“All right, my heir. You win.” Father chuckled and climbed into bed next to me, kissing the top of my head. “No one will steal the book from you.”
“Who said anything about stealing?” I asked, taken aback.
King Traevon sniggered once more, shrugging his shoulders. He pulled the blankets up over him and fluffed his pillow. “I guess I said it.”
“Father!” I admonished.
“What can I say? The blue apple didn’t fall too far from the elven tree.” He winked and turned onto his side, his back facing me.
I grunted and scooted away from him, holding the tome close. “I don’t trust you.”
His bare shoulders shook—laughing silently.
I opened the book and scanned the page, not really reading, my mind on other things. I mumbled, “I’ve never seen you steal before.”
King Traevon yawned so wide his jaw popped. “Do I look like an elven tree? I think not. Goodnight, my daughter.”
“Goodnight,” I responded absently.
He could twist his words even better than Grandmother Isabella could—how she was always careful with her phrasing, being a seer. It must be a family trait. I had practically perfected it as a child myself, a gift of the tongue inherited from the familial line.
I wondered if he was proud of me for it.
Or did it make him feel filthy not telling the entire truth to those he loved, as it did to me? Did he want to scrub his brain, too, so only clean truth remained? With whole truths left to be spoken?
I flipped a page blindly.
I glowered down at it, all the words jumbling together.
There would be no more reading this evening.
I tilted my head back and stared at the glowing ceiling, the hues inside the room warm and comforting, perfect for sleep. But my brutal soul mate’s food now filled my belly, and it had renewed my energy. I continued to flip pages randomly while I evaluated the stained glass. I waited until Father’s breathing evened out, and then I waited even longer, listening for the telltale sign of his deep slumber—his odd hitching breaths, as if he was stressed even in sleep, dreaming of battles and blood and duty.
It took a firm forty minutes before I heard it.
I closed the tome and slid off the bed quietly—the book coming with me. I shoved it down into my traveling bag and pulled the strap over my right shoulder, my red locks catching and yanking under the leather strap. I left my hair as it was; less movement was vital with a king older than a millennium in the room.
Father didn’t stir as I slipped out the door.
CHAPTER TWO
Confession of a princess:
My mother taught me well.
All of those dreadful painting lessons have finally paid off—though I will never pick up a paintbrush again, much to her dismay. I simply do not have the talent for it, as Mother does.
But when I was young, my mind was the canvas, my mother’s words the brush strokes, lovingly painting with maternal dedication all she wanted me to learn.
I did retain the artistic secrets she revealed.
Mother would be proud of me…
If only I could tell her.
I HELD THE sides of my too large pajama bottoms up over my bare feet—having borrowed a pair of my king’s pajamas to sleep in. My thin, cotton camisole didn’t protect from the chill in the air, though, as his pajama bottoms did. I shivered while I tiptoed down the hallways, listening for any movement, as I strained my eyes on the ceiling.
There was movement, one that wanted to be heard, so as not to frighten me. But I ignored it. If the individual wanted to follow me from a distance, so be it. Out of sight, out of mind—for now. I was on a mission, and I would accomplish it.
I evaluated each creature the Fae had depicted in the stained glass, having read about most, but a few I had never seen before. The dragons had been on the ceiling in one of the bathrooms, and I wanted to be prepared should all of this artwork be a clear warning from the Fae—not-so-hidden in plain sight. I peeked into the bathroom I had never been in before, but all that graced the ceiling were two crowns dripping blood.
I assessed a peculiar, slick creature in the reception room, unsure what this Fae was. It had eight thick tentacles and many large eyes that stared down at me. The tentacles spread out like it was ready to pounce and swallow me whole. I shuddered hard but stayed right where I was to study it further.
I swallowed and heaved a large breath.
On closer inspection, it had sharp spines covering its body.
They were spiky teeth. Ready to devour.
There was possibly fur on the underbelly, too, with an odd opening down its middle that glowed golden.
I would not want to encounter this beast.
I flashed my fangs, the hair on the nape of my neck standing—just from a piece of artwork. The Fae were genuinely mighty.
I trudged into the royal conference room, wanting to turn back, having had my fill of ghastly and dangerous depictions of the Fae. Every single representation on the ceiling had turned my stomach with unease. Immense, beautiful, or deadly were the Fae, those who had created us—and those who could destroy us, if they were so inclined.
I shivered once more from the cold and stepped between the two chairs behind the caster royal desk. I removed the strap from my shoulder and set my traveling bag down on one of the chairs. I leaned forward and placed my hands on the desk, gazing down at the artwork portrayed there, my hair cascading around my face.
I started at the top left, and meticulously worked my way across, assessing all of the pictures carefully. We were headed to the Caster Kingdom for the next artifact. This desk could unwittingly be the key to our success.
“Aren’t you done yet, elf?” King Athon growled quietly from the open doorway. “You have been at this for hours.”
My attention didn’t falter from my perusal. “Go back to bed, shifter. I didn’t ask for an escort in the first place.”
“King Traevon needs to keep a better eye on you.” The tiger snapped his words brutally—and without apology. The King of Shifters stalked forward, cracking his neck in irritation. “Your most powerful enemies surround you, and you decided to gallivant right past their bedchambers in the dead of night. King Traevon needs to put you—his heir—on a Fae damned leash for your own good. You are far too reckless.”
“Shut up, shifter,” I mumbled absently, hardly listening to him blather on in his rugged, shifter accent. I pointed at the center of the royal caster desk. “What does this look like to you?”
“I should have let you faint,” he grumbled under his breath. King Athon stepped up behind me, and, without preamble—or asking for permission—he brushed my hair over my shoulder, and his cheek brushed mine—he really needed to shave, his whiskers rough on my delicate skin. He placed his hands on the desk, leaning over me, his hard frame pressing against my smaller one. He scanned the desk with his solid-black eyes. He asked brusquely, “Show me what you were looking at.”
His too-potent, honeysuckle scent swarmed all around, twirling and seeping into my nostrils, capturing my attention. The heat from his massive body attacked my physical senses, my shoulders tensing from the sudden temperature change.
“You’re…a little close.” I cleared my throat pointedly.