“Take that one,” Corby shouted, pointing her way. “Bring her to me so I can settle our score.”
A handful of Shades turned her way. These weren’t the short, bearded creatures she’d met before. These were tall, whip-thin, and wearing hoods that covered their faces. She crouched, calculating which to take first, and which one was likely to end her life. With a flick of her gaze, she mapped where every one of her allies stood. They were all fighting enemies of their own. Corby had her isolated.
As one, the Shades surged. Alana danced—her kind of dancing now—evading and thrusting, using every one of Henry’s tricks for fighting multiple opponents. One went down, then two. Her feet caught in her long skirts, but she kicked them free. She’d already lost her flimsy shoes. Whirling to swipe at her third attacker, she unexpectedly went down, losing her knife. She struggled to get up, but her limbs were trapped. It was only when she tried to roll over that she realized she was tangled in a net.
Alana struggled, wriggling her fingers through the mesh to reach her knife, but the trap snugged tighter. She cursed, realizing it was enchanted. Every time she moved, it shrank.
Someone grabbed her feet, then began dragging her Corby’s way.
“Alana,” Ronan cried, pushing through the mob.
She twisted and squirmed, but had to give up when the net threatened to choke her. Alana could just see Ronan’s face. She could see Corby’s, too, and read the delight there. She’d shot him, and now he’d get his vengeance. Okay, so he was happy about that—but with Ronan crashing toward him, why wasn’t he afraid?
The answer came immediately. A Shade slipped into the room carrying something bright. The lamp! A cry of rage and horror escaped Alana. There it was, the ballroom’s candlelight softly brushing its golden sides. She’d hidden it so well not even the castle’s servants had found it, yet Corby’s men—no doubt aided by his ability to sniff out magical objects—had located it within minutes.
Ronan reached the front of the milling crowd, ready to rescue Alana. Corby was only a dozen steps away, taking the lamp from his minion. The moment he touched the dragon-embossed sides, Ronan turned to stone, all color draining from his cheeks.
With both hands, Corby held up his prize so that all could see. There was chaos and fighting all around, but that didn’t deter him. He had the audience he wanted—Ronan, King Vass, and a handful of officers. Next to them, Laren held Fliss in his arms.
“Behold,” Corby shouted. His smile split into a gloating grin that made Alana writhe with fury. “Here is the truth about your reclaimed prince. He is not worthy to call himself heir to your crown. He was conquered long ago—bound to the confines of this lamp—which is where he shall return!”
An enraged bellow shook the castle, followed by cries of disbelief. Confusion flew through the room like wildfire, causing one fight after another to break apart. From her place on the floor, Alana could see many of the invaders lying dead. Even without wings or fire, the dragons had been winning. Now the remaining Shades used Corby’s distraction to make their retreat. The fight had been an effective cover for their real objective—theft—and now they were done.
Alana didn’t have much time to escape. She found Ronan’s gaze and silently pleaded for aid, but there was only devastation in his eyes. He couldn’t help her. Now that someone else had possession of the lamp, she was no longer his master.
A heartbeat later, he dissolved into mist, swirling into the spout of the lamp. One by one, the dragons fell still, their expressions stunned by what they witnessed. King Vass surged forward, Fliss on his heels with her eyes a murderous gold.
But Corby was too quick. With a cackle, he tucked the lamp under his arm and snatched up the net that bound Alana tight. Quick as a bird, he hopped through the Shimmer, dragging her behind him. The last she saw of the Wheel was Fliss and the king, their faces white with agony.
Alana woke slowly, her mind groping through fog. Cold, dank air clung to her like sticky fingers. When she cracked her eyes open, she could see little but a murky pool of light. Where was she?
After a few tries, she convinced her hand to move and explore. The floor was concrete, but she was lying on a vinyl mat that smelled of sweat and mildew. A wave of revulsion swept through her, and she pushed herself upright. Her head swam, but she realized the net that had bound her was gone. That was positive, at least.
She wasn’t alone. Barleycorn sat on a bench with his back to the wall, regarding her as if she were an interesting experiment. “How do you feel?”
Alana drew her knees up, curling into herself for warmth. She was still wearing the flimsy gown, torn and filthy from the fight. “How do you think?” she shot back.
“Are you injured?”
That was a good question, so she checked herself. “No, but something knocked me out.”
“That was a spell. Nasty, but there should be no lasting effects.”
She glanced around the room, realizing she knew the place. “This is one of the cells beneath the arena.” Every so often, a fae prisoner took part in the fights as a means to shorten their sentence.
“Correct.”
Her gaze flew to Barleycorn as the reality of her situation hit home. She was tingling from head to foot, her pulse pounding with shock. The fog that had cushioned her thoughts ripped away, and she recalled everything—the battle, her capture, and the wild despair in Ronan’s eyes. “Why am I here?”
He gave a slow nod, as if he’d expected the question. “There was a compromise. Corby simply wanted you dead, publicly and with as much indignity as possible. Martigen, on the other hand, wanted the money a spectacular grudge match would bring.”
“Martigen is dead.”
“I’m referring to Tyrell.”
She sucked in a breath. So Tyrell had thrown her to the wolves as well. She had crap luck in bosses. “I’m to fight?”
“Tomorrow night. You against the Slash. As I said, a grudge match.” He paused, actually appearing uncomfortable. “To the final blood.”
She swore long and hard. The two cats had mauled her after Tina was down. Her muscles tensed, bracing against remembered pain. “So Corby gets his way, too.”
Barleycorn’s expression remained carefully controlled. “Why didn’t you tell me about the lamp?”
“Why would I?” She glared. “I have no reason to trust you.”
“I found you employment.”
“With the guy who is planning my public execution.”
“Fair enough. Any work experience can be unpleasant, but retail is often the worst.” Barleycorn crossed his legs. “Do you even understand the nature of the lamp?”
“I know Ronan.”
“Not the same thing. How many wishes have you used?”
“Two.”
For the first time since she’d met him, Barleycorn looked worried. “You’ll find it difficult to resist the third.”
“I’m not Ronan’s master anymore. Corby took the lamp.”
“You may have no power over the genie’s actions in general, but you can still claim that third wish. In fact, the magic of the lamp will do its best to tempt you.”
“But don’t give in,” Alana said. “I know the drill.”
“If you do, I guarantee you’ll sell your soul to Blacktongue to get a fourth wish, or a fifth.”
“Blacktongue?” She remembered the hideous face in the mirror.
“Who do you think made the lamp and trapped Ronan inside?”
Alana stared at Barleycorn. “What are you saying?”
“Three wishes is never enough. That’s how it works. That’s how he bends men like Martigen and Corby to his will. They may not have had possession of the lamp, but they will have faced similar temptations.”
“But Harin’s a water fae, not a Shade.”
“As with Corby, there’s not much fae in him now. Eventually, the Shades’ corruption takes a toll.”
That ghastly face drifted through her mind. “Why do they want the lamp? Can’t Harin grant his own wishes
?”
“Perhaps, but Ronan has a dragon’s strength. Harin can harness that energy. Also, the lamp appears innocent, and turns up in places Harin could never go. He catches far more victims that way.”
“Ronan said the lamp was a weapon.” Now she understood.
“Did he?” Barleycorn raised a brow. “Few genii have the strength to say anything about their prison.”
“But…” She hugged herself, her mind skating as if it had lost traction. “I never thought Ronan would hurt me!”
Barleycorn shook his head. “He’s bound to encourage you to make wishes, whether he wants to or not.”
“He did at first.” She licked her lips, realizing she was parched. “Then not so much. Not after we grew… close.”
Barleycorn’s brows had gathered into a frown. “It sounds as if he tried to spare you. Take comfort in that.”
She heard the “but” in his words, and waited.
Barleycorn made a slicing gesture with his hand. “You can’t trust him, and you can’t trust yourself. If you ever were incorruptible, you aren’t now. Do not make any more wishes!”
You can’t trust him. The words were acid in her mind. “Why do you care? What’s your involvement in this?”
“I don’t fancy being ruled by Shades. I put you in that bookstore to keep an eye on Corby.”
“You knew he was up to something?”
“I knew Blacktongue had agents searching for the lamp. And I suspected Corby’s collectibles business was engaged in an effort to find it again.”
Alana’s hurt was giving way to outrage. “So you stuck me in the middle of the war zone?”
“Certainly. You were one of the few people who could look after yourself if something went awry. Plus, I thought you would be grateful enough to tell me what you observed.”
“You assumed too much.”
His mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Apparently. I knew I’d made a mistake the moment I saw you on a flying carpet. You fell in love with him. That wasn’t part of my plan.”
Alana looked away. That wasn’t a topic for discussion, not with this man. “Why did you come here?”
They were both silent until Barleycorn cleared his throat. “The danger of the third wish. You needed to know. There isn’t much I can do now that Corby is playing lord of the manor, but I could buy my way in here and tell you that much.”
Alana supposed she should be grateful, but she was beyond emotion right then. “You bribed your way in?”
“Like I said, I’d rather not be ruled by Shades.”
She slumped, rubbing her face with her hands. Would things be better if she’d told Barleycorn about the lamp—or Tyrell—the day he’d come into the store? Regrets were useless now, and she wouldn’t trade the last few days with Ronan for anything. For that moment, they had been together and free.
“Thank you for telling me,” she finally said.
“I owed you that much.” Once he rose, he rapped to get out.
The lock rattled, and someone Alana couldn’t see opened the door. A guard, she supposed.
Barleycorn turned. “I’ll see to it that you get proper food and clothes.”
She got to her feet, every muscle stiff from lying on the floor. She met his blue-gold gaze, managing somehow not to flinch. “I’m going to die, aren’t I?”
His outward expression didn’t change, but there was a hint of challenge in his eyes. “Probably.”
16
“I don’t know, girl,” Tina said, holding up the costume that had just been delivered to their cramped dressing room. “Do pink rhinestones say I’m a bad-assed fae who’s going to stomp on your face?”
“Everyone knows you will stomp wherever you please.” Alana unfolded her own costume, which was identical but in blue. “Not even footie pajamas will change that.”
Tina held the bodysuit up, swiveling this way and that in front of the mirror. How she could see her image past the clutter of nail polish, glitter dust, and hair products was a mystery to Alana. “I know. We’re going all the way to the top, you and me. No one is going to change that.”
“That’s ‘cause you trash talk the best.”
“I scare them, don’t I?” Tina grinned. “But we back up every word with pure lightning, baby. Those kittens are going down.”
There was no reason to doubt it. This fight with the Slash would be tough, but everything was in their favor, down to the grandmas betting their bingo money. They were on top.
Still, there was a questioning note in Tina’s voice. “What is it?” Alana asked. “What’s wrong?”
Tina tossed the costume aside. It was for publicity photos, not for the fighting circle, where they’d be wearing proper leathers. “Once we go all the way, win the title, drink the champagne, then what?”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re not interesting anymore.”
“Huh?” Alana folded her arms. Things were never good when Tina got philosophical.
“You and me, right now, we’re doing our best to topple the champions. Once we’ve done that, we become the old guard some up-and-comers have to beat. The crowd, they love the shiny new young’uns. That’s why they want us now.” Tina slumped into her chair. That was as long a speech as she ever made.
Alana sat, then scooted her own chair to Tina’s side. She put a hand on her friend’s knee. “We’re not washed up yet, y’know.”
Tina laughed, a throaty, boisterous sound. “No, girl, not yet. But I want that champion’s bonus, so I can get the hell out. Maybe I’ll open a nice nail salon—make people pretty instead of messing them up for a living.”
The sound of a key in the cell door jerked Alana out of the past. She hadn’t had a visitor since Barleycorn’s appearance the day before. She almost welcomed the interruption, even though there was no one she wanted to see.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” Tyrell Martigen said. Although he was dressed in one of his costly suits, he looked haggard with fatigue.
She almost felt sorry for him until she recalled he was making money off her death. “Memories aren’t always the best company. What can I do for you?”
He shifted, looking everywhere until he finally brought his gaze to her. His hands bunched into fists. “I want to know how my father died.”
“Holding a knife to the throat of a princess.” There was no reason to soften the truth.
The skin around his eyes tightened. “He wasn’t always like that.”
Alana leaned her head against the wall. “I suppose not. None of us start out as killers.”
“Blacktongue promised things that made my father into someone I don’t—didn’t—recognize.”
“Then maybe your father died a long time ago.”
For a moment, she thought Tyrell was about to cry.
“Is Blacktongue the investor?” she asked.
He jerked his head up, eyes wide. “How do you know about Blacktongue?”
She shrugged. “Just curious.”
He didn’t answer. She supposed that was as good as a yes.
“There’s nothing more to say.” Tyrell blew out an exasperated breath.
She had a crazy impulse to laugh. “Maybe not.”
He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Any last requests?”
“Just one.”
His shoulders went tight, but he nodded.
“I want the page from the betting book for the night Tina died.”
“No.”
She hadn’t expected him to agree, but the refusal still rankled. “Did you order Tina’s death to get a bigger payout on the fight?”
He stared up at the ceiling, as if he stored his patience there. “I make money on fighting, but it’s the industry standard. My odds compilers balance the books, but that’s all.”
“You place your own bets. I saw the slips on your coffee table, remember?”
“Those weren’t in my name.”
“They were with your pocket change and lottery tickets. Whoever placed t
hose bets, you were personally interested in whether they won. That says all anyone needs to know.” She paused just long enough for him to glower. “So did you do it?”
He turned and pounded on the door, just as Barleycorn had done.
“I hope you didn’t come in search of forgiveness.” Alana crossed her legs. “Blacktongue corrupted your father. What’s your excuse?”
The door opened. He paused, turning hard eyes her way. “Would it help to know it was me?”
“I swore on her grave I would find out.” Alana sat forward, elbows on her knees. “I don’t like unfinished business.”
His jaw tightened, and she read the momentary panic in his eyes. She tried to savor it, since it was as close as she’d get to justice.
Tyrell left without another word.
Hours passed. Food came. She braided her hair in tight multiple rows, pinning it close to ensure it couldn’t be used as a handhold during the fight. Then her gear arrived. With a pang, she realized Henry must have kept it. It was cleaned and repaired, every stitch and buckle in top shape.
It was a kindness, but it wouldn’t be enough to save her. She’d faced these two fighters before. They were good, better than good, with a tiger’s instinct for blood. In an honest fight, she could take one of the pair. With Tina, they could have defeated both, but Tina wasn’t around anymore.
Alana pulled on her boots, checking every fastening to make sure they were secure. Habit, training, discipline—these were her friends now. She couldn’t afford a mistake if she wanted to survive more than a minute.
The duo had crushed her before without breaking a sweat. In a fight to the last blood, when she was marked for a spectacular and public death, she didn’t have a prayer. Even if she won—well, Corby and Tyrell would never let it happen.
Unless she used the third wish. Barleycorn had told her absolutely not to, but would Ronan really harm her that way?
Alana stood, shaking out her limbs to ensure her body armor sat right, but then sank down again and put her head in her hands. If Ronan could have saved her, he would have done it when Corby had her in the net. Ronan’s heart might be hers, but he was otherwise trapped.
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