Cast in Faefire: An Urban Fantasy Romance (The Mage Craft Series Book 3)

by SM Reine

  Marion hesitated with a hand on the door. “Are you performing?”

  “Always,” Violet said softly. “Always.”

  Hours before the time of the gala arrived, the Onyx Queen finished transforming Niflheimr from the miserable site of tragedy into a shimmering mecca of pleasure. The holes in the palace had been repaired or concealed with flowers. Steel flowed among the vines, creating lattice upon which magical flora could bloom, filling every one of the dark ice hallways with blossoms that glowed from the inside.

  It wasn’t quite on the level of the magic that allowed a jungle to grow in Marion’s bedroom, but Violet hadn’t wanted to totally mask the natural beauty of the Winter Court. She’d wanted to augment it.

  Now the council was arriving to enjoy it all.

  Marion met the guests on the balcony where planeswalkers and sidhe brought the politicians in. She wore a single fur-lined cloak that wouldn’t make her look as susceptible to the cold as she felt.

  Underneath, Marion wore one of the many dresses that Luciana Sellabon had created for her. This one was red with nearly orange undertones—a color very much typical of the Autumn Court. It curved over her breasts and pinched at the waist, giving the illusion of longer legs. It was the dress of a princess waiting to become queen, like a rosebud hours from blooming.

  Konig matched her, she knew. He wore robes in the same shades of velvety red with leather leggings and boots that made him a foot taller than Marion. He looked like rock star royalty, young and sexy but traditional.

  He was elsewhere, though, leaving Marion to handle the greeting with none but a handful of the Raven Knights to guard her. They’d been dressed in tones of cold blue that matched Niflheimr, as Marion and Konig’s personal guards soon would.

  The sidhe were forced to tone down their magic for the sake of the arriving party members, many of who were mortal. Even without the distorting vibrancy of sidhe energy, though, all of Niflheimr and its inhabitants—especially the Raven Knights—were so resplendent that it made Marion’s eyes ache in their sockets.

  “Thank you for coming,” Marion said, shaking hands with Ruelle Myön, the High Priestess of the Allied Covens.

  “It’s my pleasure.” Ruelle’s hungry eyes drank in the staircase behind Marion. Covetous fantasies skimmed the surface of her mind. Ruelle hadn’t come to have her mind changed about the vote—she’d come to have sex with unseelie sidhe, and she couldn’t wait to dig in.

  Marion ordinarily made no attempts to read minds, but she reached into Ruelle’s to see what she’d already decided about the vote.

  Her heart skipped a beat to see that Ruelle would vote against Konig.

  Perhaps there was something to be done about that. Ruelle was singularly focused on sex with the sidhe, and it wasn’t like the sidhe were unwilling participants. Marion would ask Konig if they could bribe Ruelle with a member of their court.

  Marion shook hands and exchanged light kisses with Ruelle’s entourage. In addition to bringing her coven—all twelve of them—she’d brought a few heads of other covens. There was more than enough space to accommodate them. Most seemed as excited about the festivities as Ruelle.

  “Please see them escorted to their rooms,” she told one of the Knights. He bowed in acquiescence. Ruelle’s mind bubbled with glee.

  The ley lines shimmered. Adàn Pedregon from Los Cambiaformas Internacional appeared flanked by a pair of planeswalkers—men clad in enough leather that they passed for unseelie, though they lacked the symmetric beauty. They were likelier human witches, and bodyguards, judging by their deliberate movements.

  One at a time, others from his organization appeared. They were golden-eyed shifters decked out in French and Italian couture, including many designers that Marion recognized. They were her kind of people.

  She shook hands with each of them in turn as well. It was impossible to get a sense of their breeds, but when she lightly probed their minds, she sensed a lot of feathers and hooves. Most werewolves went to Rylie. Adàn was accompanied by other types of shifters.

  Marion greeted Adàn last with a kiss on each of his grizzled cheeks. “Thank you for coming. It’s an honor.”

  “The honor is mine,” he said with a thick Spanish accent. Polite as the words were, his tone was not. Nor was it hostile. It was…cautious.

  “I hope your journey was uneventful,” Marion said.

  “It was quiet enough,” Adàn said. “We are rested for events to come.”

  Instinct tugged at Marion. Rather than having the Knights take charge, she said, “Please, let me escort you to your room.”

  “Thank you,” he said, offering his arm to her.

  Marion and Adàn headed into the tower, trailed by his people. Adàn’s movements made it clear that he was a stag shifter—a hart—even when he was on two legs. He was slow, purposeful, graceful. He felt as solid as a stag under Marion’s hand, too. His arm hair was coarse on her fingers.

  “How are the gods doing?” Adàn asked.

  Marion had no clue. “They’re gods,” she said with a shrug.

  “Lie to me,” he said. “Tell me they writhe in a hell of their own making for what they did in Genesis.”

  Her stomach lurched. “I can tell you anything you want to hear. It won’t make it true.”

  “Then tell me you’ll punch them in the face next time you’re speaking.”

  He might have been joking—it was hard to tell. But the whole line of conversation made Marion deeply uncomfortable.

  Seth feared being outed as a god for good reason. Too many people had lost loved ones in Genesis—Adàn Pedregon among them, according to the file Marion had read about him. He’d lost all of his adult children, and at least two grandchildren.

  Most of those people would love to have a figure to lash out at. Few of them were quite as powerful as Adàn, though.

  Marion changed subjects as they moved downstairs. “Your party has been given rooms near the ballroom to ensure you have convenient access to the festivities. The rooms have been enchanted to prevent the noise from disturbing you, though.”

  “Forget the niceties. I have no interest in small talk.” He surprised her by speaking in French—the language that Marion had spoken with her mother as a child, and which she remained fluent in.

  “Very well,” she responded in kind. “I feel much the same.”

  “I know why the Onyx Queen has thrown this exclusive pre-party for the speakers. This is an attempt at coercing votes. I’m only attending because my men can use the respite. When it comes to the vote, I prefer to be civilized and negotiate openly.”

  “What do you want in exchange for your vote?” Marion asked.

  “I want a route through the Ethereal Levant,” Adàn said.

  He was one of the only speakers who had voted to give the Winter Court to angels at the summit, so the news was no surprise. Adàn and LCI inhabited Western Europe; opening a path through the preternatural no-man’s-land known as the Ethereal Levant would permit access to Africa.

  “A path sanctioned by angels wouldn’t do anything about the demons outside the EL and in the Sahara,” Marion said.

  “I haven’t asked you to do anything with the demons. I merely want the angels to give us free travel through their territory. Arrange it for me and you’ll have my vote.”

  “That can be done,” Marion said. “I’ll speak with Jibril. If he agrees, I’ll need you to speak on my behalf with your cohorts before the vote, too.”

  “Excellent. Then it’s settled.”

  The relief was overwhelming. Marion had a vote—one person on her side other than a reluctant Rylie Gresham. If LCI went her way, then the Allied Covens may follow, as well as the Oceania Witches. They were all on good terms.

  Optimistically, she could have as many as six votes, including herself and Konig.

  Her relief was short-lived. She approached the hallway with Adàn Pedregon’s assigned rooms and found Deirdre Tombs walking from the other direction. Everyone else had dresse
d up for the events, but Deirdre hadn’t bothered. She still wore her usual leather everything.

  Jolene Chang looked equally disinterested in the bacchanalian festivities to come. She smiled toothily when she saw Marion, exposing the needle-like fangs in her jaws.

  “Here you are, sir,” Marion said.

  “Thank you.” Adàn gave her a short bow and stepped into his rooms, accompanied by the planeswalkers.

  His door shut.

  Marion directed the rest of the people to their rooms, and they were soon gone, too. Deirdre and Jolene lingered until they were the last in the hallway. The silence between them was especially awkward with the music already thrumming from the ballroom, echoing through the halls and making the floor vibrate.

  It was surprising that the guards let Jolene Chang back into Niflheimr after her attempts to sneak off the last time. Violet must have approved her as a guest. She had more faith in the American Gaean Commission’s behavior than Marion did.

  “Are you looking for the party?” Marion asked. Internally, she wondered, Or looking to kill Rylie?

  “We’ve already been in the ballroom,” Jolene lisped around her fangs. “Nothing there for us.”

  “Wine, music, dinner, dancing…”

  “Nothing,” Deirdre said. “What’s Adàn want from you? How are you going to bribe him into siding with your cause?”

  Marion recoiled. “I’m not bribing anyone.”

  “Wine, music, dinner, dancing,” Jolene echoed.

  “Not bribery at all,” Deirdre agreed. She strode down the hall past Marion, heels clicking on the floor. “Come on, Jo. Let’s go to our room to rest. It’s going to be a very long couple of days.”

  13

  Of all of Violet’s outstanding work, the ballroom was the most impressive. She’d polished cog-work suspended from the lifted ceilings, caught between the rafters like insects in spider webs. Specks of light captured in frosted bubbles drifted in clusters so dense that they nearly looked like clouds, which even snowed actual soft snowflakes, oversized to show their unique shapes. She’d taken care that the snow evaporated before hitting the ground, just as she’d ensured the temperature was a comfortable eighteen degrees near the floor.

  It was especially impressive how Violet had managed to tone down the sidhe magic’s distortion to something palatable to visitors. The room swirled every time Marion turned her head, giving an aura of the surreal without being overwhelming.

  Of course, Violet was used to entertaining political guests in the sidhe courts. Bribing them, Deirdre might say.

  Konig was near the orchestra. The naked musicians were coiled around handcrafted instruments and the motions of their delicate fingers on the strings was a promise of how they would play their lovers later that night.

  “How are things going, princess?” Konig gave Marion a hand to help her mount the stairs to the stage.

  Marion felt too dressed around the orchestra. “Everyone’s here,” she said, handing him a flute of cordial. “So we have that going for us.”

  She’d greeted many of the factions personally, and she had seen most of the people who now filled the ballroom. Chances were good she’d met many of them before too. It looked like the hostile ice prison she was trying to make home was filled with strangers, though—all of whom were far too interested in looking at Marion. She was literally on a stage to be stared at.

  Why did it bother her so much? This was what she’d wanted. The attention. The recognition. The prestige.

  Marion felt queasy.

  With a shimmering chime, wind stirred around them, tossing Marion’s curls and flashing her calves under her skirt.

  The angel Jibril appeared among the fake clouds clinging to the rafters.

  He dropped to the stage beside them.

  “Speaker,” he said, bowing to Marion. Then he turned to Konig. “Your Highness.” Jibril was wearing a slim-cut black suit instead of his usual gray-toned robes. It didn’t have a tie or vest, as was modern fashion among humans, so he looked passably mortal.

  “Everyone’s supposed to come through the main entrance on the balcony,” Konig said, frowning. “You shouldn’t even be capable of jumping through other ley lines like that.”

  “No, I shouldn’t,” Jibril said.

  It was his way of quietly warning Marion that the wards were still growing weaker.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said.

  He gave another half-bow. “I wouldn’t miss the festivities.” Quieter, he added, “Have you been speaking with the other members of the council.”

  Konig swirled the cordial under his nose, inhaling deeply. “I had an interesting talk with the Australian witches. They seem inclined to support us.”

  “Same with Los Cambiaformas Internacional,” Marion said. “Adàn Pedregon wants a safe travel route through the Ethereal Levant before he’ll agree to vote for us, though. Jibril, do you think we can arrange that?”

  The angel folded his hands behind his back, gazing out over the crowd. Adàn and his shifters were along the wall where food was being served. Shapeshifting required enormous energy, so shifters were always eating.

  “I don’t see how that would benefit us,” Jibril said.

  “You’d have my good will,” Marion said.

  “You said I’d have that if I officiated your wedding, too. This is as far as our show of peace goes.” Jibril’s tone bordered on hostile.

  Marion felt Adàn’s vote slipping away from her. “There must be something we could do.”

  “Protection,” Jibril said. “Your mage craft is more advanced than anything we have at the College in Dilmun. You could give us the spells we need to close the door to the Nether Worlds that allow demons to attack our city.”

  “I could, if…” Marion bit the inside of her cheek. “My memory, you see. It’s still a problem.”

  “You’ll come to the College, though,” Jibril said. “You’ll try to help us piece together the mage craft.”

  “I can promise to try, but I can’t promise results.”

  “It would be enough. Agree to come to Dilmun and you’ll have Adàn Pedregon’s path through the Levant.”

  “Done,” Konig said without hesitation.

  Jibril didn’t often smile, so when he did, it was more than a little unsettling. “The appetizers look delicious. I’d like to get some before they’re all gone.” He bowed to them one more time before dropping gracefully off the edge of the stage, leaving nothing but a few downy feathers at Marion’s feet.

  “I can’t go to Dilmun,” Marion whispered to Konig. “The wards will fail the rest of the way if I keep leaving. I don’t know they’d survive even one more trip out of the Winter Court.”

  “But we are about to get married. Don’t worry, you pretty thing. I’ll take care of it all.” Konig lowered his lips to her throat, kissing her gently. He’d been more careful about such gestures of affection lately. Trying to respect Marion’s boundaries, she suspected. But now was the time to put on a good show—to look like a couple who deserved to marry, and whose titles no decent person would strip.

  Nori stepped into the center of the ballroom, drawing all eyes to her. “Your attention, please.” Her nervous voice was too small to project throughout the ballroom, but the knot of magic glittering at her throat took care of that. “Thank you all for joining us to celebrate the union between Marion Garin, the Voice of God, and Prince ErlKonig of the Autumn Court.”

  Everyone applauded politely, and Marion and Konig kissed again. Long enough to show affection, but not so long as to be indecent by non-sidhe standards.

  Even with her eyes closed, Marion could feel the weight of the Onyx Queen’s stare.

  If you can convince everyone that you and my son are a happy couple at the gala, you’ll be able to survive anything, Violet had said.

  And Marion had protested, We are a happy couple.

  Nori explained where the guests would be able to find the amenities. She encouraged people to ask for help from a
ny of the servants or even the Raven Knights, who ringed the ballroom.

  Then she said that Konig and Marion were going to initiate the festivities by leading a dance. Marion had expected this. She’d suggested it, in fact.

  “A dance?” Konig extended his hand toward her.

  Marion couldn’t hesitate to accept. This was her event—not Violet’s—and this was her kingdom and life at stake.

  She drained her flute of cordial and set it on a tray. Liquid courage. “It would be my pleasure.”

  Magical light shined on them in a shimmering veil as he led her onto the dance floor. The crowd parted like waves of an ocean to let them pass. Marion took inventory of the faces she knew as Konig guided her toward the center of the room.

  Violet was there, but her husband was not, as he had to attend to the matters of the Autumn Court.

  Adàn Pedregon and his planeswalkers were there.

  So were Deirdre Tombs and Jolene Chang.

  The face that surprised Marion the most was Rylie Gresham’s, all round and pale. The Alpha was wearing a simple golden sheath that wasn’t much fancier than her usual skirt suits. Marion had to admit that she looked lovely with her hair brushed out like that, and with delicate bangles on her wrist. It was easy to see why Seth would have fallen in love with her, plain as she was.

  Konig twirled Marion, breaking her attention from Rylie.

  There had been time for brief dancing lessons in the last few weeks, preparing for the reception that would follow the ceremony. Marion hadn’t really needed it. Her body remembered dancing the way it had remembered doing archery.

  She eased into ballroom-style dancing effortlessly, arms framing Konig’s, chin lifted.

  “Relax,” Konig said when he pulled her in an arc back against his chest again. They swayed together. “You look like you’re waiting for a funeral.”

  It took conscious effort to relax her features into a smile. “Do I?”