Secret assignations between members of opposing royal courts are common. It doesn’t matter who you serve when the bonfires that bring in Lammastide are lit.
It’s the only time of the year when ancient enmities are set aside and the fae can give in to our hedonistic natures.
There’s no sign of pleasure on any of their faces. This Lammastide is different.
Because, while old arguments must be set aside for the duration of the queensmoot, it doesn’t mean that blackmail and murder don’t occur—just as long as they can’t be tied back to your camp.
And right now, the Queen of Asturia has a knife to my throat.
It’s Thalia I turn to, pressing a kiss into her hair. “You have news?”
We share a grandmother, and while there’s a hint of me in her sable brown hair and devious eyes, her managing ways are all her own. This is where the threat comes from, despite the pretty purple velvet gown, and the innocent curls that tumble down her back. Nobody would ever suspect she’s my spymistress, and while she can’t kick a man’s head off his shoulders the way the others can, she’s a knife in your back while you least expect it.
She tilts her head back. “I have news.”
Thalia’s never this serious, so whatever it is, it’s trouble.
“Tell me,” I murmur, circling the table.
“Adaia has arrived in all her golden glory,” Lysander replies. “I managed to get a good look at the layout of the Asturian tents. She’s set up in her usual spot, and while there are numerous tents for her guards and servants, there’s nothing that looks like it’s built to hide Finn.”
“He’s there,” Thalia counters. “Rue caught a glimpse of him.”
She’s spent years cultivating the tiny winged demi-fey that flutter through the castle at Ceres, which is home. They’re addicted to milk and honey, and will do practically anything in exchange for it, but to get them to focus on one task long enough to complete it is near impossible.
My cousin has a stubborn streak though. And immortality has its uses. According to her, she’s trained an entire legion of the little winged sprites, and considering the depths of the information she always manages to uncover it’s hard to doubt her.
“Rue has the brains of a thimbleful of mead,” Lysander replies. “I can’t see any sign of Finn, and I’m good. I can’t smell him. And I’ve heard no mention of him among the Asturian troops.”
Thalia sniffs. “It’s not my fault you’re incompetent.”
“Incompetent?”
This needs to be broken up before they’re shouting at each other. I shift, but Baylor beats me to it, one enormous fist slamming into his brother’s chest and pinning him there.
“Finn,” Baylor says pointedly, “is all that matters.”
Lysander curses under his breath, shooting Thalia a dirty look from beneath his thick lashes. “I’m going to have an apology from you later, brat.”
“I didn’t see the army you rode in at the head of.”
“Thalia.” I settle a stare upon her that makes her sigh and draw her knees up to her chest. Her feet are bare, but the girlish look she shoots me slides off me like water.
I know her too well to fall for this innocent bullshit.
I also know the strain that exists within the room is real.
We’re all on edge.
Finn’s usually the one to break the tension, and Lysander—always by his side—is feeling it.
There are always risks in the game of kings, but I hate this moment, when the risk doesn’t pay off. Asturian soldiers were seen sniffing around the ruins of Mistmere. The kingdom was destroyed during the war with the Unseelie five hundred years ago, and it’s been a point of contention between me and Adaia for centuries.
I don’t even want the fucking kingdom, but I can’t let that bitch get her hands on it. With Mistmere under her domain, Adaia will own the entire western flank of Evernight, cutting us off from the rest of the Seelie alliance. Trapped in the north by the indomitable mountains that lead to Unseelie, the only access we’d have to the south is by the seas.
And it wouldn’t surprise me if Adaia has conjured a means to see any ships we send south don’t arrive at their destination.
I can’t let her have Mistmere.
And there’s no reason her guards should even be seen in its forests. She’s up to something and I need to know what it is.
Finn was supposed to track them and keep watch.
Except he vanished and Adaia sent me a message promising she’ll exchange his head for the keys to the kingdom. Whether it’s still attached to the rest of him is up to me, apparently.
We’ll discuss it at the queensmoot, her message had practically purred.
“She has Finn with her.” It’s not a question. “She wants to use him to break me, and she’ll want him close enough that she can get to him if she needs to.”
“Maybe she’s keeping him in her tent,” Baylor growls.
Lysander shudders. “Brother, please. My imagination.”
Baylor arches a brow at him. “Adaia won’t fuck him. She considers his kind to be beneath her.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean she won’t be fucking someone else—and I did catch a glimpse of the queen’s pet on my prowl.” Lysander’s lip curls. “I don’t know what would be worse. Watching the Queen of Asturia in bed, or being in it.”
“Definitely being in it.” Eris looks disgusted.
“What did Rue say about him?” I ask Thalia.
“The demi-fey don’t talk, so it’s kind of like…. Big, growly warrior. Cage. Something about a wolf prowling around in there. Poison. Stink—”
“Poison?”
Thalia smooths her skirts. “Iron, I suspect. They consider it to be poison.”
A fair assumption, considering what iron can do to fae magic. It’s difficult enough to touch it myself. The sudden grip of nausea makes even the strongest glamor slip and fade. It’s like trying to hold moonlight in your cupped hands.
Finn’s in a cage. An iron cage. Nauseous and sick with it. Shaking violently. Trapped in the iron sickness that makes your head throb and your thoughts dangerous.
Sudden rage makes the daemon slip its leash.
We could kill Adaia, it whispers. The iron won’t stop me. Nor will her magic.
Or anything else for that matter.
I shudder the thought away. This is how it tempts me. It sounds so reasonable. But I’ve been there when I blink my way back into control of my body and find the blood covering my hands. I’ve seen the bodies, heard the sobs. I’ve tasted the sick slick of that desire on my tongue.
Let’s burn it all to ashes. Let’s kill them all.
Control is the chain I bind myself with.
It’s what I used to lock my heart away when I held my dying mother in my arms, her blood slicking my shirt to my chest. It’s the whip I flogged myself with during the bloody war against my brothers, when they sought to name me her murderer and pledged to turn my kingdom against me.
It’s imprinted on my soul, tattooed into my skin. A cage I worship when the daemon threatens to chew me up and spit me out.
And it’s what I fall back on now as I separate my thoughts from the hot flush of emotion. I can’t afford to give in to anger. Not right now. Finn needs me at my best. Not distracted. I owe him nothing less.