Thief of Souls (Court of Dreams Book 2) Page 8

  I jerk the door open, solidifying just enough to be able to use the handle and then—

  The door is torn from my fingers, slamming closed.

  Another Sift, and I’m behind them.

  Belladonna turns as if she can see me—or maybe she can scent my blood—and then she has a knife in her hand.

  This is what I know. My body reacts as that blade lashes out and I catch her hand, rolling beneath the blow and tossing her over my shoulder. A startled squeak escapes her. I’m punching in and out of shadow, forming for the barest fraction of a second—just enough to throw her—before I vanish again.

  It must feel like wrestling with a shadow.

  Belladonna lands on the bed and her knife drives into the wall beside Anissa, point first. Anissa screams, hands jerking up far, far too late. The knife missed her by an inch.

  Belladonna’s focus locks on her friend and then knife, and then an expression of pure rage twists her features.

  Past time to be going.

  Belladonna rolls free of the tangle of sheets, and then whips her hand toward me as if she’s throwing something.

  A sharp slash of heat whips across my abdomen.

  There’s four feet between us but she might as well have a knife in hand.

  Blood magic.

  And here I am, with only my shadows to save me.

  I know when the odds are against me. I punch into shadows, reforming on the window ledge with one hand clapped over my wound. One last look back, where I catch her startled glance, and then I throw myself out the window.

  The wind catches me, and then I Sift again.

  Gone.

  Unseen.

  But not unnoticed.

  7

  “What happened?” Keir grabs two handfuls of my shirt and tears it apart, revealing the blood that weeps down my side.

  He was pouring himself a drink when I staggered over the windowsill, and the second he saw me, his eyes turned gold with rage.

  Though perhaps it wasn’t aimed at me, for all he did was haul me into the wash chambers and hiss under his breath.

  “I told you what happened,” I growl, sitting on the edge of my vanity, where he’s cornered me. “There was a ward set over Soraya’s room. I triggered it when I entered, and then Anissa and Belladonna appeared. I didn’t know Belladonna had the ability to bloody me from such a distance.”

  “She’s a princess of the Blood Court.”

  And clearly, I am an idiot.

  “It’s rare that the royal bloodlines breed down so strongly,” I mutter. “I know Malechus and his brothers have the blood magic, but I didn’t expect Belladonna to wield it. Narcissa didn’t.”

  Every royal court is ruled by the strongest family in the lands—marriages are kept firmly along certain lines so as not to dilute the magic in the royal line.

  But dilution happens.

  It’s rare for any but the direct heirs to wield the kind of magic the court is renowned for.

  Some fae marry for love, even though they know their children will suffer the consequences. Some are passed over again and again and must settle for a lower-born marriage. And some reject court life and the pressure of upholding their family’s honor.

  For a minor cousin to wield the family’s magic so strongly, it means the Blood Court is not just dangerous—but have spent centuries on carefully selective breeding.

  It also means Malechus had best watch his back.

  “Narcissa didn’t,” Keir confirms. “She was also desperate to try and lift her status within her family.” A muscle hitches in Keir’s jaw as he surveys the wadded-up shirt I stuffed against my side. I wouldn’t let him touch it until now, and clearly my attempts to contain the bleeding have fallen short. “Who taught you to medic yourself? A pig farmer who’s never seen a needle and thread in his life?”

  A wraith warrior who cared less about what a wound looked like after he was done, and more about salvaging what he could from the training camp ranks.

  “I’ll heal.”

  “Not from this, you won’t.” He gently touches my flushed skin and I wince. “That’s what makes them so dangerous. Many members of this court can cut you from a distance, but if a royal cuts you, then you don’t stop bleeding.”

  No wonder I’m ruining a second shirt.

  I bite my lip. It’s such a little wound but hasn’t stopped bleeding. The one on my back is shallower, but it’s weeping blood too.

  “Here.” Keir tugs a knife from the sheath at his hip and I flinch. He pauses, noting my sudden discomfort. Dark eyes search my face. “I’m not going to hurt you, Merisel.”

  Cauldron’s scurvy surface. “Zemira,” I grate out. “The rooms are warded, so nobody will hear you call me by my name in here. And it’s a professional hazard of the job. Knives make me nervous.”

  He flips it, capturing it by the handle before he offers it to me. “Then you do the honor.”

  The honor? I stare at the knife.

  Curling my fingers around the hilt, he sets the tip of the blade to his wrist and slashes a thin line across his bronzed skin.

  “Goddess’s mercy! What are you doing?” I rip the knife well away from him.

  Cupping a hand at the base of my skull, he brings his wrist up. “Drink.”

  I slam my palm against his chest. “I don’t know what sort of proclivities you might have, but where I’m from, we don’t drink blood. That’s just a stupid story the fae conjured.”

  Keir glares at me. “My blood will heal you. Don’t tell me you’re squeamish?”

  “I’ll… heal.”

  “No, you won’t. And not in time. I need you whole and hearty, not fainting on the floor in the middle of the fucking wedding from blood loss. Drink, Zemira.”

  Help. He used my name.

  “Where’s my pragmatic wench now?” he croons.

  Currently feeling a little overwhelmed.

  But he does speak the truth.

  I have a horn to steal, a betrayal to plan, and a prince to escape.

  I give into the pressure of his hand and allow him to draw my head forward. The first brush of his wrist against my lips sends a shock of lightning through me, but it’s the wetness of his blood spreading over them that makes me shiver.

  It tastes like copper and iron. It’s not unpleasant, but the second his blood hits my stomach, heat spears through me. Weariness sloughs off me and my wound tingles as if the magic in his blood has found a weakness and targets it.

  It feels like starshine in my blood. Like heat and warmth, and a tingling sensation that lights through me everywhere.

  I fall back against the wall, gasping. I think I just had an orgasm. If the fae knew his blood had the ability to do this to them, they’d be bottling it.

  “Better?” The knowing look in his eyes makes me slap his shoulder with the heel of my palm.

  I stare at him.

  There’s a promise in his eyes. One that says he can take me away from here—from all of this. One that will protect me at all costs. One that says there’s a court of dreams out there, with a gorgeous sun-kissed palace filled with servants to tend my every need, and beds draped in silken sheets. I can almost hear the sound of waves dashing against the sandy beaches below that palace. The taste of dates explodes in my mouth as if I just bit into one, and the caress of fingertips skates up my hips.

  If I close my eyes, I’m right there.

  Feeling those dangerous lips chase their way up the slope of my neck, the graze of teeth threatening to dig deep into the muscle at the base of my shoulder—

  This is his most dangerous aspect.

  He gets inside your head.

  He gets inside my head and conjures a dream of a new life, where I never need worry about my father again.

  If only I could promise him my heart, my body, and my soul.

  For one breathless moment, we stare at each other, and I’m surprised at how much I want that lie.

  Because it is a lie for someone like me.

  My
heart is a fist of stone within my chest. My body a weapon I use at will. And my soul? If I owned it myself, I would never, ever let another dare take it from me.

  “Better,” I rasp, swinging my legs off the vanity and letting my boots hit the floor.

  He doesn’t back away.

  I’m left pressed flush against his body, curling my fingers into fists before I can touch him. It’s like his blood now calls to me. A little shiver of that post-orgasmic bliss steals through me. I want his hands on my skin. I want that connection.

  Damn it.

  “I need to wash,” I growl out, because I desperately need him out of this room.

  Keir finally gives me space, sidestepping toward the oils sitting on the vanity. “So what next? Since Belladonna and Anissa are clearly not responsible for your sister’s disappearance.”

  “They’re involved in something,” I correct.

  Belladonna’s a royal princess, and the lady of the Dawn Court may—or may not—be involved with Belladonna’s cousin, according to gossip. And what had she meant about those letters?

  Why would she be searching Soraya’s room for them?

  “But not your sister’s disappearance,” he points out.

  “Mistmark, then,” I tell him, trying to ignore the shiver of desire in my blood as I turn the faucet on. “He and Soraya had a certain history together. He’d recognize her on sight and would move to strike her down if he saw her. Besides, if anyone is going to know where the horn is, it’s going to be him.”

  Keir scowls into the distance. “How are you going to get to him?”

  That is the problem.

  “You’re not going to enter his rooms the way you did tonight.” There’s a hint of anger in Keir’s voice. “You nearly died.”

  I blow a breath of frustration through my lips. “A slight exaggeration, my prince. And no, I’m not going anywhere near Mistmark’s rooms.”

  Not until I know how he thwarted my sister’s assassination attempt all those years ago.

  “No,” I repeat. “I need more information. I’m working blind here. Normally I know what I’m looking for. It’s simply a matter of finding it. Now… I need more information. Time to go play simpering lady of the Greenslieves.”

  The men spend the morning hunting the woods, including Keir. I plead a headache and leave the ladies to their own devices on the front lawns. From a stolen glimpse through the window, it looks like they’ve set up a field of archery. Several servants appear to have been roped into the game, and they’re wearing targets over their clothes. I don’t know what the ladies are shooting with—their arrows appear to have blunted ends, and every time they strike a servant, a colorful cloud of powder erupts, until the servants look like they’ve been dusted with powdered sugar.

  It gives me time to ghost through the castle, avoiding both servants and nobles alike as I work out the layout of the palace.

  I try the door to Mistmark’s room, but it’s locked. Usually not a problem, but a servant’s footsteps echo through the hallway, and I’m forced to retreat. I don’t want to enter after last night’s fiasco, but it doesn’t hurt to check.

  Malechus’s rooms are guarded by heavily armored guards. Belladonna’s chambers sit at the opposite end of the hallway to his, and there’s a redcap squatting outside her door. Definitely not someone I want to meet on a dark night.

  I retreat to the garden so nobody starts to wonder about my actions.

  “Lady Merisel!” calls one of the archers with a malicious glee. “Come and try your hand at the targets.”

  The targets look like they’re drunk. One serving girl with a fox tail falls into another’s arms, giggling and nuzzling at his neck. From the tails on his coat, he looks like the butler, but no butler alive would grab a housemaid’s bottom like that.

  My eye locks on those colorful splats of powder staining their clothes. Now I know what it is. It’s rapture, a fae aphrodisiac that the nobles of certain courts sniff. It’s also a little dangerous, because it strips you of your control and makes you desire nothing more than hedonistic pursuits.

  Tomorrow that serving girl is going to wake with a giant’s hammer of a headache and possibly the butler in her bed.

  “I’m afraid I prefer my targets to be a little less love-drunk and a little more in control of their faculties,” I reply. I hate such mindless cruelty. The servants have little recompense here. They owe their lives to Malechus—and his guests’—favor.

  They can’t refuse to play.

  And the appearance of the drug strips them of any remaining choices in regards to their bodies.

  “Oh, pish,” says the woman. I’m starting to put a name to her face. Rhea, perhaps? She belongs to the Court of Whispers, though I can’t remember whether she’s part of the ruling family there. “Where’s the fun in that? If she wanted to avoid her current situation, then she should have run faster.”

  I should give a shrug and laugh before slipping amongst the women. I have a reason to be here. I want to find out exactly what the relationship between Belladonna and Anissa is. Because if Anissa is Malechus’s lover, then I doubt she’d be friends with Belladonna. To all appearances, Belladonna is displeased with her cousin’s efforts to push her into marriage.

  But it’s that callous disregard for a servant’s choice that rubs me the wrong way.

  I’ve disguised myself as a servant before.

  I’ve had lords’ corner me in darkened rooms, their faces twisted with malice and dark desires before I showed them the error of their ways—and the pointy end of a knife.

  I’ve had fae ladies play similar games with me, as if I’m a mere amusement and not a woman with my own hopes and dreams.

  I’ve been able to avoid such vicious endeavors purely because my role in their worlds has been a ruse and I’ve been able to escape.

  The serving girl with the fox tail has no choice. She has no escape from this.

  I turn toward Rhea. She wants to play games? Okay. We’ll play. Right now, I have a position of power, even if these women would tear me down if they knew the truth.

  “Your bow?” I ask Rhea, who was the same female I saw sliding her hand over Keir’s sleeve.

  I can’t help myself.

  I take the bow and arrow from her hands.

  And then I smile at her. “Indeed, let’s make this a little more challenging. Let’s see if you are faster than the serving girl.”

  Every head in the vicinity tracks toward me. The other ladies look delighted. Some whisper behind their hands, and I can see they think me jealous of Keir’s attentions toward Rhea.

  “You wouldn’t dare,” she snaps, backing away from me.

  “What’s wrong?” I set the arrow to the bow. “Do you prefer to pick and choose your own partners? Would you perhaps desire a prince? Would you try to steal him?”

  Jealousy is a lovely little motive to hide behind.

  And maybe there’s a little bit of truth in it.

  “Run,” I suggest. “Run fast.”

  Rhea takes off with a squeal, shoving her way through the horde of silk.

  “Doesn’t she make a fine rabbit?” I ask the woman beside me as I draw the bow back. If I hit her, then I’m virtually declaring war on the Court of Whispers. “Let’s make her think I have her measure. Where shall I aim? That tree in front of her?”

  “Right in the back,” the woman replies with a malicious smile.

  I loose the arrow, and it hits the tree right in front of Rhea. She squeals as she darts to avoid the puff of pretty pink powder that explodes into the air.

  I lower the bow. “While I would love to send that smirking little wretch to her knees, I think a warning sufficient for the moment. But perhaps you would care to do the honors?”

  With a wink, I pass the bow to my crestfallen partner.

  It breaks up the gaggle of predatory women. They’re no longer focusing on the servants, and the servants—with some relief—are slipping away while they’re no longer visible to the gatherin
g.

  I laugh with several of the ladies who think my ruse was amusing to watch. They’ll turn on me in an instant. But for now I’ve won entrance into their little group, which was an unexpected advantage.

  And as I watch the serving maid, I see the moment where she staggers against the hedge, feeling overcome with rapture.

  Slipping out of the group of fae women as refreshments are brought, I pass behind a tree and vanish, reappearing at the girl’s side where I capture her in my arms.

  She looks at me in a mixture of glazed shock and hunger. Even the simple act of my hands on her skin have set off the rapture coursing through her veins.

  “Let’s get you back to your rooms,” I murmur.

  “No, please, my lady. I don’t….”

  I understand. She thinks I intend to overwhelm her. “You’re safe,” I whisper. “You need to sleep it off. I’ll get you out of here.”

  I hate the fright in her eyes, but this one time, I have been able to use my power for good.

  Even if it makes me a powerful enemy.

  By the time I’ve set the little maid in her bed and returned to the gathering on the lawn, the bows and arrows have vanished and the men have returned. There’s no sign of Keir. Perhaps he’s cleaning up after the hunt.

  A blur of darkness captures my attention.

  The Lord of Mistmark slips away from the party as if he’s heading toward the castle to refresh himself—but halfway there, he takes a sidestep and vanishes into the maze.

  “Excuse me,” I say to a princess who’s trying to insult me. I think she’s one of Rhea’s friends. “I have to… fix my hair.”

  And then I walk away from her, ignoring her shocked gasp and her pointed “how rude.”

  I slip into the shadows as I enter the maze. The world is abruptly muted. It’s like looking at everything through a diaphanous gray veil. Fine details are lost, and everything becomes soft and blurred. It strips the hard edges from a fae prince’s face and eases the harsh lines and avarice in a princess’s expression.

  I steal from shadow to shadow, tiptoeing along in the wake of the Lord of Mistmark.