Page 21 of A Crown So Cursed (The Goldenchild Prophecy #5)

Chapter Fourteen

A rrogant and unapologetic, stood Esme, her lissome frame vibrating with barely suppressed laughter. An impish grin trembled across her lips as she stood, hip cocked, with one hand on her hip.

“Oh, please, please! Do not allow me to interrupt,” she pleaded, her voice honeyed and lucid with delight at their nudity. “By all means—carry on! I love a show.”

Blood and bones.

Esme was a deviant.

Her coppery hair was mussed and wild as though she, too, had only just extricated herself from a lover’s embrace.

Neither Gwendolyn nor Málik had an immediate response for her, and Gwendolyn was so shocked she didn’t think to dress.

Satisfied that she had adequately made a proper entrance, Esme strutted the rest of the way into the chamber, completely without invitation, her fiery hair bouncing around her “Did you miss me?” she quipped, her green eyes alight with mischief.

“Or were you too... preoccupied to think of me at all?” She waggled her brows.

And then, she added plaintively, “Well, so clearly, you were too preoccupied to send word of Gwendolyn’s return. I had to hear it for myself.”

Gwendolyn blinked, meeting her sister’s gaze with a mixture of exasperation and fondness. “Your timing is impeccable as always, Esme.”

“Indeed,” agreed Málik. “One would almost think you’d planned your entrance.

” He levered himself up and glowered at both of them at once—mayhap because Gwendolyn couldn’t quite wipe the embarrassed grin from her face.

Gods knew this was not how she’d wished to meet her sister again, but she was relieved to see her.

In fact, her timing couldn’t be more serendipitous.

She wasn’t being entirely facetious. They could use her help right now.

For her part, Esme gave a very unladylike snort—a signature laugh, that one that sent most men scrambling for weapons or wine. Sometimes both.

“Is that any way to welcome your sister?” she said directly to Málik.

“ You are not my sister,” he argued.

“Whatever—ex-lover.”

His frown deepened. “That was long ago, and my worst mistake!”

“Your worst? Really?” Esme glanced down at his stubborn erection, his desire barely diminished even with her arrival, and grinned. “I would say more delightful, as I recall—pardon Gwendolyn.” She winked at Gwendolyn.

“I see your tongue is sharp as ever,” Málik returned, clearly annoyed.

“Indubitably, it is part of my charm,” Esme allowed, and then her grin widened. “But fear not, brother…er, lover…in-law… Majesty—I am not here to rekindle old flames. And I was not speaking to you. I was speaking to her .”

Her gaze turned to Gwendolyn, softening. “I can see I’ve interrupted quite the reunion,” she allowed with an approving smile, and her eyes slid brazenly over Gwendolyn’s exposed breasts, her green eyes twinkling with mirth. “And I really must confess that shade of pink suits you.”

Gathering her wits at last, Gwendolyn arose, realizing that Esme intended to remain until she had her say.

She retrieved a soft-gray robe that had been laid atop the bed for her—how; she didn’t know.

It was as though the room itself sensed her needs.

Her cheeks burning as she dressed, she fumbled with the ribbons as Málik dressed as well, less eager.

Reaching for his discarded tunic, he shot Esme a withering glance, and another smile tugged at Gwendolyn’s lips. “I trust there’s a reason for this...drama?”

“How did you know I was here?” Gwendolyn asked.

Smiling, Esme flounced to the bed, plopping herself down upon it, unperturbed by Málik’s glare. “Manannán,” she said. “He was concerned—as a father should be.”

Gwendolyn couldn’t deny the gratitude that washed over her at hearing this.

But then again, somehow, the thought of her father—or any father—here in this room right now, whether in spirit, or in the flesh, did not suit her.

Really, it should not suit her that Esme was here either, and she should be far more chagrined, but she was not.

It was difficult to be embarrassed by anything in Esme’s presence, when at their first meeting, Esme had so rudely squeezed her breast.

“More to the point,” Málik said crossly. “Where have you been?”

Esme’s demeanor shifted only slightly, her playful visage fading into a more serious mask.

“The Lands of Eternal Winter,” she revealed.

“Let me tell you, Málik, it was no thrill. While we sit here pining for our lost homelands, it is not as I remember. There is no peace in that place—neither is the climate suitable to my liking. Cold. Bitter. The Grypes and Wyrms are endlessly at war—and I do mean endlessly!”

Málik blinked without pity, and if he was surprised by all that she’d revealed, he didn’t let on.

Esme continued. “The Arimaspoi appear intent upon losing their only eye, and the elves have barricaded the upper valleys. Meanwhile, Old Habetrot circles above their wards like a rook awaiting carrion.”

“Who is Old Habetrot?” Gwendolyn asked.

“You don’t want to know,” said both Esme and Málik at once.

“And worse,” Esme continued. “The Lands of Eternal Spring are infested by shrieking will-o’-the-wisps.

I hopped three realms in a fortnight simply to avoid them, seeking oblivion or a decent vintage.

Found only the former. Now—” she fixed both of them with a meaningful look—“I believe I’d rather be here. ”

“What do you mean, hopped?” Gwendolyn asked.

Esme shrugged. “Ask your lover. It is something he seems quite intent upon avoiding, choosing to do everything in the most laborious manner imaginable.”

Málik’s brows collided. “I have feet,” he allowed.

Gwendolyn lost herself for a moment, still wondering what Esme meant by “hopped.”

No doubt, there had been many times when she had suspected the Fae had other means to travel, and she even implied as much the night that Málik returned to their camp after doing Gods knew what to Loc’s men.

“What business took you there?” he asked, and Esme replied saucily, her voice tinged with a mix of excitement and trepidation.

“Your father’s business. I tracked him, hoping to unravel the mystery of his disappearance. And let me tell you, Málik, that Wyrm knows how to cover his tracks!”

Gwendolyn blinked with surprise. “Your father lives?”

Apparently, today was a day for revelations.

“So it seems,” said Málik. “But what business was that of yours, Esme? If my father wished to reveal himself, he would have done so long ago, and yet he does not. Clearly, he finds no cause to return.”

Gwendolyn’s gaze did not leave Málik’s face, watching curiously as a tempest of emotions played across his features. Joy, confusion, anger, hope —each taking a turn.

So, his father lived, and Málik was not surprised, but he was angry.

“I thought you would be pleased.” Esme pouted, surveying Málik through heavy lashes. “You said you would sell your soul to know if he lived,” she added. “I didn’t sell mine, but I spent it, Brother, and I spent more of myself than you will ever know—all for you.”

For a moment, the mask dropped from Esme’s face—a flicker, a wince, not precisely one of pain nor of shame but of a weariness so old that even her bottomless well of bravado ran dry. “He’s been in hiding,” she offered petulantly. “But that is not all.”

She paused, her green eyes glinting with animosity. “Lord Elric knows where he is—he has always known. He and his Shadow Court made a deal with your father.”

“What deal?”

Esme shrugged. “If he left, and if Aengus should somehow be dethroned… and… if you should then wed his daughter… he would lie for him and claim he was dead and gone, instead of… well, killing him.” A weighty silence fell between them.

Esme turned to Gwendolyn. “That was his penance. He was to have been executed, and Lord Elric was the one to do it. But he took him into the Forbidden Lands and returned with the ceremonial dagger covered in blood—apparently no one even considered asking if he was dead, or simply wounded. After the portals were closed, I asked him about it, and he danced around the truth. So I knew.”

Málik’s face hardened, his ice-blue eyes turning as cold as the winter winds of his father’s refuge. “So, the Shadow Court’s machinations run deeper than we thought,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “And clearly, my father agreed to it.”

Esme shrugged. “He fled, at least? More than that, we do not know, and I asked why, but he would not say.” Gwendolyn’s heart ached for Málik.

“Did you speak to him?”

“Oh, yes,” Esme said. “He was...reluctant… at first. But you know I can be persuasive when I wish to be.” Her lips curved slightly.

“Will you make me ask?” Málik growled. “What did he say?” Once again, Esme’s gaze flicked between Málik and Gwendolyn, her expression uncharacteristically somber.

“He spoke of regret, Málik. Choices made in haste. Bargains he wished he could undo. But little more than that. He was grief-stricken over your mother, and with her death found no cause to live. But he also speaks of a threat… to you. When he heard that the two of you—” She pointed to both Gwendolyn and Málik— “Were parted, and the portals closed, he feared Lord Elric would finally have his way.”

Silence.

“All I truly know is that he fears what the Shadow Court might do if he returns, and he fears that even more than he fears your wedding Lirael Silvershade.”

Málik nodded, his jaw working furiously. “ She issued a challenge.”

“Lirael?”

He nodded again. “Gwendolyn?—”

Esme interrupted. “Yes, I know. This is why I am here. I have a plan.”

“ You have a plan?” Gwendolyn asked.

“Really, don’t look so surprised!” Esme protested.

“What plan?” Málik demanded, and Esme cast him a narrow-eyed glance.

“You must learn to trust me, Brother!”

“Once again, not your brother,” Málik said, staring at her.

“For once, Málik, trust me. I vow to protect your bride with my life.”

“And if I refuse?”