In the world of butterflies, the Wisp is a celebrity.
Look where being glamorous got it.
Much better to be a moth than a butterfly. Plain. Magicless. Boring. Common. Not too shiny or too clever.
A mark, not a threat.
But unlike this poor butterfly, my fate hasn’t been finalized yet.
And I’m not going down without a fight.
4
If I thought the Spring Court Queen’s palace was obnoxious, her massive estate in Palm Beach, Florida makes my jaw practically drop to the marble floor. The sprawling Mediterranean villa hugs the ivory coastline, cut off from its neighbors by a lush wall of gnarled vines. Bubble-gum pink flowers the size of my hand bloom from the vines, their fragrance mixing with the briny sea breeze and making my head spin.
Supposedly one prick from the thorns will incapacitate any intruders who try to break through the wall, usually drunk college kids curious about the famous Fae queen.
“Can you imagine?” Mack asks. “One second you’re swigging fireball straight from the bottle with your friends and breaking into this gaudy McMansion, and the next second you wake up dazed and confused in a totally different place?”
The straps of my backpack tug as Ruby settles onto the top of the leather pack, her wings buzzing with excitement. “Cinnamon juice?”
Mack’s button nose wrinkles, and she throws me her I-can’t-believe-you-brought-Ruby look.
I shrug. Ruby is allowed anywhere I go, and she’s the perfect excuse if I accidentally wield my new magic—which is a high probability. “She’s sober and we’ve had multiple discussions on how to behave in public.”
Per contract, I’m allowed one chaperone per event, so of course Mack came along. Like me, she’s mortal, which means she will be underestimated and ignored. Which also means she will go unnoticed when slipping into places she shouldn’t be.
One glance at my gorgeous friend and I reconsider my assessment. No one would ever let her go unnoticed in that stunning gown, a sequin masterpiece of gold that highlights her bronzed skin and drapes to accentuate her soft curves. Sunlight streams in from the massive windows overlooking the foyer and refracts off the exquisite crystals accenting her low-cut V neckline.
I smooth down my cover-up. Perhaps underdressing was a mistake.
Evermore Fae flit through the foyer, their attire almost as outlandish—and expensive—as the décor. Their strange eyes slide to me, and the derision in their smirks and cruel snickers is almost enough to make me turn around. They gape at my hair, already frizzy and limp from the humidity. They lift their heads and sniff, wrinkling their noses as they take in the sweat that clings to my body.
The signs of my mortality are all they need to forget I’m a Fae princess.
A fresh wave of nausea grips my belly.
No. You can do this. They will not intimidate you.
The grand foyer pirouettes in my vision. My strappy sandals slap the creamy marble floor in time with my galloping heart. Jaw clenched, I halt near a crystal vase of buttery yellow gladiolas. Sweat glides between my shoulder blades as I try to force oxygen into my lungs.
Mack manages to stop gaping long enough to cast her wide-eyed gaze my way. Her cornflower blue eyes soften with concern, and she slips her sweaty hand in mine. “You good?”
I jerk up an eyebrow. Good? I’m about to come face to face with the pointy-eared dickwad who outed me to the world, cruelly tricked me into promising my life to him, poisoned my mate and best friends, and now holds their lives in his dark, twisted hands.
Good would be strangling him with my own hands. Good would be finally gathering enough evidence to have him executed. Good would be stabbing him in the eye with the dagger I keep on my person now, always.
Always.
Because of him.
“Oh, Fae hells, you have that look.” Mack’s fingers tighten around mine.
“What look?”
“The ragey-rip-your-intestines-out-through-your-mouth look.”
Right. My entire body is wound with anger, every sinew and tendon and cell imbued with a venomous hatred more potent than the Bloodstar poison currently sickening my mate. The one that makes Valerian Sylverfrost, the love of my life, suffer from nightmares so severe he prefers drowning to enduring them.
Valerian’s handsome face flits through my mind, those brooding deep-set ice-blue eyes and devilish full lips, and a fresh slice of fury cuts me open.
“Summer.”
He’s in pain even now, I can feel it.
“Summer.”
Growing more despondent every minute we’re apart. Every fraying of our bond, every thread that snaps between us, I can physically feel him deteriorate.
He’s drowning every second of every day apart. How long until he succumbs? The last time I was taken from him, he joined the Darken.
“Summer!”
Mack’s face comes into view, and I follow her startled gaze to the gladioli on the center table. Their sword-like leaves are shriveling into black husks, their funnel-shaped violet-colored flowers now exquisite flames. I watch the petals turn to cinders. Watch the leaves crumble into ash with more than a little satisfaction.
Only when the crystal begins to melt do I blow out a breath to clear my head. Ruby quickly works to reverse the damage I did with my uncontrolled magic. Anyone watching will probably assume Ruby is responsible.
Still. That was reckless. Stupid.
And so damn satisfying.
“I’m fine.” I tug the spaghetti strap of my wispy turquoise cover-up as we pass beneath curving twin staircases winding up either side of the airy room. “This place is . . .”
“Incredible,” Ruby murmurs, the giant chamber swallowing her voice as she deposits herself onto my new magical pack. She lets out a low whistle when another set of stairs takes us to a floor with a breathtaking view of the sandy white shoreline and turquoise ocean.
I twist my head back just enough to see the sprite has already shucked off the cover-up I made her wear and is baring her magenta thong and matching triangle bikini top. She finally accepted the bathing suit as a concession to sunbathing in the nude, but it hardly fits now, swallowed by the new curves Ruby has gained after months of living off my Fae mother’s well-stocked pantry.
Discovering Postmates didn’t help either . . .
Ruby’s snarl is the only warning I get before the object of my pure rage comes into view. Hellebore Narcissus reclines on a dark black lounge sofa, bookended by two silver-skinned Fae in matching metallic blue bathing suits. The male Fae is lithe, his long white hair falling to his harsh jaw. The other is a female. Both their strange milky eyes are glassy with whatever I imagine are in the drinks on the glass coffee table.
No, I realize. Their intoxication is a direct result of touching Hellebore.
My fiancé is shirtless, clad only in pale linen pants and a Cheshire smile. He wields an old black camera, snapping pictures of the two Fae as they position themselves for him. The flowering tattoos blanketing his arms from his shoulders to his wrists seem to rustle, as if a soft breeze blows over them, but my eyes dart to the spiderweb spanning the hard plane of his chest.
The black widow in the center spins a web before my eyes—just like its master did a few months ago.
Like a bored house cat lazily flexing his claws before shredding the drapes, my tormentor’s gaze drifts from his entertainment to me. “Hello, darling.”