Page 76

“I thought it was an official Faerie holiday, shouldn’t he be made to bear through it like the rest of us?” I say, crestfallen.

She eyes me up and down. “You’re grumpy tonight.”

“Am not.”

She grins from ear to ear. “Are too.”

A sprite with a smooth, deep voice clears his throat. “All welcome his Majesty the King. Damian Morpheus Sombra, king of shadows, keeper of dreams, weaver of fantasies, and master of nightmares.”

The crowd grows quiet, and Two hurries off the table with his lips curled down. The narrow root of the table he was standing on wobbles at his hasty retreat and knocks him off balance. He tumbles to the ground, and his ass hits the floor hard just as the Shadow King steps out of the glass.

The king’s faceless stare latches onto him, and Two peels himself off the dance floor with a humiliated pout.

The Shadow King dressed up for the occasion. His tunic has been weaved from the shadows themselves, and a wispy cloak floats at his back. The darkness within it is so impenetrable that it dims the light in the entire room. A stitch of orange on the side of his pants matches the bright harvest decorations, but the tiny splash of color makes the rest of the ensemble darker still.

He sits on his throne with a perfect air of ease, his hood snug around the edges of his mask. Shiny leather gloves are pulled tight across his knuckles as he grips the armrests, and the High Fae return to their food and conversations.

A few lords and ladies come over to greet me and introduce themselves. I evade their questions as best as I can until they give up and leave me to my peers. Mara joins us, and Lori finally convinces me to try the bite-size food—it’s actually pretty delicious. I drink a little wine, and the weight of my confusing visit to Demeter slowly lifts off my shoulders.

“The king seems even more taciturn than usual,” Lori remarks.

The king doesn’t mingle, the few High Fae courageous enough to engage in conversation quickly rebuffed by a sharp slice of the head. He’s clearly not in the mood for schmoozing.

He watches the celebration from behind his mask, perched on his throne like a vulture atop a dead pine. Perfectly unattainable.

“I’ve never seen a monarch act like this,” I admit. “It’s not a proper way to rule.”

Misha cranes his neck to glance at the king. “He always does this on holidays. Shows his face without truly engaging with anyone. It drives the High Fae mad, of course, but it reminds them who’s in charge.”

Mara takes a sip of her wine. “I heard he hasn’t spoken a word out loud since he banished the other courts from the grounds.”

I frown at that, remembering how cruelly he spoke to me the night of my first trial. Does he only speak to me?

Misha raises his brows in a secretive manner. “It makes sense. That’s around the same time as when he started wearing his full-face mask. I heard that he got badly burned during a dragon hunt, and that his tongue melted off.”

Lori clicks her tongue in a chiding fashion. “That’s nonsense. I heard him speak with One once. Three is the only mute Fae around here.”

I nod in agreement, relieved that I’m not the only person who’s heard the king speak. The faceless monster who bargained for my life weighs heavily on my mind lately… and I can’t say I’ve learned much about him in my time here. Damian the Dauntless.

Two drops a cherry stem inside his empty glass and pries Mara from our circle. “Let’s dance.”

He whisks her to the middle of the floor and motions for the string quartet to play a cheery, jig-like song, and I’m impressed to see them work through it with a shred of dignity considering their intoxicated state.

Mara’s black dress leaves little to the imagination, the short skirt barely covering her ass.

Jo takes her place in our group at the small round table. His navy jacket flatters his masculine silhouette, the collar of his white shirt crisp and tidy.

“It’s so unfair. They let the men wear anything they want,” Lori whines.

Jo wiggles his shoulders under his jacket, his chin tucked in. “What are you talking about? It’s a nice tuxedo.”

“From the new world. The Fae lords wear scarves, tunics, and tails. We’re encouraged to follow their customs, you know,” Lori says.

Misha shrugs at the reproach. “Isn’t it nice to mix the fashions? It shows open-mindedness.”

“Open-mindedness would be not forcing me into a dress. Mara is wearing a miniskirt for crying out loud.” Lori goes off into another tirade about her gown.

Jo inches closer with a sheepish smile. “If I’d known it would upset her so, I would have worn something more traditional,” he whispers. “You’re absolutely gorgeous tonight, Nell.”