by Elle Cross
She snorts. “We’re trusting the word of a foreign prince now, are we?”
“Azibat, what would you have me do?” I leap up in frustration. “Do you think I want to do this? But if anything Avan told me is true, we’re all in grave danger. I can’t just hide here with my head up my ass and hope it all goes away.”
“I know,” she sighs. “But I hate it.”
“Me too. But it’s happening, so the better prepared I am, the better my odds are. Tell me everything you know of the Mad Queen.”
Azibat taps her claws against the arm of the chair. “Well, she’s called that for a reason. Evidently she used to be human, if you can believe it. I didn’t think humans could survive here, but she seems to have managed it. Mostly.
“Anyway, the story is that Bramb sent some underling through the veils to kidnap her and bring her here, although nobody seems to know why he would do such an insane thing, much less how. Other than the fact that he was a bit mad in his own way, of course. Once he had her in his court, he married her. Made her queen consort, though I don’t think she ever had any sort of proper coronation. Most likely the court would have rebelled at having a fully vested human queen.”
“You said she was human. Is she still? How would that be possible?”
She shakes her head. “This all went down about a thousand years ago, so there’s no way. Even with the magic in Inara extending her lifespan, she wouldn’t have lasted this long. She must have been transformed, though I’ve never heard of any spell that could do that. Consequently, she seems to have some abilities that are...unique, I guess? Gifts that resulted from not being of this realm, I suppose. Beyond that, I don’t know what he did to her, other than torture her in every way he could: physically, mentally, emotionally, sexually...it’s no wonder she finally killed the bastard. If you ask me, good riddance.”
I frown, distaste washing through me. “I’m feeling less and less inclined to pay my respects to him.”
“Don’t blame you there. Anyway, a thousand years of torture wreaked havoc on her already-fragile state of mind. Drove her straight over the edge, hence the Mad Queen moniker. And who knows what her conversion from human to...whatever she is now...did to her. Not to mention that it all happened in a Dark court. I can’t imagine it made her more stable. From the things I’ve heard, I’d say the best way to describe her is ‘deviant.’ In pretty much every possible way.”
“Sweet stars, Azibat. This is a nightmare. I don’t want to go visit some bloodthirsty queen in order to say goodbye to a king I’m pleased is dead!”
“Then...don’t?” she suggests.
I roll my eyes. “It’s happening. I have to do this. But I’m not going in blind. It’s time to pack.”
I gather a coterie of ladies-in-waiting to assist me.
My handmaids make wardrobe suggestions and selections, packing travel garments and court attire, but I choose my own funeral gown. Made of diaphanous spider silk in the richest crimson, the bodice is snug and the skirts are graceful and delicate. The entire affair is capped with an elaborate collar crafted by the finest silversmiths and studded with glittering white jewels. It hugs my neck and shoulders and crisscrosses my décolletage, shimmering and sparkling. The pièce de résistance is a heavy, blue-black gemstone that rests against my sternum.
It’s a star stone, a rare gem of enormous magical potential. Its power can only be wielded by royal members of the Court of Stars. I’ve yet to unlock its full potential, but no one—not even Azibat or Lyser—knows this. As far as the entire court is concerned, I can wield immense magic with it if I choose.
Of course, the star stone is merely the appearance of a weapon. I’ll need more than that to visit a Dark court ruled by a lunatic. Opening my weapons chest, I select two slim stilettos made from indestructible astralerium. They’re delicate enough to hide up a sleeve or along a thigh, but deadly enough to draw blood with a mere scratch. In my jewel case, I pack two poison rings: one a lustrous ruby and the other a coruscating emerald. I slide a vial of poison into a specially crafted necklace and tuck that into the case as well. Those are the only physical weapons I can reasonably conceal on my person. Fortunately, I have inbuilt weapons unique to me. My royal blood provides enhanced immunity and my magic can cast a perfect glamour to disguise my features and emotions. And my physical appeal isn’t to be overlooked, either.
Plus I’ll have Lyser at my side and in my bed, deadly and wicked and devoted.
Chapter Four
Raze
I didn't expect fanfare upon leaving the oubliette, but the trail of bodies that lines the walkways surprises me.
Bramb wasn't a merciful king, but he was discreet.
I take note of the way the court has changed since I last walked these halls.
The ever-present shadows line the recesses of the wall like demure curtains. Good. People forget that the shadows listen when they hide amongst them to share their secrets. It's like whispering right into my ears. I know what these alcoves have concealed over the years. They are drenched in blood.
I watch the double-jointed legs of the pookas that serve as my guard as they lead me through the corridors. They are an interesting breed. Like most of this court, they are shapeshifters after a fashion, and can turn into a juggernaut of a beast if they need to. In their base form, though, they resemble a hardened warrior with long flowing hair. They have the gray hide of a rhinoceros, the double tusks of an elephant, and the hind legs of a horse.
Red eyes and red-tipped hair make them stand out. Redcap goblin blood, perhaps? How did that combination happen?
The Dark Courts welcome everyone, no matter the drop of fae blood.
Or lack of it, as can be seen with Acanthe.
There is beauty in the grotesque mixing of the bloodlines.
The court reflects its ruler, shaped in his or her image. The outgrowth of the macabre and unique is normal for Bramb's court. He found beauty in the one of a kind, with a special love for endlings. So much so, he often killed the rest of the species to ensure that what he acquired was in fact the last of its breed.
My rooms are part of the royal wing. "Does the queen know you're putting me so close to her rooms?" I ask.
The double-tusked pooka grunts. "She deemed it so, and so we obey."
"And what, you're here to make sure I'm a good little prisoner?"
I can't make out his features, mixed as they are between goblin and troll. But if I had to guess, I’d say he’s confused. "We are your assigned guards."
I stop walking, and they stop a beat later.
Guards? For me?
"And what exactly are you guarding me from?"
"We have our orders. You have yours."
The guard's features settle back into a careful, blank mask. I recognize that expression. Like he’s doing something that he doesn't want to do.
Almost like he feels sorry for me.
As one, they step and turn, a crisp unit. I close the door on them, shaking this feeling of dread that crawls on my skin.
I rake every inch of my skin as needles of hot water sluice over my body. My hair is overly long and I need to get rid of it. I leave the stone cave of the shower and find a razor, cutting all my hair off, shaving it down to the skin. Trapped in this human form, skin black, eyes blacker, I take stock of what I have to work with.
The chain around my neck settles against my chest. I try again to get the offending thing off of me, but the more I struggle against it, the tighter its magic suffocates me until I relax again. It is slight, but might as well be an anchor.
I stare at the mirror at the reflection I don't recognize. I test the limits of my magic, but all I can do is make my skin a little lighter than the black marble of the bathroom counter. I focus on changing my eyes; instead of glittering crystals, I concentrate until they look more like obsidian flecks surrounded by white. It’s something. Not much, but I still have some control over my own magic.
The bathroom was built as an extension of the bedroom,
like an oasis. A luxury that doesn't align with what I know of Bramb. Acanthe must be exerting her influence over the court already. There do seem to be more human comforts.
I tread naked from the bathroom back into the adjoining bedroom. The bleak, cavernous fireplace roars to life at my entrance. The sunken pool before it steams. It was mirror-still when I first arrived, yet now it ripples.
I’m very aware of my lack of weapons, but there’s plenty around that I can work with. Breaking the chair closest to me, I wrench a leg free. A few swings later, I have a feel for its weight and heft.
This will work.
Black spirals form on the water's surface, almost like searching tentacles, and then a creature emerges. A nix. I take it in bit by bit, the glamour dazzling my sight.
Gleaming white skin. Black-in-black eyes. Blood-red lips that reveal a mouthful of razor sharp teeth.
She smiles as she stands in waist-deep water.
Naked, I might add.
"Forgive me, Lord Raze. It seems that I lost my way."
Her soaking hair clings to her body in a mockery of modesty. The nix poses in a way that emphasizes her curves, showcasing her ripe, glistening assets to perfection in the flickering firelight.
I make sure I lock my gaze north of her neck. "What? Did ya take a wrong turn from the lake and end up in my bathtub?"
She shrugs her dainty shoulders. "Something like that. These waters can be so confusing." She emerges from the water fully to balance provocatively on the edge of the sunken pool. "I see I'm interrupting your evening, though. So, I can dry off and be on my way," she says gesturing to the towel. "Unless you prefer me...wet."
I would have to be dead and in another universe to miss that double entendre.
And I'm not dead. I'm very much alive, more's the pity. My body sure as hell knows it, too.
The nix's eyes light up, seeing my growing attention for her.
She might have the sultry body of a beautiful female, but I know that behind that veil of glamour is something else entirely. And that something else gets off on fucking its lovers to death.
I take slow steps toward the nix, keeping my gaze on her. Her sly smile curls upward. I can practically hear the anticipation thrumming within her. Her legs slowly part in sinuous invitation.
I trail a finger along her leg, touching it ever so slightly.
She tilts her head back in anticipation. "Show me what you want to do with me."
It is in that moment that she sees she hasn't ensnared me after all.
I grab her hair and she shrieks at me. Fingers curl into claws as she rakes at my wrist to get me to let her go.
I drag her toward the fireplace, and in a final heave, hurl her in there.
Sparks fly as water magic is engulfed in fire. In a blink, nothing of her remains except for a puff of black smoke.
Let’s see if she finds her way back to her lake now.
"There aren't many men who can turn down such a siren call," a voice sounds behind me.
I turn toward it. On the bed is a form that wasn't there a moment ago. Acanthe emerges from the shadows, silken robe cinched at her waist while the rest of the fabric cascades around her. "In fact, you are the first I know of in all these years to reject Nerys. Why? Was she not lovely enough for you?"
Her words are sharpened barbs, and if I'm not careful, she'll bleed me with them. “I didn't reject her. She offered me death, and I met her at her word.” I whip the towel over my shoulder. “Besides, it would be exceedingly stupid of me to indulge her while I wear your brand,” I say, pointing out my wrists. “What would that say about your power to control me? About your sovereignty?”
Not to mention, women are already fickle creatures. I don’t need to tempt Acanthe’s ire.
Her eyes rove my body as if she would mark every inch of my flesh. Her gaze settles on the necklace resting against my chest, and the sickly yellow pendant in particular. She wears its twin. I can almost feel the heat of her body through the charm. It’s a connection that beats against my heart.
The aura of that unseen something that invades Acanthe shivers over her body like a gossamer veil rippling in the breeze. Its presence makes my skin crawl.
Her robe slips off her shoulder, revealing pale skin and the top of a rounded breast. “Well done, Lord Raze. It seems you keep proving yourself more and more resourceful. Let's see just how useful you can be."
She snaps her fingers and my legs start moving of their own volition.
My body moves woodenly toward her. A manic glee lights up her face.
That's when I start to fight.
I slow my progress, but my legs keep moving closer to her.
"Please fight me. It makes it so much sweeter," she says.
Were those her words, or something she learned from Bramb?
I take it as a challenge and truly flex my will. She claims to have taken my body and soul, but let me retain control over my power. Let’s test that.
I dig my heels in, envisioning a shackle of thorns around my ankles. I smile when I don't move for a heartbeat. Second by second, I slow my progress toward her until I come to a complete stop. It takes nearly all my focus, but I still count it as victory.
"You would use the power of thorns against my will? After all that Bramb has done to you?"
I smirk. "Kind of hypocritical of you, don’t you think? You started wielding the power of thorns the same minute you pried that thorn scepter from Bramb’s cold fingers."
She laughs, full and throaty, and a newfound dread settles over me. She looks at me, shaking her head as if I were the naive young thing. "Oh, my dear Lord Raze. Who said that I use the power of thorns?"
In a blink, her expression shifts from laughing schoolgirl to furious rage. She lashes me with an unseen force that lands across my chest.
I hiss at the sensation. Blood seeps from the wound.
"Do you think Bramb's paltry parlor tricks can overcome this?" With each word, she slices through the air with her newfound power. Each one crisscrosses my torso.
"Seems to me that Bramb didn't have a problem with that for a number of years," I say.
My words stop her maddened fury. I need to stop running my mouth. Being alone in a cell seems to have dulled my sense of self-preservation.
"You. Dare?" she says. Fire roars in her eyes, and she drops so much power on me, I fall to my knees with a loud crack.
She whips me with power as I kneel, binding my arms to my sides. Time blurs, and all I feel is pain that wraps my mind in a haze. When she finally stops, she is breathing heavily, her hair is disheveled, and her robe has long since parted open.
She comes over, dips her finger into one of my many wounds, and puts it in her mouth. "Thrilling. We like this."
The presence inside of her enjoys this as much as she does. How much of her is present? I see glimpses of the girl she once was, but it’s the thing inside that seems to be getting off on sensations.
She grasps my head, nails digging into my scalp. Positions my face between her legs. Demands I pleasure her, and so I do, licking and sucking her sex.
She cries for more.
She binds me to the bed and forces my body to life, lowering her body on top of mine and riding me up and down. My lips fuse together at her will. She digs her nails into my flesh and drags down, her fingernails like claws, and I scream against my useless mouth.
My pain and muted rage spurs her on and she uses my body for hours, until at last she's spent.
As she prepares to leave, my bindings disappear. My power makes quick work of healing the damage that was done to me.
“That was fun. We shall do that again.”
I don’t sleep. The night claws at my consciousness. Magic and menace alike saturate the air as Acanthe’s influence grows within the Court of Thorns, breaking the bonds that still hold allegiance to Bramb.
It’s a slow process, but it will happen eventually. Once she is named sovereign, the entire court, including the land and peoples, will b
e hers to draw power from. Until then, challengers remain who can try to claim the power of the Thorn Scepter.
I feel too exposed, like assassins lurk in every corner.
How odd to crave the comfort of my cell. I whip myself out of bed—I feel like a sacrifice waiting for slaughter. Moving swiftly, I pile the blankets into the rough shape of a sleeping form and melt into the shadows, my chair-leg-turned-club my only weapon.
When morning breaks, I feel another presence enter my room. I leap onto the intruder, who is too small to do anything but curl into a ball and protect its neck. I clear the sleep from my eyes and see that the trespasser is a brownie, charged with tending my room. It gives me a wide, walleyed stare before its expression rounds in fear. The brownie’s walnut skin fades to white before it faints in my grasp.
The noise alerts the pooka guards assigned to me, and they burst in at the same time the brownie comes to and utters an ear-piercing scream before vanishing, leaving me holding a broom fit for a doll.
When the guards laugh, I unfurl my power and bring one to his knees. Pain lances in my head, and the chain around my neck grows heavy, dragging at me like an anchor. Doesn’t matter, my point has already been made. I let go and close the door in their faces. They aren’t laughing anymore.
I rub at my scalp, placing pressure on the new strain throbbing against my skull.
When I was first cast into the oubliette, I dreamed of the time I would be free. Sometimes, the thought of choking the life out of Bramb cheered me up. But knowing the reality of that outcome—that he’d have the power to tear my limbs off before I had the satisfaction of squeezing my hands together even a little bit—made the daydream less than palatable.
After a while, I just stopped dreaming. That was better. It hastened the forgetting process, and the more I was able to forget, the more the court forgot about me. It diminished my power to be so forgotten, but the very words that bound me in service to King Bramb also sustained me.
The instrument of my destruction kept me alive.
