by Bec McMaster
“And then what?” she demands bluntly. “You think he’ll just let you go? Father can’t afford to be merciful. He’s bred this little army of murderers and thieves. If he shows a weak flank—if he lets one of them get away—then the rest will start eyeing him like a pack of dogs. The only way to escape Father’s hold is to slit his throat and burn him to ashes. And you’re not a killer. Not at heart, you little fool. It’s always been your weakness.”
“It’s a good thing I know someone who is.”
There’s a moment of shock in her eyes, as if she’s never truly contemplated it before. “He’s better than I am.”
So, she’s weighed those risks too…. That’s interesting.
“I’ve been thinking about it…. What if we could get our souls back?” My breath catches because I’ve never dared put this into words. “I’m his best thief. You’re his best assassin. Together—”
She shoves to her feet and stalks away from the ledge, back into the shadows. “You can’t say that. Not out loud,” she hisses over her shoulder.
Because Father’s eyes and ears are everywhere.
“Think about it,” I call as I follow her.
“I am thinking about it.” She turns on me, her expression livid. “This is all his fault. I told you Keir’s dangerous. In more ways than one. You’re starting to think there’s hope for the two of you.”
“I’m fairly certain I’m about to betray him. I don’t think he’ll forgive me a second time.” My voice is steady, but I can’t help feeling my heart skip a beat.
I haven’t decided what I’m going to do.
I didn’t tell Keir about Soraya—or what my plans are today—only that I have things to set in place.
But I also can’t forget the way his voice caught on Arianna’s name.
If I give that horn to my father, then I’m effectively starting a war.
But I’ll make a decision once I have the horn in hand.
A good thief doesn’t look at her haul until she’s well away from danger…. And a good thief doesn’t dwell on the future when she’s right in the thick of the heist.
“You don’t understand, do you?” For once there’s almost a hint of sympathy in her dark eyes. “Those marks on your neck? That look in his eyes? You know what they say about the dragons? They were possessive, territorial bastards. If they saw something they wanted, then they’d take it.” Her voice softens. “I was there when he chose his bride, Zemira. He wants you. He’s chosen you. He’s not going to let you go now, betrayal or no betrayal. You woke the dragon. You captured his interest. And now you’re going to have to pay the consequences.”
The words send a little shiver down my spine.
“If that’s the worst thing I have to worry about today,” I tell her, “then I’ll take it. I can handle Keir, but right now, we have a wedding to ruin. You need to get dressed. Maybe you’ll thank me once this is all said and done.”
Our gazes clash.
Then Soraya snorts. “If we’re still alive, I’ll thank you. Until then, try not to get us both killed. Now go and get ready for the wedding.”
20
The entire amphitheater—where the ceremony is being held—is bedecked with blood lilies.
“Interesting choice,” Keir murmurs as he leads me beneath the arch and into the natural stone amphitheater. “Adds a certain… ambiance.”
“For a funeral.” I don’t know if that’s tempting fate or not, or whether Belladonna is making a pointed statement to me.
“The groom looks nervous.”
“I’d be nervous too if I was marrying Belladonna.”
Keir gestures me toward our seats, which are several rows back from the front of the natural grotto. But I can’t stop myself from examining the layout of the terrain.
Red leaves rain down softly from the blood oaks that surround the top of the grotto, as if they’re weeping. The floor is smooth, polished stone, and enormous limestone columns line the amphitheater, ensuring that those cavernous walls stay in place. The stone sarcophagi line the rooms, bedecked with flowers and candles as if to hide that they are, effectively, tombs for some of the lesser dragonkind that stepped into mortal flesh. This is a place of power, and I can feel it in the hush of the room.
“Relax,” Keir tells me, his fingertips resting in the center of my back.
Instantly, I still. My brain is racing at a hundred miles an hour, but I thought I’d managed to keep it off my face. The ability to consume such emotions and choke them down is what saw me through the first nineteen years of my life, until I finally graduated from the training camps.
If it’s showing….
Keir cuts me a sidelong look, and his hand slides over my hip and draws me into the curve of his waist. “That’s not relaxing.”
I force my shoulders to drop and ease out a slow breath as I rest against him. All the better to commune privately. “Forgive me if I’m running to a deadline,” I mutter. “You’re not the one with a curse entwined around your heart.”
“Nothing’s going to go wrong,” he reminds me, his lashes smothering those wicked, dragon eyes. “We have this entirely in hand. We just need to play our cards. ”
About this “we” business….
He still thinks we’re going to run with this illusion.
Keir can manipulate reality, and he is the Prince of Dreams. If anyone can make it look like Mistmark is dead….
“Glamor’s tricky,” I whisper into the curve of his neck. “If even a single fae in this room realizes that what is about to happen didn’t actually happen….”
“We only need to fool one of them. As long as the bride believes it—”
“The entire room needs to believe,” I whisper fiercely. “I can’t risk it.”
Keir looks into my eyes. I don’t know what he sees.
A lover. A liar.
A fool.
One who doesn’t dare wear her heart on her sleeve.
“We risk nothing,” he growls. The room goes silent, and I know he’s encased us in one of his little warded bubbles so that no one can hear us. Indeed, everyone around us seems frozen in some sort of tableaux. Even the leaves hover in the air, as if they hang suspended in time. “You know what I am, Mira. I don’t just create illusions, I breathe them into reality. I can change the very existence of the world around us. Belladonna will believe what I want her to believe. I can make it look like the Lord of Mistmark dies with but a flicker of my will. The entire gathering will believe it—”
“And you would bet my life upon your skills?”
“Yes.” Fury lights within his eyes. “I wish you would trust me.”
There it is. The crux of the matter. I don’t. I don’t entirely trust anyone. “But I—”
Everyone’s head turns as the bride appears. The ward evaporates, but silence falls over the guests, the entire room settling with a single hush. A stream of natural light falls over the entrance, highlighting Belladonna.
My breath catches.
She’s beautiful. Stunning. The red of her dress is cut to accentuate her waist, and the bodice caresses her full breasts, making more of them. The fae are rarely curvaceous, but Belladonna’s curves threaten to spill out of her dress.
A single split up the center of the skirts reveals creamy white legs, and the train of elegant red ruffles is almost ten feet long.
A girl could kill for a dress like that.
Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.
The Lord of Mistmark cuts a look toward his bride, the muscle in his jaw tightening imperceptibly. And then his lashes shield his eyes, but I know his attention is shifting to the side.
Toward the shadows that linger between the enormous columns that support the roof of the amphitheater. And the lean figure that stands there.
Falion.
His assassin.
Shit. Maybe Belladonna isn’t the only one who’s been plotting to stop this wedding in its tracks.
Stalking toward her betrothed, Belladonna
’s eyes find me in the crowd. Her eyebrow arches challengingly, as if to demand whether I’ve fulfilled my part of the assignment or not.
I roll my eyes. The second Mistmark left his rooms, I went through them. There was no sign of a map to the horn, but when I placed a piece of paper over his desk blotter and scribbled graphite over it, words showed through.
Mistmark has a letter tucked in his pocket revealing the whereabouts of the horn—presumably to give to Malechus the second the vows are said.
Except, I also know the contents of said letter.
And I’m going to get there first.
I just need a distraction.
The priestess steps forward wearing a gauzy white gown, roses bedecking her hair. “Goddess bless thee.”
“And thee,” intones the gathering.
“Who stands before Her Holiness today?” she calls.
There’s a long drawn-out moment before Mistmark clears his throat. “Alaric of the Summervein, Lord of Mistmark.”
She turns to the bride. “And thee?”
A clear voice rings through the grotto. “Belladonna of the Blood Lily, Lady of Mariangettes.”
The priestess settles into her usual spiel about the goddess’s blessing. Belladonna’s voice is quiet as she repeats the words she needs to say to make her pledge—too many people might recognize the slight changes of timbre in her voice.
Mistmark’s cool tone is almost a shock after her quiet words.
The priestess summons her page forward, and he presents a dagger on a plush velvet cushion. “By blood I bind thee,” she calls, taking the dagger and slicing a nick into the tip of Mistmark’s finger.
Holding his hand over a golden goblet, she forces three droplets of blood to mix with the elderberry wine within.
She repeats the gesture with the bride and then presses the cuts together, mingling their blood. A velvet ribbon binds their wrists together—if they remain bound until the following morning, it’s said their union will be blessed with bounty. To strike the cord early means drama and strife.
“Drink and Goddess bless,” she says, lifting the wine to Mistmark’s mouth and then the bride’s.
“Ready?” Keir murmurs.
“Wait,” I urge, tucking my arm through his elbow.
He’s giving me a look, as though he’s starting to suspect I’ve another plan up my sleeve. “Not until after the ceremony,” I caution.
Thick lashes shield his eyes from view. “Just what are you up to, Mira?”
“I don’t want to bring misfortune down upon this hall,” I whisper. It’s said the goddess watches each blessing, and to defy her will is to draw her attention. “Just a few moments more. Once it’s done, the goddess will turn her face away.”
“I didn’t know you were superstitious.”
“A good thief doesn’t invite bad luck.”
He nods, thank the goddess.
“By Blood, Ash, and Cord, I name thee bound before the goddess,” the priestess calls, dipping her thumb into a pot of ash, before she paints it between each of their eyes. “Goddess bless this union.”
Everyone leans forward in anticipation, because this is the moment we’ve all been waiting for. A single kiss to seal the ceremony.
The Lord of Mistmark steps toward his bride, his lips pressing together thinly as his face lowers toward hers. There’s no sign of distaste upon his face—Mistmark’s an expert at keeping his horses well in hand. I’ve met him several times this past week, and I still don’t know a cursed thing about him.
It’s the bride who hesitates, casting a slightly stricken look toward the crowd as if searching for a particular guest.
Come on. Come on.
Play the game. Do your part….
I squeeze my fingers into a fist even as the bride does the same.
Even as she tilts her painted red mouth toward her new husband’s.
Their lips meet.
It’s a breathless moment as all the guests shift, some of them leaning forward hungrily as if in search of a hint of discord, and some of them merely curious.
Instead, the bride slides her hand behind Mistmark’s neck, hauling his mouth against hers. Her hips tilt toward him, a hint of unexpected longing echoing in the curve of her spine.
Malechus allows a dangerous smile to stretch across his face.
But it’s Mistmark I didn’t account for.
The groom draws back sharply, touching his hands to his lips and staring at his bride’s face. Confusion draws his brows together.
My heart sinks through my chest like lead.
He knows.
And then he staggers to the side, going to one knee as if he’s a puppet with cut strings. The color drains from his face, his fingers bleeding red. The same red as the bride’s lipstick. The same red as the miroire flower, renowned for its ability to murder a fae within minutes.
Anger flashes over Mistmark’s expression as he grabs a fistful of the wedding gown. It’s too late. He doesn’t have the strength to fight, even as he knows what has happened.
The last thing he whispers is “Sora?”
Before he collapses on the dais at the bride’s feet.
21
Time to roll the dice.
Malechus is no longer smiling. The crowd gasps. And the bride looks ready to flee.
She can’t escape now. I still need her to play her part.
I move to Sift, even as someone screams, but Keir snatches my wrist, searching my gaze. “What did you do?”
I try and pry him free, but there’s no shifting him. “I took care of Belladonna’s threat.”
“You killed him?”
“I just need Belladonna to think I’ve killed him,” I whisper in his ear. “Let me go. I need to finish this. I need to fetch the horn.”
“You were supposed to wait for me. If they realize you’re gone—”
“They won’t. Because you’re going to summon an illusion of me,” I whisper. “Make it look real.”
He stares at me.
“Please.”
“And the questing beast?” he finally asks.
“I have a plan. Trust me.”
Keir’s lips thin, but he waves his finger.
A cloaked figure bumps into me and an elegant young woman steps between us, whipping back the hood of her cloak.
It’s… a little shocking to stare myself in the face. I have to assume no one can see the real me.
“Make sure I’m seen,” I tell him. “Make sure you’re seen.”
I can’t have him interrupting my plans, after all.
And then I take a step back into the shadows, even as Keir shoots me an absolutely furious look.
He’s going to make me pay once this is all said and done, but I have to finish what I started.
Distraction gets you dead. Put Keir out of your mind and focus.
I bury him so deep in my heart that those treacherous longings will never see the light of day again. And then I Sift toward the side of the amphitheater.
There’s a hooded figure in one of the side chambers, pacing the floor like a caged wolf. The second I enter, she stills, those malevolent green eyes locking upon me. “Well?”
“It’s done,” I tell Belladonna.
“He’s dead?” she demands.
I gesture over my shoulder to where Malechus and Falion are desperately trying to revive the Lord of Mistmark. “If you wait ten minutes, he will be. But I don’t think we have the time.”
“Just break the curse,” Anissa murmurs from where she’s slumped against the wall. “Let’s be done with this. Let’s be done with all of this. I just want to go home, Bella. No more murderous games. No more blackmail and curses. I want our life back. You, me, and our sunny pavilion by the lake.”
Eagerness leaps in my heart, but this isn’t the moment to reveal it.
Belladonna stares at me, before her gaze cuts to the side. She doesn’t say a thing, but I know—if she gets her way and Malechus dies—that she and Anissa won’t be re
turning to what sounds like their summer retreat. The Blood Lily is ambitious. I can’t forget the hunger in her eyes when I spoke of Malechus’s death. Without a crown prince the path to the throne is open, and maybe Belladonna’s tired of dancing to someone else’s tune.
But that’s their problem.
Not mine.
“Fine.” Belladonna yanks me toward her, wearing an exact replica of the bridal gown. I don’t know whether she’s wearing the illusion, or Soraya is. Both dresses look like they required several hundred hours of stitching each, which makes Soraya’s gifts of glamor impressive. I knew she was good, but I didn’t know she was this good.
Belladonna’s fingers curl into shadowy claws, and then she strikes at my chest.
I gasp as I feel them sinking within me.
My heart throbs in her grasp, but it’s the curse that drives me to my knees as she wraps her hand around it and wrenches it from my chest.
“I told you we didn’t have to be enemies,” Belladonna purrs as she curls her fingers around the wretched black tangle that writhes in her palm. It sinks into her skin and vanishes, and I can finally breathe again.
Yeah, well…. “That was before you tried to kill me.” Somehow I make it back to my feet. The curse is gone. Gone. I’m free of her entanglements.
There’s a strange look in her eyes. “Sometimes I react hastily when the people I love are threatened.”
“That’s her way of saying thank you,” Anissa murmurs as she captures her lover’s hand. There’s a relieved smile on her face. “And we do. We both thank you. Without you, there would be no hope for us.”
One look at Belladonna reveals the haughty cock of her brow. She’s not that grateful. Or maybe she just has difficulty conceding it.
“Long live true love,” I tell her, bending over and panting as I try to recover. “And you’re welcome. Now go. The pair of you need to play your parts.”
Drawing her hood over her gorgeous mahogany hair, Belladonna arches a brow. “Your friend’s glamor is ridiculously good.”
“It almost fooled me,” Anissa grumbles.
“Don’t tell her that.”
Belladonna smiles that little smirk I hate so much. “You do realize my dearest cousin is going to try and torture her?”