Page 41

Hell, I’m probably sitting in a room full of criminals. And the King of the Night isn’t punishing them, he’scatching upwith them.

Phaedron leans forward. “Now tell me: Do you have a sister—?”

Someone screams, thankfully interrupting us. The table in the corner topples over, mead splashes everywhere, and the previously seated fairies now lunge at each other.

Everyone who’s not in the fight swivels their gaze to Des.

In response to the growing eyes on him, Des raises his glass in a silent toast to the room.

A triumphant shout goes up, and suddenly, it’s not just the corner table of fairies who are fighting. Fae from nearby tables get involved. Glass shatters, tables break, and fists fly.

Those involved in Barbos’s sex trade scream, slipping off laps to escape to the edges of the room.

“It’s not a truly successful night until at least one fight breaks out,” Phaedron notes, grabbing his drink as he stands.

Des comes over. “Time to go, cherub.”

“You both are welcome to come over to my place. I’ll be heading there in another hour or so,” Phaedron says.

“We’ve got plans, but thanks, my brother.”

“You take care of your little mate,” Phaedron says to Des, winking my way. “Don’t give me a reason to come after you. I can still kick your ass. And for Gods’ sakes, man, next time stay for a bit longer. I barely had time to start corrupting your girl.”

“Fair enough,” Des says, clasping his hand. “Take care of yourself.”

We part ways with the redheaded fairy to the sounds of breaking glass and shouting.

The streets of Barbos are just as rowdy. More fairies in the sex trade are out, flirting with disreputable people. There are a few more fights on the street, a group of fairies catcalling a woman who blows them a kiss, and another fairy who’s standing on a rooftop, breathing fire from his lips, the inferno taking the shape of a dragon. And then there’s everyone else: fairies dancing on balconies, flying drunkenly from building to building, or passed out on the city streets.

We pass by torches—the closest thing this city has to gaslights—and the flickering firelight dances along Des’s face, making me feel like I’m in another time as well as another place.

Des takes a deep breath of air. “There’s nothing quite like Barbos,” he says, sounding invigorated.

If Des were a city, he’dbeBarbos. The lights, the chaos, the criminality, thesexuality, the excitement. It’s all part of who he is.

Most of the businesses we pass are bars, brothels, or gambling halls. On the sidewalks in front of them are street vendors selling their wares. Des stops us in front of one.

I glance down at the items laid out.

“Knives?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Daggers, swords, maces, axes,” he corrects, pointing to each different weapon. Like there’s some sort of difference to them. “I figure now that I’m teaching you how to fight, you should carry your own weapon.”

My eyes slide from him back to the blades. I’ve never exactly been a weapons kind of lady, and looking at all those sharp objects now, I find I’m still not really one.

The woman selling the weapons begins explaining the pros and cons of different grips and blade lengths. It all turns into background noise. When I look at them, I see blood and violence and memories I’ve been running from.

Des leans in close. “You are no victim, cherub,” he reminds me. “Not even here in the Otherworld. Pick a weapon. Make the next person who crosses you regret it.”

Those are the devil’s words, wicked words, but the siren in me rallies at them. Hell, the broken girl in me rallies at them.

I amno one’svictim.

I study the weapons in earnest, comparing the leather handles to the metal ones, the curving blades to those with jagged edges.

“Move your hand over them,” the fairy behind the table suggests. “The right one will call out to you.”

I shake my head, ready to tell her I’m not a fairy and that their magic will be useless on me, but Des takes my hand and steadies it over the table, my palm facing down toward the weapons.