Page 30

On the ground level, where the masquerade’s dance floor had once been congested with grinding couples, a long table outlined in high-backed chairs stretches beneath the hawthorn.

Everyone is here. Cove wears an ivory gown, and she’s inhaling the blossoms of a honeysuckle bush. Elixir bends his head and murmurs to her. His gold-cuffed robe is more lavish than usual, as are the boots encasing his feet and the loose shirt and leggings.

Puck swaggers our way in buckled leather and without a shred of formality. His rumpled waves look as though Juniper spent half the night yanking on them. In comparison, Lark’s bookish sister is a vision in a velvet gown so scarlet it rivals her lover’s hair.

Lark whistles. “Hubba hubba.”

“Why, thank you,” Puck croons.

“Not you, asshole,” my mate jokes, then admires Juniper. “You’re looking mighty fine, hon. But I thought you said only hussies wore red.”

Juniper shrugs. “I changed my mind.”

“Which is why we have one less set of drinking glasses in our kitchen,” Puck remarks. “I was clearing the dishes and might have broken them when I saw her.”

“How many were you holding when they slipped from your fingers?” Lark wonders.

“One,” he says with a wolfish grin. “The first was an accident. The rest just got in the way. We needed countertop space.”

“Nice work,” my saucy mate compliments her crimson-faced sister. “Glad to see you’ve accessorized, too. The dress goes well with the crossbow.”

Weapons flash from each of our garments. It had been a trial locating the ones that got swept away in The Deep’s flood, but we’d managed to restore them.

Chalices and trays run down the table’s length. The latter bears flagons of blackthorn wine, spirited nectar, and effervescent water flavored with woodland spices. As everyone finds their seats, Juniper takes stock of the banquet. Her mouth scrunches into a grimace, and her intakes falter, trying not to inhale the mixture of scents.

Across from her, a frown yanks Puck’s features downward. “My, my, my. I thought you loved cranberry nectar.”

“It’s not the drinks,” she excuses. “I’m just tired.”

Puck doesn’t look convinced. Elixir listens to them with a perturbed expression. I’m not sure I believe Juniper, either.

Tímien and the nightingale are perched on the hawthorn’s shallowest branch, which extends over the table. Our band watches a troop of owls cruise inside, sling-shotting through the air on ebony and flaxen wings, each quill shining at the tips.

Lark’s sisters go slack-jawed at the congregation. In synchronized form, the raptors split and take up residence on the lower boughs, every member claiming a different spot. Their arrangement is carefully considered, offering views of each chair as well as the entirety of the aviary.

We sink to the floor, bowing to the fauna and then rising. They peer down at us through irises glossed in aquamarine and citrine, the wide eyes so piercing they could be medallions.

Despite signs of the wild fading, the river and forest fauna are more remote—and thus, more removed—from this conflict. However, the animals of the mountain are increasingly aware of the tensions. They sense the impending scrimmage between Faeries of the Solitary wild.

We genuflect to the raptors. Straightening, I twirl a finger, and the wind answers my call. My digit whisks up a thin film of air, invisible to everyone but me, the owls, and Lark, who notices fragments.

The wind agitates into a sphere that bloats around the hawthorn, where the aviary birds roam. A smaller globe forms over our band, which adapts to us as we move.

Afterward, Tímien communicates on behalf of The Parliament. It’s time to prepare ourselves.

I heed the message and nod to everyone. “He’s near.”

“I’d say I’m a little closer than that,” a male voice drones.

We turn—all except Elixir, who’s already facing the arched entrance. He must have detected the Fae’s arrival moments earlier, because a hiss is skittering across his tongue. Each of us seizes our weapons, holding fast to our bows, spear, daggers, whip, and javelin.

Elixir plants himself in front of Cove, whose delicate features are taut, equal parts stricken and livid. We’d known who was coming. Yet knowing and seeing are two different experiences.

The water Fae fills the doorway, a single thumb hooked into the pocket of his pants and a dark shirt clinging to his frame. Markings peek from the neckline, hinting at the tar-black whorls inking the rest of his torso. Beneath a stream of murky green hair reminiscent of a marshland, black smudges leak from beneath his lower eyelashes, as if he’s weeping oil. Several scales glitter at the temples, but for a merman shifter, Scorpio doesn’t have as many incrustations as Elixir.

Scorpio raises his brow at our display, as if we’ve overestimated and overreacted. On that note, he stands without an entourage. The only thing he’s brought is the trident buckled to his back.

The prick lifts his arms, palms up. “If I’m not mistaken, you were expecting me, right? Your love letter said this was a meeting, not an execution. What did you think I would do?” A spiteful grin reveals a row of whittled teeth. “Take you by surprise?”