Page 60

Am I a toy or a person to him?Salas wondered with more than a little disgruntled bemusement.

Then the wolf used a mighty paw to press Salas down, so that Salas was stretched onto the bed, and the beast curled up beside him, falling asleep within moments.

Though slightly bewildered, Salas snuggled closer and did the same.

Salas woke sometime in the swell of the night. The fire had burnt out, and by the blue tint to the darkened sky, it was perhaps an hour before dawn.

What woke him was a sensation. There was an intense feeling of pain within his stomach, much as he had felt when he had been studying with Newt in the room the other day, yet much more intense. Something magic was twisting inside him, feeling as though it were eating out his insides.

Salas clamped a hand over his mouth to keep his gasp from waking the beast asleep beside him.

He ran to the washroom just as nausea hit, and he doubled over into the toilet, his stomach emptying with a terrible clench.

When he was finished, the pain continued, feeling as though blood was being cut off by the magic inside of him to all the important parts within him, leaving his organs to shrivel and die.

Panicking, he made his way over to the vanity to drink from the water pitcher set up beneath it, chugging the contents directly from the vessel. When he placed the pitcher down, he caught sight of himself and nearly screamed, dropping the pitcher to clamp a hand over his mouth once more.

Every dark red lock of hair upon his head had changed into a long, hissing snake.

Jareth, still in his wolf form, burst into the washroom, instantly scanning the room for the threat that had caused Salas distress.

When Salas turned back to the mirror, his hair was normal once more, the serpents gone, and the pain had vanished, as though he had never felt anything in the first place.

Yet hehadfelt something. The twist of magic inside of him that made him fae had been reminding him of something.

And he feared the consequences of trying to forget it.

Chapter Fifteen

As Salas directed the placement of Diagor’s traditional celebratory decorations (bright alpaca rugs featuring swooping birds, ice sculptures in the shape of fanged dragons, crystal goblets swollen enough to accommodate the contents of entire wine pitchers), he felt a uneasy feeling of déjàvu as we swept his fingers over the lace of the tablecloth in the mess hall.

As he sat in the vacant hall, palace staff moving around him to hang and prepare the special decor, he was unnerved by this strong notion that he had done this all before. Prepared for a great party. Swelled with anticipation for the coming social energy. Waxed, dressed, and adorned in gold, he’d prepared well for the Emperor's birthday.

Then he’d lost everything.

It couldn’t possibly end so disastrously this time, and yet…

The coming evening, the ball was to take place, as Salas had requested. His desire had been granted by the King with surprising ease that he hadn’t truly been fully expecting. Hadn’t expected to be trusted.

His mind flashed back to the sandy castle by the sea, pale statues, tumbling streamers.

“Don’t pretend you’re actually doing anything useful by arranging those petals,” an amused voice said over his shoulder. Jovack. “You didn’t actually put in the work to arrange any of this, did you, little bird?”

Salas rose from the bench and turned to sit upon the table top, facing Jovack and immediately pushing against his hard chest when Jovack made to move, seemingly on instinct, to stand between Salas’ legs. “Of course I played a part! How dare you. I chose the color scheme.”

Just as soon as the memory hit him, he doubled over in pain, his muscles seizing in a horrific grip of pure agony. He gasped, clutching his stomach, which was normally the core of the pain, and waited with sheer will for it to pass.

It had become more and more frequent as of recent; this agonizing internal struggle that he knew, as fae, with undeniability, was caused by the magic within him.

Jovack. He couldn’t think of that name. That was important.

He did his best to ignore the agonizing throb, as he had been doing, and filled up a goblet with water. With shaky hands, he downed the cup and left the hall before someone could question him on his health.

Luckily, he was able to easily distract himself with the energy of preparation. Walking out of the hall with thoughts suppressed and forgotten, he already felt better. He just needed to maintain it.

He recuperated himself and found Tarrick outside, instructing maids to take away the decorative, more appealing rugs they were attempting to lay out at the entrance to the hall, and he wanted them to instead leave the usual, hideous pelt rug that was normally splayed out at the entrance where it was.

“What are you doing?” Salas’ eyes swept over the display before him with disdain. “Let them replace the rugs!” Salas had to yell up to the man, neck craning, as Tarick hadn’t immediately reacted to his approach, perhaps not noticing him with his smaller stature.