wealth of treasures?”
Sithchean nodded. “For a start.”
In a breath, she released her magic, and the wish took shape.
Fiery mist seeped from her lips, sucking up the shadows and expanding throughout the Court, touching every surface. As the smoke swept over the stone floor, delicate gemstones splintered up, now carpeting the ballroom, each carved from the brightest emerald. Winking lights cracked through the surface of the ceiling, studding it with countless diamonds. The leaves hanging from the blackened trees hardened until they became the greenest jade, the bark of the tree chipped away to reveal gold, and the branches drooped with apples now fashioned of rubies and sapphire plums.
Gasps and awes hailed once the mist faded.
As Sithchean plucked a bejeweled fruit, another ruby apple appeared in its place. At the endless treasure of gems, the Prince wouldn’t focus on what real consequence would befall him, nor had he noticed Nero slipping out of the Court.
There was nothing else Anjeline could do, till the consequences came to fruition. She spared a glance at Wulfram, snatching diamonds from a feyrie’s hand. His fresh face seemed even younger now. As it should. She merely must assemble her plans until her Rebel arrived.
Then I’m coming for you, Nero.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Miles and miles of tunnels lay out before Rebel. Twenty-six feet wide, lined by conduits of electric railway, turning the Metro underground into a narrow path of dark limestone. It had not been the usual tunnels she’d become accustomed to slipping through and then back up to the above world. This was the other kind of tunnels.
The kind one could get lost in and never come out.
She kept close to Piran as they edged along the wall, avoiding the electric lane. In the distance, a train shrieked and rattled, driving a ghost wind down the tunnel. She felt the faint hum of something in the air, now conscious of what it was. Magic. Lots of it. The Moon Court happened to exist beneath one of the busiest parts of the city’s Tube, thousands of feet below the surface of the Tower of London. How fitting. Gloomy, rank, and subterranean.
As nimble as a feline, she leaped down off a passage ledge into the gloom of another tunnel. Piran followed, keeping to the sidewalls. “Stay out of the light,” he said. “And don’t sweat, or the lycans will scent you.”
“Should I stop breathing?” Rebel was already sweating. Even amid the arctic gusts of air that ruffled her hood, her palms clammed up and her hair was plastered to her neck.
Though it had been mere weeks, the last time she was within the Underground felt like a lifetime ago. Horns blared and rats scurried between their feet, over black earth and other animal tracks. One rat paused, looked up at Rebel, squeaked, and continued. She wondered how close Anjeline was in these underlayers of earth. If she hoped she’d ever see Rebel again. Every inch of her insides felt like a ball of rage. She felt emptier than if Nero had ripped her heart out. She knew the wild ferocity of one lockpick was no match for her father.
Not without a wish.
The deeper they went, the more graffiti began to appear on the passage walls, symbols painted in red. The swirling marks were unlike any gang signs she’d ever seen, yet they seemed familiar. “How do you even know where you’re going?” she voiced.
Piran turned his head. “My father used to be a liaison between the Courts.”
“Until Nero—” Rebel caught herself.
His hand rose to his ear, tugging the point, before dropping to his side again. “My parents cartographed the tunnels for the Courts. Tau
ght me before I grew into my pinions. Years ago, my father was sent as a guide on a quest to hunt down Nero for the Bright Guard. They never returned.” A fall of silvery hair brushed against the smattering of freckles at his temple.
Rebel reached out and touched his shoulder, stopping his harried pace. “Now you’re my valiant guide, leading me through doom,” she said softly. His eyes lightened in the gloom and he chuckled, his countenance lifting and his leathery wings stretching through his jacket.
Still, she knew Piran wanted revenge for his father, for his friends who had fallen at the hand of the magician. Her father. The fact that Piran hadn’t directed any of his retaliation at her showed he was a trustworthy soul. There seemed to be an unspoken agreement between them. She had helped him from the Siren’s hold, and he would guide her to her doom.
A moment later, Piran said, “Think about forgiving your fox friend. After all, Jaxon was working to free me from the Siren’s enthrall.”
She squinted. “You’re saying that because he charmed you.”
Piran shrugged but grinned. “He may be consumed by his need to fix things.”
“Fix? Jax betrayed me.”
“You’ve never done something you’re less than proud of in order to survive?” he asked, making her pause. “No Sidhe would’ve risked being outcast by his people for helping human striplings off the street.”
Rebel wanted to respond but couldn’t. The club was Jaxon’s entire life, the reason he breathed and thieved. Knowing now what he was, not even human, she had to wonder at those words, at all the times he’d come to her aid, risking heists to pay for her pills. Wondered if she’d ever be able to forgive him for sinking a knife into her back.
They melted into the shadows of another tunnel, and an odor filled Rebel’s nose. She wrinkled her brow, wishing she had no sense of smell. But the stench grew stronger. “Phew. What is that?”
“We’re getting closer.” Piran beat his wings, diffusing the fetor.
It was an unusual odor she couldn’t place, beyond the mildew and grime of the train tunnel. Something organic filled her throat, making her want to gag. But it held a fragrant smell to it with an under scent of…hair. Though, not quite.
Rebel sniffed. “It smells like…” She paused mid-step as the stench smacked her in the face like a well-placed slap. Her eyes widened, now recognizing the landmarks when she’d escaped this place. “The lycanthrope’s den,” she rasped. “Tell me you’re not serious.”
Piran put a hand over her mouth to hush her. “The Night Guard protects the entrance to the Court. For us to enter, we must go through their den.”
Her pulse thundered into a panic and she removed his palm. “Did it not seem pertinent to tell me that?” she whispered harshly.
“You would’ve just sweated more.” He snickered and continued.
More graffiti appeared on the walls. Only these were thieves’ symbols she recognized. Noting to stay away. TURN BACK. They weren’t signs to mislead. They were warnings. One even indicated certain death. Rebel shivered, coming to an archway engraved with emblems. The vast passage was fashioned into a shape of a skull. Its eyes were the entrance.
The Night Guard’s lair.
Rebel hadn’t remembered the skull. Then again, she’d fled so fast from this place it had all been a blur. A ghostly film fizzed off the entrance and along the symbols engraved around it. As suspected, a magic ward. Letting inhabitants out and nothing in. Which explained how she escaped without harm. Feeling bold, she spared a glance down the passage where flagstone stairs led downward, chocked with rubbish that had attracted rats. A few scurried away as her foot inched forward, hitting what looked like chewed-up white flutes. Bones. The leftovers of once breathing things clattered down the stairs to their resting place at the bottom.
She swallowed. “Tell me those aren’t human bones.”
“Stray cats,” Piran replied. “Pigeons, rats, and the occasional vagabond. Wolves like their snacks.”
Her chest grew tighter. “Explain how we get inside without becoming bones.”
“Our own enchantment.” From the pouch hooked to Piran’s belt, he pulled out a pinch of sparkling black dust. He drizzled a handful atop her head.
The powdery tendrils snaked around her limbs, and Rebel’s ebony hair revived to crimson, her teeth sharpened, and an animal pelt appeared around her shoulders. A glance down at herself showed she had been glamoured into someone else’s body, yet it still felt like hers. It was entirely feminine. Though more well-endowed than her own.
Another pass of the dust and Piran’s body changed. Muscle swelled his chest and arms, his wings vanished, and he now towered over Rebel. A male version of herself. It was hardly a plan, being glamoured as the redheaded twins, Styria and Vandal, but it had to work.
“Creepy.” Rebel touched her fang. “How long will the glamour last?”
“Long enough for us to not be turned into wolf pie.” Piran raked his fingers through ginger locks. “And however tempted, remember, don’t eat a thing. Their food works different on people.”
“More different from yours?”
“You won’t enjoy what comes afterward.”
She reached into her satchel, pulled out a vial of elixir, popped the top, and took a long swig. Lady Danu’s special potion. To help relieve her heart spasms long enough to keep whatever magic was inside her at bay. Though with everything, there came a downside. It lasted for an hour or so, and then she would need another dose. Several vials of it were clinking within the bag slung around her back, along with the elemental spheres the Bright Guard had packed her with.
“Remind me again,” she said. “The Inferno globes blow things up?”
“Blue is for shocking. Red is for exploding.”
She nodded with a devilish grin. “Blue shocking. Red exploding.”
He snickered at her expression. “Don’t get trigger happy. The Prince is occupied with the solstice gathering, so we slip in, grab Anjeline’s vase, and slip out.”
The plan was simple: infiltrate the Court, and while Piran caused a distraction using the spheres, Rebel would liberate the vase, and Anjeline along with it. Then they would use the signal to alert the Bright Guard to retaliate.
It was a solid plan. A solid, lethal mission.
From his jacket, Piran withdrew a steel pen-like object. “You were able to pass these wards before because the wolves had dragged you in. This will get us through.” He touched the tip along the archway’s entrance, and as he drew a different sign, it began to glow, canceling out the protection symbol. “Ready?”
The potent excitement Rebel always felt before a heist rose in her chest. She breathed out a prayer and kissed her pendant. Once she took a step forward, she knew she was quite possibly crossing a final border of no return. No matter that her conscience screamed at her to turn around. It was a brave thing. And a stupid one for a human.
“Into the valley of death,” she said and entered the skull’s eye.
Chapter Forty
The moment Rebel crossed the threshold, she sensed magic ripple.
Passing through the invisible ward felt like stepping through a sticky cloud. But no alarm sounded. No lycanthropes appeared. As silent as moths, they slunk down the stairway, passing bones from dozens of not-so-lucky trespassers. With each step, descending into darkness, Rebel’s nerves tingled up her spine until they reached the bottom of the stairs where the passage curved into a chamber. The same lair she’d escaped from with Anjeline.
Now she was willingly entering it.
The drone of trains seemed so far away. A flicker of light came from the den. Like photographs, nightmarish memories rushed Rebel’s mind, and she wondered if they were about to stumble into a horde of sleeping beasts or something more bloody. Piran signaled for her to wait, peeked his head around the corner, then waved for her.
In another step, they were within the lair.
Rebel released a breath. To her relief, it was empty. No dozing half-human forms sleepi
ng on cushions, no cuddling pups. Still, that scent lingered. Into the velvet-lined chamber they crept. Her pulse twanged under her skin as she imagined the place filled with hairy figures, snapping muzzles, and glinting fangs.
“This way,” Piran said, stepping through the den leading to a hall.
“Where does this lead?” she asked.
“It dead-ends into the Court.” He inched his body along the wall.
Light flittered from the candles set into niches and dangling from the ceiling roots, like in a medieval cavern. Countless crimson doors lined the hallways, the architecture of the place digging deep into London’s earth, like cannibalized remains that had been melted together to create something resembling a court system underground. Rebel’s sixth sense probed the walls of its underbelly, wondering how far away Anjeline was. The journey through it was as if they were waking from a nightmare, struggling to understand where things fit.
The sound of footsteps drew near.
She snapped her hand to her satchel, trying to hide it, and held her breath. But the footfalls trailed off into a chamber. Piran gave a nod and they glided by the doorway, but not before Rebel caught sight of what occupied the chamber. Two men in shimmering red caps held down a doe-eyed boy with small wings. One of the men locked his arm around the boy’s neck, and with his other hand, produced an iron knife. As the man pressed it against the boy’s wing, it sizzled his skin before he sliced the wing.
Rage bubbled in Rebel’s stomach, but Piran yanked her forward, stumbling down the hall as the distant screams echoed. “They won’t kill him,” he whispered. “It’s what they do to those who don’t bow before the Prince.”
