The lines spread through her eyes. Down her neck, disappearing under her clothes.
Kaysar watched, his insides on fire.
She struggled less and less.
He curled his hands into fists.
The girl went limp, and Kaysar stopped breathing entirely.
With a simple twist of his wrists, Prince Lark casually ripped off her head. He laughed as blood spurted. Laughed as her body hit the ground, the diamond-studded collar tumbling a few feet away. The king and his son cheered.
Bile rose, singeing Kaysar’s throat. Prince Lark lifted the head as if it were a war prize. No, a child’s toy. He kicked it a good distance away, then flittered. An ability to teleport from one location to another. An ability Kaysar had yet to develop.
The other two royals followed the prince within seconds.
A hoarse bellow exploded from Kaysar then, the pixies taking flight. He sucked in a mouthful of air and fought to center his thoughts. Forget the atrocity he’d witnessed. Emotions could be dealt with later. With the right buyer, that diamond collar could provide a month’s worth of meals for his sister.
Kaysar performed a visual sweep. About twenty feet of wildflowers separated him and the collar, with no obvious rocks or stumps littering the path. Ignoring his trembling, he hooked the bow over his shoulder, and drew in a deep breath.
Go! He sprinted out of the tangle of branches. Halfway there...
Bending down and reaching out...
A hard arm coiled around his throat, yanking him against a harder body. Though he struggled, his captor twisted his arm behind his back, trapping him further.
“I thought I smelled someone in the shadows.” A husky chuckle fanned hot breath over his forehead. “So who do we have here, hmm?” Prince Lark smacked his lips against Kaysar’s cheek. “A naughty thief planning to steal Winter Court property?”
When the king and his son reappeared a few feet away, panic surged.
The king frowned. “We can’t have a witness spilling our secrets.”
“A shame to waste such a pretty face.” Prince Lark rubbed against Kaysar. “Give him to me. I’ll ensure he stays quiet.”
No, no, no. Left with no other recourse, Kaysar concentrated on his glamara. When his throat heated, he spoke. “You will release me.” Calm, steady. “You will walk away and forget me.”
The king paled, and the princes tensed. But none of the trio obeyed him. They exchanged glances instead.
“Did I detect a thread of compulsion?” King Hador raised his brows, as if impressed.
“I think you did.” Prince Lark expelled a breath, then ran the lobe of Kaysar’s ear between his teeth. “Don’t you know? To command a royal fae, your glamara must be stronger than his, no matter what ability you wield.”
Icy cold invaded Kaysar’s limbs.
“Let me kill him instead.” An evil grin lifted the corners of Prince Jareth’s mouth. “Like Uncle, I need practice.”
Smiling with a sick kind of glee, the king unsheathed a dagger. “Sorry, my boy, but I owe your uncle a treat. I’ll take no chances, however.”
Horror threatened to drown Kaysar. He erupted into motion, bucking, straining. The bigger male had no difficulty gripping his chin, prying open his mouth and aligning a blade against the side of his tongue. Once again, the princes laughed and laughed and laughed.
The king began to saw, removing his tongue. Searing pain, utter agony. Black spots flashed before Kaysar’s eyes. Blood clogged his airways. So dizzy. When his knees buckled, the prince let him go. He crashed into the ground, black dots weaving through his vision.
He tried to crawl away. Must return... Viori. But darkness swallowed him.
One year later
A CLINK-CLANK OF METAL. A high-pitched groan as unoiled hinges ground together. Then, a continuous thud of footsteps as Kaysar’s tormentor ascended an eternity-long but too short staircase.
A ragged inhalation stabbed his nostrils and cut his lungs. Heart banging like a hammer, he slinked back and pressed against the wall, where shadows engulfed him. Bare flesh met frigid stone, and he hissed, his chain rattling ever so slightly, adding a new note to the ominous melody.
Lark was back.
The prince could have flittered, appearing directly in the room, but he preferred to draw out his approach and build anticipation.
Kaysar darted his gaze, focusing on inane details. The sun had begun to fall. Muted beams of light streamed through the only window, illuminating the highest room in the highest tower of the Winterlands Palace, the crown jewel of the Winter Court. Here, Kaysar had some of the comforts he’d longed to give Viori. A built-in bed with a goose-down mattress. A freestanding tub and access to fresh water, a true luxury. But oh, how he despised this place.
He’d suffered every moment of his capture. Prince Lark and King Hador had abused him however they’d pleased, whenever they’d pleased, keeping Kaysar confined with the diamond-studded collar he’d once hoped to sell. A length of chain stretched between the collar and the wall, the links impenetrable. The royals fed him only enough to exist.
In the beginning, he’d felt like a trapped animal. He’d fought his circumstances with the full force of his might. When all the rage, hatred, guilt and shame had finally reached a tragic crescendo, his mind had...broken. In the aftermath, he’d discovered only the hatred remained.
Every minute of every day he seethed with the desire—the consuming need—to slaughter his enemies. The screams he would elicit. Oh, the screams. Then, his hunt for his beloved Viori could begin.
His chest constricted. Was she all right? Had someone found and helped her? Had someone harmed her? In his worst nightmares, he imagined her dying of thirst days after he’d abandoned her in those vines.
A tear escaped, sliding down his cheek.
Thump-thump. Kaysar stiffened as the prince’s footsteps drew closer. Today, he launched his escape. If he failed...
He couldn’t fail.
He wiped his damp brow with the back of his hand and hummed a soft melody. Vibrations raced along his tongue—a tongue now in the process of regrowing. Lark had no idea. But he would.
Kaysar smiled as he imagined blood pouring from the prince’s every orifice.
Another clink-clank of metal. Another serenade of hinges followed as the door swung open...and Lark appeared, consuming the space. Pale curls disheveled, pointy ears on display. Blue eyes glassy. He wore a wrinkled white tunic and leathers, a pair of daggers sheathed at his waist. The scent of sour wine and sweat tainted the air.
“I don’t think you’re going to like what I’ve planned today,” the prince said with a grin.
Hate him. Hate them all. Lark and Hador had taken so much from Kaysar. His sister. His freedom. His honor. His sanity. Even his future.
They take no more.
Laughing, always laughing, the prince stalked forward, removing and dropping his shirt along the way.
The hatred collected in Kaysar’s throat, singeing him. He shouted, “Stop.”
Lark...obeyed. The prince’s brow furrowed with confusion. He resisted the immobility—but he didn’t take another step.
Then. That moment. Kaysar tasted victory and only craved more.
“How?” Lark demanded, throwing the question at him.
How had Kaysar, who’d yet to freeze into his immortality, regrown a portion of his tongue? “I’ve been humming a healing song to myself.” He hadn’t used his voice in so long. The simple joy of it! “Now,” he said, rubbing his hands together, “I make you hurt.”
The prince recommenced his struggles, fighting with terrible ferocity. Too late. Kaysar locked his gaze with Lark’s, opened his mouth and screamed. Such a lovely sound. Beautiful and horrifying. Haunting and maddening. He’d screamed before, but never like this. Louder and louder, the cadence echoing. The tower shook, the air crackli
ng with more power than he’d known he possessed.
Blood poured from Lark’s ears, a glorious sight to behold. Kaysar’s thoughts fragmented and crystalized. Kill Lark. Escape. Kill everyone else. Find Viori.
Oh, the fun he’d have on his way out of the Winter Court.
Lark collapsed, writhing in agony. When he failed to gain relief, he blindly patted his waist until he clutched a dagger.
Kaysar’s scream broke as the prince stabbed himself in his ears.
Heaving his breaths, Kaysar prowled closer. Crimson poured from the prince’s every orifice, exactly as he’d imagined. His smile returned. What a marvelous beginning.
“Help.” Pale and shaking, the prince reached for him, reminding Kaysar of the servant girl who’d once reached for Lark. “H-help me.”
His pain and helplessness acted as a balm to Kaysar’s battered soul. “Yes, let me help you,” he whispered, dropping to his knees.
Relief emanated from Lark as Kaysar gently wiped blood from his pale eyes. Then the prince caught Kaysar’s gaze, and the relief morphed into fear.
Delicious.
As the male shook his head in negation, Kaysar claimed the dagger—and struck. Again and again and again. Every blow deluged him with joy, even the barest hint of satisfaction. Like the Frostlines, he laughed and laughed and laughed. Only when Lark’s head detached from his body did Kaysar’s laughter stop.
He frowned. The prince was dead, his life extinguished. But...Kaysar wasn’t finished killing him. He needed to kill Lark again. A mere handful of stabbings wasn’t nearly enough.
Nothing will ever be enough.
Dripping crimson and panting, Kaysar used the dagger to unhinge the collar. When the metal hit the floor, he remained in place. He was free. He should be overflowing with triumph. Instead, he wallowed in fury as the prince’s corpse taunted him. No life meant no misery.
Instead of suffering for eternity, one of Kaysar’s tormentors rested. How was this fair? Lark had tortured Kaysar for a year, only to die in a moment? Unacceptable.
Kaysar would leave the kingdom without making another kill, he decided. He would return to deal with King Hador and Prince Jareth only after he’d built his strength. Soon the entire Frostline family would experience the horrors they had liked to visit upon him. Kill them too soon? No.
It was a mistake Kaysar refused to make again.
CHAPTER ONE
Astaria, the Fae Realm
Midnight Court
“HOW DARE HE!” Kaysar the Unhinged One, King of the Midnight Court, banged his fist on the arm of his throne, an elaborate seat made from stalks of poisonvine. Bloodred flowers with sharp, jagged petals bloomed along the upper arch, perfuming the air with a sweet, intoxicating fragrance. “Something must be done.”
Prince Jareth of the Winterlands had lied to him. Kaysar despised liars. He despised the prince for a thousand other reasons, of course, but the lies... In his estimation, there was no worse crime.
He goes too far.
Another shout brewed. If you couldn’t own your evil, mayhap you shouldn’t commit the act.
With one metal-tipped hand, he braced to rise, ready to strike at Jareth this very moment. With the other metal-tipped hand, he gripped the poisonvine to keep himself seated. “Tell me again, word for word, changing nothing,” he commanded his seer. “Fill my ears with his crime once more.”
“Word for word?” Her tone said what she didn’t. Must I?
“You must.” Though she had mentioned her name once or three dozen times, he knew her only as Eye, a beauty he’d saved from goblins however long ago. Years? Eons? Time had lost all meaning to Kaysar, one day the same as any other. He awoke, thought of ways to punish his foes, and then punished his foes. His methods might vary, but his goal remained unchanged.
“Very well.” Evincing dread, Eye repeated, “I’m so sorry to tell you this, majesty, and please don’t shout, but Prince Jareth approaches your—” She cringed. “Border.”
“How dare he,” Kaysar exploded again.
His companion flinched. “Perhaps you should study your map,” she suggested as a mother to an upset child. “You wish to study your map, yes?”
His map. He tensed before he softened, melting into his throne. “Yes, I wish to study my map.” He plucked his fingers free of the poisonvine and traced his claws along his forearm, the way he used to do as a boy. He welcomed the sting, the drip of blood.
Over the centuries, he’d memorized the layout of Astaria and each of the five fae courts, yet the art of creating a map still calmed him. His sole remaining link to his sister. If he’d ever really had a sister? Sometimes he wondered if he’d imagined her. A figment of his imagination to keep him sane during the worst year of his existence. But deep down, he knew the truth.
He etched crimson lines into his skin, applying more pressure, cutting deeper and using torn flaps as markers. The latest stings barely registered as tension seeped from him.
“Majesty?”
The softly spoken question snagged his attention, and he snapped up his head. He narrowed his eyes and focused on the woman standing before him. Surrounded by onyx walls and torchlight, Eye wore an ivory gown, appearing as ethereal as a dream. A glorious mane of dark hair framed a delicate face, her skin a shade lighter than her rich brown eyes.
Pushing the words through clenched teeth, he told her, “What is my one and only rule for you, Eye?”
She grimaced before admitting, “I’m not to interrupt you. But if I must, there are only two instances I’m never to do so, even if I’m dying.”
“That’s right.” Eye had more privileges with Kaysar than anyone else in existence, but there were lines even she must not cross. “Name those instances.”
“When you’re studying your maps that aren’t maps.” She shifted from foot to foot. “And every moment in between.”
Maps that aren’t—He flicked his tongue over an incisor. Was it his fault that others couldn’t read his works of art?
As a boy, he’d had no spare money for ink and paper, so he’d adapted. As often as he and Viori had dashed from village to village to avoid being punished for simply surviving, he’d needed a map. The Forest of Many Names was an infamous labyrinth known for gobbling up visitors and spitting out their bones. Eventually.
His greatest fear was finding Viori’s bones in the wooded terrain.
His lungs squeezed, his breath thinning. “Your insolence this day is concerning, Eye. But I’m a merciful king. Upon occasion. Too merciful, perhaps. I’ll give you one chance to save yourself from reprisal. Show me what Prince Jareth is doing right this second.”
The seer had the ability to meld her mind with another’s and reveal whatever images she observed in a vision—the past, present or future. It was a painful process for her. He didn’t care.
As she’d done thousands of times, she projected a picture into his mind. An image of Jareth Frostline, Crown Prince of the Winter Court, traveling through the Forest of Many Names with his bride. Princess Lulundria, the darling of the Summer Court.
“Show me the end result of our coming skirmish.” And there would be a skirmish.
Jareth craved a fight. Why else would the prince near Kaysar’s borders?
Did the husband hope to impress the new wife with his bravery, mayhap?
He will face only humiliation.
After Kaysar’s escape from captivity, he’d hunted for Viori ceaselessly, but she’d vanished without a trace. He gripped his throne, his claws digging deep. Even Eye had failed to catch a glimpse of her.
The Frostlines had taken everything Kaysar had ever loved. For centuries, he’d nursed his hatred like a fine wine. Now, he lived to ensure the royal family suffered and suffered and suffered and suffered and suffered. Exactly as he’d planned. Until Hador and Jareth experienced the same devastation they’d caused an innocent bo
y and his sister, Kaysar had no intention of ending his personal war. Which meant the war would never end.
His suffering endured throughout the ages. Theirs would, too.
“To show you the end, I must watch the beginning.” Eye’s distaste for the sight of blood was her biggest fault. Along with dozens of others. “Why should I bother? We both know you’ll win.”
“You bother because I command it.” Kaysar smiled at her. An expression many had deemed “the most terrifying sight in all the land.”
Did he know he’d win? Yes. But he still enjoyed a peek at the end result.
In battle, he had no equal. Not because he was born with a natural or even unnatural talent for killing. In his formative years, he’d worked as a farmer, like his parents. No, he succeeded because he let nothing dissuade him from a goal.
It helped that he’d trained under the harshest conditions. That he’d spent centuries battling trolls, goblins and ogres. The worst of the worst.
Perhaps he was a monster himself, eh? But at least he wasn’t a liar.
After he’d taken control of the Nightlands—a former prison territory inhabited only by the dregs of society—he’d created a new court, Midnight, with no one able to stop him. To the fae, might equaled right, every kingdom ruled by the one with the strength to hold the crown.
Over the years, the Midnight Court had become the wealthiest kingdom with resources the others lacked. Even better, the Nightlands were infinitely more dangerous. Well, except for the Dusklands.
Just for fun, he’d also conquered the barren wasteland teeming with monsters. He hadn’t yet set up another court to rule—but he would. When he tired of hurting the Frostlines.
He and his army would have no trouble accomplishing whatever he decided, his soldiers motivated to succeed. In battle, the men he’d trained had no equal either. Without hesitation, they savagely killed anyone who served the Frostlines. But. As ordered, they always spared the Frostlines themselves. To this day, Kaysar lamented ending Prince Lark’s life so soon.
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