Page 29 of A Taste For Lies (The Apex Kingdom #1)

Chapter 29

ALORA

A t first, I’m nearly overwhelmed by the grand ballroom. Glittering courtiers, most in varying shades of night, mill about, diamonds twinkling like stars on their persons. The decor is a reflection of the courtiers—rich velvet curtains the same deep indigo as the night sky outside contrast with the vaulted ceiling sparkling with star-like crystals hanging from elaborate chandeliers.

But it’s the lavish dance floor that truly captures my attention. Circular and laid with a glossy obsidian surface, it reflects the crystals hanging above. At its center, the orchestra plays enchanting music, though no one is yet dancing. White roses lace the air with the queen’s telltale perfume.

Maeve joins me, her bright hair cascading loosely down her back, a delicate silver tiara atop her head indicating her royal status. It winks with tiny diamonds, just like her twilight-colored gown.

“Maeve,” I breathe.

“Yes, yes.” She dismisses the compliment before it can form. She’s staring at something, a determined look in her green eyes. I follow her gaze to a platform where four thrones rest, two guardians flanking them. I sneak a quick glance at them—the female has the same athletic build as Astrid, with ebony hair shorn close to her scalp. The male is huge with brown hair and eyes and an enormous battle-ax peeking out from behind his back. My stomach twists with nerves, and I quickly move on to humans atop the dais.

And then I see him—the mark. The man responsible for Taran’s mother’s death and that of countless others: King Elias Nyxley.

Scrutinizing the king, I understand for the first time why no one ever insinuates Taran’s mother slept with an Apex or the god of tricksters and liars. The king is an older version of Taran. The same dark hair, mixed with ebony and dark brown, only threaded with silver. Deep-set eyes beneath heavy brows above a strong, square jawline. The only noticeable differences are the king’s lighter skin tone and the brilliant, piercing emerald of his eyes that match the crown prince’s.

“Are you related to the prince on his father’s side or his mother’s?” I ask Maeve.

She grimaces. “The king’s side. The eyes give it away, don’t they?”

I nod, distracted, caught up in examining the mark. I have to admit he’s intimidating. Not as enormous as Taran, given he’s human, but he’s still imposing. Despite his age and privilege, he hasn’t let himself go like other rulers might. He’s in trim, fighting shape. He uses it all to his advantage of course—his looks, his stature. It’s all part of the authority that drives his anti-Apex propaganda. My lips press together at the thought.

“Uh-oh,” Carter comments, suddenly sipping champagne by my shoulder. “That’s a dangerous look.”

I tilt my head, considering. “What did it look like?”

“Like you’ve finally let the lynx out to play. And we should all be wary of your claws.”

My mouth twitches. “You should be.”

He chuckles. “Already was, Wildcat.”

“Lady Thorne. Lady Ashbourne.” Victoria’s cool greeting pulls my attention away from the royal family, and Carter steps back.

If Maeve is beautiful tonight, Lady Winters is devastating. She’s a starlight princess in glittering silver. Her platinum locks appear to be twinkling with actual diamonds. I remember Maeve saying Lord Winters oversees Veridia’s mines.

“Lady Winters,” I gasp. “Are those real diamonds in your hair?”

Her pink lips turn up into a smile that doesn’t meet her eyes. “Of course.” Her hand clamps my arm, tight enough to bruise. “Lady Thorne, you must tell me who your seamstress is.”

“Oh.” I laugh lightly. “I brought this gown with me from Nostura. There’s a talented seamstress over the border—she’s much in demand.” A kernel warms in my chest at being able to boast about Eleni’s talents, even here.

“You simply must give me her name. Now that we are such close friends.” Lady Winters begins to drag me away with her grip on my arm. “Have you tried this evening’s special cocktail? The queen designed it herself.”

My mouth opens to protest—I’m not drinking anything this lady gives me—when, out of nowhere, a page appears at my side. “Their Majesties request your presence, Lady Thorne.”

Lady Winters is far too refined to growl but her face says she badly wants to as she reluctantly releases my arm. I notice it only in the abstract because my pulse has kicked up, and my stomach is twisting with dread at having to present myself to the king. I take small sips of air, trying not to hyperventilate. A helpless laugh floats from my lips. It sounds slightly deranged.

A small hand slips into mine. Maeve’s. She squeezes once, fortifies me with a subtle nod and pulls us to the dais where the royal family waits. Both rulers are in midnight blue, diamonds twinkling on their crowns amidst silver-wrought vines and roses. Sitting beside them is a young boy with curious beetle-green eyes and his mother’s strawberry hair. I hardly get a look at Taran on the end except to note he is pointedly ignoring me, a chilling mask on his face. I understand it. Of course I understand it, but it still feels…wrong somehow.

We drop into simultaneous curtsies and hold them for a long, anxious moment.

“Rise.” The king’s voice booms. Aggressive. My eyes snap to his face, along with most others in the ballroom. “Niece, introduce us to your new friend. ”

To Maeve’s credit, she never wavers. She lifts her chin as if she’s a queen treating with a fellow ruler. It helps to steady my roiling stomach more than I would have thought possible.

“Your Majesty, may I present Lady Loriella Thorne from Nostura.”

The king’s penetrating gaze flicks to me. My earlier bravado has forsaken me, leaving behind an unsettling void where confidence should be. I can’t put my finger on what it is that inspires such trembling anxiety in his presence—except, of course, I can. I know exactly what it is.

This man would have me put to death in an instant if he knew who I really was. This man could command his guardian to cut off my head using that battle-ax right here on the dais, as easily as breathing. I wonder distractedly if they would bother to clear my body from the ballroom or just dance around it.

The king’s oily gaze traverses the silky clinging fabric of my gown. “I hear you are lucky enough to have caught my queen’s attention, Lady Thorne.” Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Taran’s grip on the arms of the throne tighten. The king’s attention narrows in on me. “I also hear you have a tiny poison catcher for an Apex.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” I manage to speak without my voice cracking. A feat in and of itself. At that exact moment, the string quartet finishes their song. Anyone in the ballroom who wasn’t watching this exchange is rapt with attention now.

“Unusual eye color. And you’re tall for a woman.” His tone makes it clear that neither of those observations are compliments. “It’s almost as if you are the Apex and your guardian is the Elite.” Silence hangs heavy in the ballroom, and I’m barely breathing. To be called an Apex by this man is no small insult.

Suddenly, the king laughs. It’s not a pleasant sound. And just like his voice, it resounds out across the room, echoing off the mirrored floor and high ceilings. The queen, the young prince and the rest of the Elite join in. The quartet finally starts playing again.

The king’s mouth is twisted into a cruel smile that doesn’t touch his eyes. That laugh was pointedly at my expense—a performance meant to humiliate. But I’ve known worse. I’m well acquainted with the insecure swagger of a bully who knows exactly where his weak spots are and is terrified someone will find them.

My eyes flick to Taran. His face is a perfect mask of boredom, as if he can’t be bothered. His only tell is the white in his knuckles where he clenches the arms of the throne. It must be a trick of the ball’s strange lighting, but the tips of his fingers look darker by comparison, almost disappearing into the wood.

The king tracks my gaze to Taran. But before he can continue his needling, the prince rises gracefully. He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t look at the king. He stalks away…right towards Lady Winters, who has been watching this audience with a look of pure elation on her beautiful face.

Taran bows at the waist and extends his hand to her. “May I request the pleasure of your company for the first dance?”

She looks directly at me when she purrs, “I’d be delighted, Your Highness.”

They sweep off to the dance floor, and I’m powerless not to watch them, along with the rest of the court. As I expected, they look lovely together. Her petite, shimmering form contrasts perfectly with his large, muscled, dark one. The way they move, his strong hands guiding her, is enough for whispers to erupt in their wake, courtiers casting glances between them and the dais.

I turn back to the king, who is watching the couple with an inscrutable expression, my presence completely forgotten. I was never the audience for that little demonstration anyway. Just a prop.

“Elias”—the queen smiles up at him sweetly—“are you going to show Prince Taran how this dance is properly done?”

It’s precisely the right thing to say. Without even bothering to dismiss us, King Nyxley takes the queen’s hand and leads her out to join the swirling crowd. Maeve grabs my arm in a death grip and slowly backs us up to where Carter stands, eye on his charge as the prince and Lady Winters glide across the dance floor. I glance around for Mei and find her shrinking against the wall with the servants and most of the other Apex guardians.

I take what feels like my first breath since the page beckoned us over .

“That could have gone worse,” Carter notes.

“Absolutely.” Maeve’s already pale face is ashen, her brilliant green eyes standing out in stark contrast.

It abruptly occurs to me that I may have only half escaped this evening’s gauntlet. “Where are your parents, Maeve?”

The lady swipes a champagne glass from a passing tray and downs half of it in one gulp. Color starts to return to her cheeks. “Back at our family seat in Rivermoor. My mother and father are spineless sycophants who prefer to use their connections to the crown to line their pockets from afar rather than stay and have to witness the obvious immorality of this court—an immorality they’d never have the courage to do anything about anyway.”

“I’m sorry.” It’s woefully inadequate, but I’m not sure what else to say.

“Don’t be. The late queen was more of a mother to me than my own ever was.”

I watch Lady Winters laugh at something Taran said. They certainly don’t look like enemies, twirling in perfect rhythm. Both Elite, no doubt trained in these dances since birth. A far cry from my checkered past.

“I’d dance with you if I could.” Carter knocks my shoulder with his own.

“This isn’t really my kind of dancing.”

Carter snorts. “Mine neither.” He casts me a sideways glance. “You know why he asked her to dance, right?”

“I don’t care.”

“Suit yourself.”

But as the second song starts up, and Lady Winters remains clasped in Taran’s strong hold, I have to admit to myself that I do care. But it’s only my pride that’s hurt.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

As niece to the king, Maeve is in high demand and has long since abandoned us. I’m a little miffed that no one has offered me at least one turn about the floor, but then I catch Carter visibly baring his teeth at a potential suitor. The Elite lord makes an abrupt about-face, skin blanched.

I elbow the captain in his nonexistent gut .

“Ow!” he complains. I know it can’t have hurt.

“What the hells? When I said this isn’t my kind of dancing I didn’t mean I don’t know how.”

“I know you can dance,” Carter assures me. “You forget, I was at the pearls heist. I’ve seen the way you move.”

“Then why…?”

He grimaces.

“Lady Thorne?”

I swing my head to meet the gaze of a middle-aged man with pale blonde hair, festooned in broaches and rings and necklaces. My pulse picks up. “Lord Winters. How are you this evening?”

He smiles. “Very well, thank you. May I have this dance?”

My hand trembles as I extend it to meet his. “I’d be delighted, My Lord.”

As we make our way out onto the dance floor, I shoot a look over my shoulder at Carter, but he’s already gone—off to find the records. My role as a distraction has officially commenced.

A waltz starts up, and Lord Winters’ hand finds my waist. I lift my voluminous skirts and rest my opposite hand in his. It’s easy enough to follow his lead, and I paste a demure smile on my face, waiting for him to speak first. There’s no way he asked me to dance for my sparkling personality; there’s always a motive.

Rule Number Seven: Information is power.

His frost-blue eyes study mine—with my heels, our gazes meet easily. “My daughter tells me you’re from Nostura.”

An innocuous start to an interrogation. “Yes, My Lord. My grandfather was a Shanterran dignitary, so we have always lived close to the border.” He sweeps us around a turn, and as promised, the skirt of Eleni’s gown billows around me, the golden fabric catching the light and scattering it in a thousand tiny sparks.

“Ah, I presume that’s the source of your Shanterran Apex guardian, then?” he asks in a carefully nonchalant manner .

I keep my face relaxed. So Mei is the impetus for this conversation. Has Victoria told him she can taste lies? More than likely. My heart quickens for just a beat as I worry he might inform the king. But what can they do to her? She’s already an Apex.

“Yes, my grandfather was gifted Mei by a visiting friend.” We spin into another turn, and the layers of satin and tulle whisper against each other in a delicate symphony.

“That’s a powerful thing to give away,” he remarks. I fight to keep my hand in his relaxed.

I laugh, a courtier’s laugh for show, tossing my long hair. “If I’m being honest, My Lord, I believe a wager may have been in play. You know how men are.”

He smiles politely. “Of course. How long has the Apex been in your family’s service?”

I smile back, buying myself time to think. “Well, I believe that—”

“Excuse me, Lord Winters.” A gravelly voice, tight with repressed irritation, breaks into our conversation. Lord Winters and I come to an awkward stop amidst the still-twirling Elite. My eyes lift to meet glowing stormy gray.

“May I cut in?”