Promise of Darkness (Dark Court Rising Book 1)

by Bec McMaster

  And to do that, I need him to think nothing is wrong.

  I force a smile and brush my fingers against the back of his hand, because two can play at this game. “Sweet dreams, Your Highness.”

  It’s become a private little jest between us, but now it’s a weapon.

  Thiago lifts my hand to his lips and purrs, “Trust me. They will be. Goodnight.”

  20

  I hurry along the hallway hours after I heard the prince seek his own bed, glancing over my shoulder. There are no guards in sight, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t eyes upon me.

  And the last thing I need is to be caught right now.

  I pause in front of the prince’s audience chambers, then slip a makeshift lockpick into the lock and flip the tumblers. It’s a skill I acquired when I was a youth with an insatiable appetite for reading. Sadly, I used it mostly to break into the locked section of the library.

  I’m inside before anyone has a chance to investigate.

  I need information to send back to my mother’s court to prove I’m right—that Angharad is the true threat.

  And I need to know whether I can truly trust the prince.

  My mother’s voice plays in my head. Why did the prince sweep me away to Valerian, where the barest remnant of his people linger? What doesn’t he want me to see? He clearly had business to attend to in Ceres—his frequent comings and goings attest to that—so why lock me away?

  What is he hiding?

  I circle the map table where his people sat. There’s nothing there. I rifle through the shelves. Books. Treatises. Scrolls I don’t have time to investigate. I need to find that letter and work out what Lysander was doing near Vervain. I shake a locked box. Something rattles. Not the letter, but it wouldn’t be locked away if it wasn’t important. Plucking a jeweled hair piece from my hair, I slip the pick inside the lock.

  From princess to thief.

  Perfect.

  It pops open with a click, and then a necklace spills into my hands. My breath catches. Thick, gorgeous diamonds circled by golden thorns. It looks like half the stars in the sky are woven into the gold mesh.

  The necklace is mine.

  "Where did you get this?" I whisper, barely daring to touch it. My grandmother gave it to me for my thirteenth birthday, and I wore it every day until—

  When did I lose it?

  I can't remember.

  And that ache in my temples starts to pulse.

  I lift the necklace with shaking hands, draping it around my throat. It fits perfectly, the weight of it so familiar my heart aches. Turning toward the window, I catch a glimpse of my reflection and swallow hard.

  Why in the name of the Old Ones does the Prince of Evernight have my necklace?

  Is my mother right?

  Is this all just some elaborate ruse to make me dance to his tune? When did he take it? Or did someone else close to me steal it?

  Rage bursts through me, and I clench the necklace in my fist. I need answers. And I need them now.

  I slam both hands against the doors leading to the prince’s chambers.

  They hit the walls with a bang, and the prince startles upright from the chair where he’d been examining the bandage wrapped around his chest. There’s a bowl full of bloody water on the table beside him, and it looks like he’s been cutting open his wounds to drain the iron poison from them.

  I don’t care.

  I saved the bastard’s life once.

  Now he owes me some answers.

  The prince straightens to his full height, arching a mocking brow as he reaches past me for his shirt. “I thought you were asleep.”

  “Clearly.”

  “Come to beard the wolf in his den, my love? You ought to tread carefully, you know. I might think you’re just trying to catch me naked. Again.” Thiago reaches up, brushing his knuckles against my lip, his gaze dropping to my mouth as if he’s dying to replace one touch with another. “You’ve already paid your part of the bargain today. Don’t tell me you’d forgotten.”

  “Kiss this,” I snap, thrusting my clenched fist toward him.

  It makes him snap his head back, which gives me enough opportunity to escape the jail of his body. I reel into the center of his chambers and then stop, realizing I’ve trapped myself.

  I’ve never been in his rooms before, and if I thought my bed looked sinful, then it has nothing on his. For one thing, it’s his bed, and I know those sheets have seen all his sins.

  Looking at the bed is no safer than looking at him.

  And it only makes me angrier.

  “Enough with the games.” My fist curls around the necklace, and I shove it in front of him. "Why do you have my necklace? My grandmother's necklace? Why were you keeping it in your audience chamber?"

  He pauses, then slowly resumes slipping his arms into the sleeves of his shirt. “I see. You’ve been digging around in places you shouldn’t have been.”

  “Oh, don’t make this about me. You stole my necklace.”

  “I didn’t steal it.” His lip curls in a half-snarl.

  “No?” I pace around him in a half-circle. “Then who did? One of your lackeys?”

  His mouth thins. Clear evidence he doesn’t intend to answer me.

  That does it. I cast about me and see his dagger, resting in its sheath. Lunging toward it, I unsheathe the steel with a rasp and turn to press it to his throat as he moves to grab me.

  Thiago freezes, his rugged chin tilting sharply as the vicious tip of the blade digs into his tanned skin.

  "You tell me what is going on. Right now."

  He visibly swallows, a stubborn glint lighting those wicked green eyes. “Or. There’s usually an ‘or’ in this case.”

  “Or,” I say, in an icy voice, “I’ll bury this blade up to the hilt.”

  He pushes closer, the blade drawing blood. It trickles down the smooth column of his throat, drawing my attention to the hard planes of his chest and those rippling tattoos that constantly shift. “You won’t do it.”

  “Don’t be so sure.”

  “If there’s anything I know, it’s this: You don’t have the spirit for murder. You’re not your mother. Despite everything she’s done to you, she’s never been able to tarnish your spirit.”

  “Stop speaking as if you know me!”

  “Stop acting as if I don’t.”

  I swallow. My back meets the edge of the windowsill, and the prince rests his knuckles on either side of my hips, trapping me there.

  “What are you going to do now?” he taunts. “Kill me? I’m sure your mother would relish the thought of my blood splashed all over the carpets.”

  It’s too close to the truth.

  “Considering your warlords would have my head, I think it unwise to pursue such a plan.”

  “They would never hurt you.” His voice turns rough. “They would never dare.”

  “It’s not as though you’d be there to stop them.”

  We stare at each other for long moments. And then I curse and drive the dagger into the wall.

  “That’s better,” he whispers.

  He’s between me and the exit, so I bolt for the doors leading to the chamber next to his.

  “Vi!” he yells, snatching at my wrist.

  It’s too late. I’m through the doors, staggering into a world of muted blues clearly lit by the moonlight streaming through the windows. There’s a bed, a massive chest, and a daybed by the windows with a scattering of books upon it.

  A female room, judging by the glimpse.

  It’s just a glance that undoes me, a swift flash of white catching the corner of my eye as I look for an escape.

  But I skid to a halt as if punched directly in the chest, my jaw dropping open as I stare up at the painting that resides over the bed.

  The woman in the painting is gowned in pure starlight as she breezes through a forest lit by night-blooming flowers, throwing a flirtatious glance over her shoulder at the man following her. Thick, dark hair ripples down her ba
ck, a circlet of golden thorns adorning her throat, and diamonds dripping into her cleavage.

  Me.

  It’s a painting of me.

  Wearing my starlit gown, my hair bedecked with flowers, and my grandmother’s necklace around my throat.

  “What mockery is this?” I can’t catch my breath. It can’t be real. It’s only been weeks since the night of Lammastide. Not even a master could finish such a massive, lifelike portrait in such a short amount of time.

  I spin toward the doors, wishing I’d kept the dagger. “What does this mean?”

  Limping forward, Thiago presses his good shoulder against the pair of wooden doors. He looks somewhat wary, but hints of frustration and resignation darken his brow. “I didn’t mean for you to find out so soon.”

  “Find out what?” The room is starting to spin, my breath coming swiftly. The ache in my temples increases as I glance at the painting again. “What is going on?”

  The bedchambers are directly beside his. It’s the position his wife—or mistress—should hold.

  He holds up his hands in a placating manner. “Vi, calm down.”

  Pain lances through my temples, and I gasp, clutching at my head. It hurts. It hurts so much. The room is spinning now, threatening to bring me to my knees.

  “Just breathe,” the prince whispers, sounding dangerously close. His shadow sweeps over me. “It will ease in a moment, Vi.”

  “What is going on?” I dart around the bed, desperate to escape now. “Don’t you dare lie to me. Tell me what you mean. Why is there a portrait of me in your wife’s bedchamber?”

  The muscle in his cheek jumps, and for a moment I see a hint of pure fury light through his eyes. Then it flickers and dies as he leans closer, his cruel face showing hints of frustration. “Because, my dearest, you are my wife.”

  21

  I can't have heard that correctly.

  I spin with a gasp, retreating against the door. "What did you say?"

  “You heard me.”

  Instantly, it feels like a crown of thorns suddenly tightens around my temples, driving those wicked spikes deep into my skull. A scream escapes me.

  I go to my knees, pressing my palm against my eye socket to try and still the pain. Mother of Night. Whiteness obliterates my vision, and I swear someone is driving a blade right through my skull. The world vanishes, leaving nothing but pain.

  Nothing but the throbbing drumbeat of “You’re my wife,” echoing in my ears.

  It lasts an age.

  And just when I think it might very well kill me, I feel the thorns start to dissipate, the pressure finally easing.

  Gradually I become aware of a warm body pressing against my side, and the flat of a palm skimming her back.

  “Breathe,” whispers the Prince of Evernight. “Just breathe, Vi. You’re through the worst of it.”

  I turn my face against his thigh, sucking in a shuddering breath. Every inch of me remains knotted tightly, but the pain is easing. The world around me begins to seep back into my vision, apart from the very centers, which remain white. Blood drips on the floor, and I feel it running hotly down my lip. My nose. My nose is bleeding.

  “What happened?”

  “The spell that binds your memory has a rather unpleasant sting when it’s shattered.” He tips my chin up with firm hands, examining my face. “It’s nearly killed you before.”

  It feels like it came close to killing me now.

  I can’t hold my head up. Everything hurts. Everything.

  My wife….

  I can’t even dwell on what that means, for the mere thought brings pain back upon me with a vengeance.

  “I’ve got you,” he says, sweeping me up into his arms.

  I can’t fight it.

  Instead, I turn my face into his shoulder and suck in a lungful of that familiar scent as he strides toward the door.

  It seems like eons before my head stops splitting.

  The prince offered water, but all I want to do is vomit it back up. Finally, once my stomach stops threatening to rebel, I manage to push myself up onto my elbows.

  I’m on the bed in his—my—bedchamber. Dried blood crusts on my lip. My nose stopped bleeding ten minutes ago, and the bloodied remnants of his shirt on the bedside table show how much I’ve lost.

  Thiago leans on the fireplace, staring into the flames. There’s no sign of the charismatic prince who greeted me at the Lammastide bonfires. Shadows carve harsh lines into his face, and his eyes are dark and brooding. It should scare me, but I can’t fight the dull ache of familiarity every time I look at him, and now I know why.

  Husband.

  He’s my husband.

  I press my hands to my temples, but the answering ache feels like the dull aftermath of a migraine, and not the excruciating torment of a knife to the brain anymore.

  It’s unthinkable. How can I even reconcile his words with the truth? I have no recollection of our marriage. No hint I’ve ever known him, beyond certain scents and words tugging at my mind like elusive will-o’-the-wisps.

  And the vague familiarity of his kiss.

  I must have made a sound, for Thiago looks around sharply.

  “You’re awake.”

  “And alive.” Somehow, I manage a hint of a smile. “Barely.”

  His face darkens. “Don’t joke about that, please. The first time the spell shattered, you nearly died in my arms.”

  “Spell.” Of course, it was a spell. I’ve had a taste of the remnants of a shattered spell turning back on me before, and it felt like it had burned my bones from the inside. This was worse. A thousand times worse. I was certain my brain was dribbling out my ears at one stage. No wonder my nose is still sluggishly bleeding. “I don’t understand. Who cast the spell? What does it do? How…. You and I…?” I draw my knees up to my chest. "Why didn't you tell me?"

  I steal another glance at the painting. At the way that possessive hand curls toward me in the painting. A ghostly echo of that touch whispers over the same skin, and a sudden flash of Thiago's firm lips darting down to press against mine steals through my mind.

  I gasp, and the memory shatters, chased away by a surge of pain.

  "Because somehow, she makes you forget, and to remind you only causes you pain. Physical pain." His face twists with anger. "I didn't want to hurt you. To scare you."

  "Scare me?"

  “You’ve run from me before.”

  And it hurt him. I can see it all over his face.

  “How did we even meet? When did we meet? I don’t remember any of it.”

  “You never do.”

  My heart starts to kick harder, and I can feel panic blurring the edges of the room.

  “I’ll start at the beginning.” He looks up from the fireplace, all hard edges. “My people have a custom. When we are twenty-five, we go through a rite of passage into adulthood, where, if Maia favors you, she will give you a glimpse of your future mate. The first time I saw your face was in the waters of Maia’s temple, and I vowed then and there that I would find you. One day. Though it was another six hundred years before I first caught a glimpse of you in the flesh.

  “I’ve spent centuries fighting your mother over Mistmere, and the night the Seelie and Unseelie kingdoms drew together to forge a pact was the first time I laid eyes upon you. You were dancing by the fires, radiant in midnight silk with your hair flowing down your back. I couldn’t breathe. I’d spent hundreds of years searching for you, and there you were. Right in front of me.” He takes a step toward me, pausing when I inch back. “I had to have you. I had to know you. And the world was overflowing with celebration. We were both half-drunk on elderberry wine and victory. And we danced, and we kissed, and when the moon hovered on the edge of the horizon, I laid you down in the heather and made love to you.

  “It wasn’t until the sun rose that I caught a glimpse of what I’d missed all along. I was tracing my fingers down your back, and there, right along the curve of your spine was a tattoo. All those roses and
thorns, interwoven with the Asturian crest. You weren’t just from Adaia’s court. You were from her loins.” His head lowers. “The woman I’d spent an eternity searching for was my enemy’s daughter.”

  It sounds like a lovely fairy tale.

  And I have absolutely no recollection of any of it.

  “I couldn’t just let you go. You were my gift from the goddess, and one doesn’t simply walk away from that, no matter how difficult the path ahead might be. I tried to make peace with your mother, but she would have none of it. And you were… determined to defy her. We were married on the third and final night of the rites,” he tells me. “We both thought Adaia would have to accept the marriage once it was done, and the alliance witnessed it.”

  I know my mother too well—or at least, I do now.

  “She would never accept such a betrayal.” Not from one of her daughters. She’d have done everything she could to tear us apart.

  “She didn’t. But she couldn’t defy a marriage that was witnessed by the gods themselves. She offered me a choice. I could have you for three months before I must return you to her, or there would be war. The Seelie accords would be broken, and I would be forced to take you by force. And worse, the Queen of Nightmares sided with her. The alliance was threatening to fracture down the center. Kyrian stood by my side, and Lucidia refused to take part. It would have thrown the entire alliance into chaos.

  “So, I accepted her deal. Three months with you every time we finalize the accords. And then I must return you to your mother.”

  The treaty she’d spoken of all along had not been made to prevent war. It had been made to prevent him from having me.

  “I thought she accepted the deal with too much grace,” he says. “I should have known she would find a way to revenge herself upon both of us. When you were finally returned to me, you looked at me as though I was a stranger. You had no memory of us. I tried to tell you the truth, and the spell she’d cast nearly broke your mind. You came close to dying, and when you woke, you ran from me. I had to lock you away. It took me months to earn your trust. You kissed me only once before I was forced to return you, and the next time you came, I did not dare tell you the truth. Not at the risk of losing you to the backlash of the spell. I had to wait until I could see you again. And I had to be patient with you when I did. I had to earn your trust before I could tell you the truth. Given time, memories start to leak through. The spell weakens with each memory gained. Eventually, it’s safe to tell you.”