Page 26

Chapter 26

Rahk

Nat is taking a very long time to deliver the dishes to the kitchen. I tell myself to stay focused on this book I’m trying to read on Harbright’s history—it is mind-numbingly dry—but as the night darkens and the shadows of my flickering candles lengthen, I grow more worried. I don’t want to be overprotective when everything is almost certainly fine. She is probably tending to one of her various feminine needs that she avoids me knowing about. I want her to have her privacy.

Still, the sharpness of my concern makes reading impossible. I give her half of an hour. When she still isn’t returned, I regret applying ollea when I entered this room—it deadens my ability to scent her. I push up on the table, rising to my feet, slamming the book shut.

Privacy or no, I need to make sure she’s safe. And if I invade her privacy at the wrong moment, perhaps it’ll make her finally confide in me. Maybe then I can finally find out what is wrong, and how I can help her.

Maybe, at last, I can learn her real name.

I’m not even halfway to the door before the scuffle of shoes up wooden stairs reaches my ears. My awareness prickles, my relief almost frightening in its intensity—until I realize her gait is not what it usually is. In fact, it might not be her at all.

I swing open the door just as a loud thump and grunt burst from beyond. And there is Nat—collapsed in the stairwell, her arms and head on the floor while the rest of her body is arranged awkwardly across lower stairs.

“Nat!” In two strides, I’m at her side. My blood turns into a dark, lethal rhythm I know so well. I grab her upper arm and pull her upright. “Nat! Are you hurt?” If she has gotten hurt again because of me, I will never forgive myself. I scan her body for signs of injury and find none.

Then she belches. I stare at her, shocked, but only for a second. My lids shutter. “Great Kings help me, you’re drunk! You little fool!”

I pull her head to my shoulder, getting one arm under her ribs and another beneath her legs before I hoist her up. I carry her inside our room, kick the door shut, and drop her onto the seashell-colored bedspread. “You were alone for thirty minutes. How in the Mountains of Ildrid did you come to be drunk?”

She giggles, rolling to her side. “I cannot hold my alcohol. Not at all!”

“Clearly!” I reply with a huff, marching to the door and throwing the bolt. “Where did you get alcohol?”

She mimes sealing her lips and tossing away the key. “I’m not a tattletale.”

I stand there beside the bed, one hand on my hip, the other one dragging down my face. “I’m not asking so I can go punish someone. It’s just . . . This isn’t like you!”

I forget she’s supposed to be a twelve-year-old boy. It’s impossible to think of it when she’s giggling in that very distinctively girlish way. And when she grins up at me, I find it impossible to believe that I bought her disguise for the first few minutes of our acquaintance.

“Am I drunk?” she asks, her arms flung wide on the bed, her body at a crooked angle.

“Very.”

“Oops.” She covers her mouth with her hand. “I didn’t want to get drunk.”

“What were you trying to do?”

“Lose a game.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “Did you succeed?”

“I lost the game. But I won a lot of tricks. It wasn’t good.”

A drinking game with other servants. That is . . . a choice, I suppose. Not one I thought she’d make, though she is not the type to walk away from a challenge. She will have a killer of a migraine tomorrow morning while we get ready for the queen’s luncheon.

I wave my hand and march back to the table. “Go to sleep. The alcohol will wear off during the night.”

I drag back my chair and drop into it with a sigh, refusing to look over to where Nat is lying on the bed. I open my book and stare unseeing at the page. What an unexpected turn for this evening! Did she forget she was playing the part of a young boy? Who should not be drinking? She has a tendency toward chaos, but this is not the sort of chaos I thought she’d—

There’s a tap on my elbow. I look up.

Nat stands right next to me, her face flushed, her hair standing out in every direction.

“Go to bed,” I say sternly.

She holds up her hands, pressed together like in prayer, her eyes rounded and pleading. “Please, Master, there is something I must tell you.”

My heart skips a beat. I hope my voice doesn’t sound as gruff to her as it does to me when I reply, “What is it?”

She wraps both her arms around one of mine. I startle sharply and only barely restrain my instinct to toss her across the room. “Nat—”

She brings her face toward mine. My eyes widen. I find myself going very still. I search for her pleasant scent in the air, but I can only detect a muted thread of it. Why did I have to apply that ollea ?

The turn of my thoughts shocks me. How could I think like this? I’m glad she cannot read my mind and see what a fool I am.

“It’s a secret, my lord,” she whispers into my ear.

I fight to keep my composure with her so near, my hands fisting on the armrests of my chair. “A secret?” It comes out in a rasp.

What is this? What is with me?

She wobbles slightly, her grip on my arm tightening as her lips brush the shell of my ear. “Oops. Sorry. I am a little dizzy.”

You need to lie down and sleep, I almost say as she leans into me, but withhold it for fear she’ll forget to tell me her secret .

“I have a secret,” she says again, clutching tighter to me. I resist the urge to catch her by the waist to steady her—and then immediately give in when she pitches forward. Her hands brace on my elbows as I hold her, her face coming close to mine.

Our eyes lock. Her mouth is open, her pretty eyes catching the flickers of the candle above the fireplace. “Prince Rahk.”

I flinch slightly at the title. I’m the one who told her I was a prince. Her use of it still strikes me as very strange. “Nat,” I say gently, “you need to go lie down on the bed. I don’t want you to fall and hurt yourself.”

“I’m a woman,” she blurts suddenly.

My shoulders sag in relief. Finally, the truth is out. Finally, she confides in me. Now I can get to the bottom of this ridiculousness. I smile slightly. “I know.”

Her mouth drops open even more. “You know ? How long have you known?”

She seems to be drifting closer and closer to me. I swallow and find my voice with difficulty. “From the beginning.”

Her punch to the shoulder is not what I expect, and if she was sober enough to aim properly, it might have had enough gusto behind it to hurt a little. “Fae,” she spits. “You all are so annoying.”

I lift one eyebrow. “Last I checked, Edvear and I were the only fae you know.”

She blinks. That is, unmistakably, a bolt of fear that just sliced into her gaze.

I silently kick myself. “Forgive me. After what happened to your mother, you must have a very negative view of us. As you should.”

I don’t realize how close she has drifted until her knee presses into my leg. I hold very still, caught in a debate over whether I should pick her up and deposit her back in bed where she should be in hopes that she’ll get the rest she needs—or if I should stay here and wait to see what she does.

“I do hate fae,” she whispers. “But I don’t hate you.”

“High praise,” I murmur.

“I want to hate you,” she clarifies. “I want to very badly. It’s just that the longer I’m with you, the less I hate you. Except when you made me do all those pointless tasks. It was so inappropriate for me to rub your back!”

The resurgence of that memory brings with it a new emotion. It is not quite embarrassment, and yet heat crawls up the back of my neck—something I’ve never experienced before.

“Aside from that, you’ve been kind to me,” she continues. “I don’t really know what to think of it. I don’t know why you do it.”

“Because I care about you.” Why would I not care about her? She is a diligent servant who makes me feel less alone in this world away from my world, and she entertains me. I also owe her a life debt. Of course I want her to be healthy, well-fed, and rested.

I can almost taste iron from the lie I tell myself right now.

“Do you?” Her lips quirk slightly. Then suddenly, she darts forward and presses a quick kiss to my cheek.

I freeze, too stunned to react. Too surprised by pleasure blossoming in my chest.

“You terrify me,” she breathes. “I’m always afraid you’re going to kill me.”

Those words yank me out of my stupor. “Kill you?” The idea is revolting to my very core. I’ve killed often, violently, and without apology. But the thought of hurting Nat makes me want to crawl out of my own skin. “Why would I kill you?”

“Because I’m a human. And because I’m a woman.”

I lift one eyebrow. “Those are hardly crimes worthy of death.”

“Some fae might disagree.”

I acquiesce to the point with a nod. “But I am not like those who disagree. I will not hurt you. As long as you are under my roof, you are under my protection.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

She wrinkles her nose. “I’m still afraid of you.”

“Then I will endeavor to ease your fears whenever I can.”

Her weight has shifted and settled, my awareness of her ripping away my ability to breathe. I’ve barely moved a single muscle, but now she’s sitting on my knees. Leaning over me with such a focused intensity I wonder how anyone is fooled by her disguise. She doesn’t look at all like a boy. Her sharp nose and chin are softened by her freckles and full lips, and the eyes I once thought rather plain now devour my attention. I keep my hand firmly on her waist to keep her from falling.

Her face drifts above mine. Her eyes wander over my features, lingering on my mouth. As though she is trying to decide if she’s going to kiss me again.

If she did . . . I would let her. Great Kings curse me.

“Please,” I rasp, lifting my chin toward hers. “Tell me your name. Your real name.”

“My name is Kat,” she replies.

Kat. I smile. “You’re not very creative with your pseudonyms, are you?”

She blushes, and it pleases me very much.

“Kat,” I whisper, dropping my tone. “Are you in danger? Why this disguise?”

She swallows hard. “Yes.”

My stomach pitches. My brow hardens. I tighten my grip on her, pulling her closer to my chest. “Tell me how I can protect you.”

“Let me remain as your servant—and don’t kill me.”

I roll my eyes to the ceiling. “We’ve already established I’m not going to kill you. But yes, of course you can remain with me. As long as you need.”

My very bones demand the answer to another question: who. Who has frightened her so much that she resorts to these measures?

“Are you hiding from someone?” I ask. A foreign impulse to cradle her close to my heart, to physically surround her so she cannot be hurt, almost obliterates my defenses.

She looks away from me, toward the window that views the night-darkened city. Her profile is a mix of sharp and soft. She nods once.

I press harder. “Who are you hiding from?”

She doesn’t answer. She’s turned into a very solemn drunk.

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. But I want to help you.”

Her eyes flutter closed, and her weight shifts on my lap. “I’m so tired.”

This conversation is over, then. I temper my disappointment at not learning more with the celebration that I’ve learned as much as I have.

Kat. Her name is Kat.

She slides to the floor. I watch each of her movements. She doesn’t move like anyone else I’ve seen before: nimble, with quick but slightly unsteady feet—exacerbated by the alcohol. It is an unusual combination that I do not know what to make of, yet one I find fascinating.

Suddenly, she whirls, nearly toppling over. I sit up and instinctively reach to stop her fall, but she catches herself. The next instant, she catches my face in both her hands.

I go still.

She stares at me, intently, her lips parted. I do not breathe. My command to go to sleep dies in my throat. Her fingers are warm on my rough cheeks. She pulls me slightly toward herself, and brings her mouth to—

“Kat,” I croak just before she kisses my chin. It is featherlight and soft and yet no less shocking than the first. My voice comes out in a rasp. “Please go to sleep. You are drunk and you don’t want this.”

“I just want to say thank you,” she whispers. “You are good. I didn’t think so at first, but I see it now.”

Her words are even more shocking than her kiss. I don’t want to think about them, what they mean to me, what they make me feel. No—I must get this Great Kings cursed woman to sleep before she makes fools out of both of us.

“To bed,” I order, gently but firmly pushing her away from me. “Now.”

To my relief, she obeys. I stay where I am as she slides to the bed and flops beneath the covers, fully clothed. She’s asleep in seconds, her chest rising in even breaths.

A huge exhalation gusts out of me, and I sag in my chair. I cover my face with one hand. Then I release a groan. Somehow, I must get back to work after . . . that .

Stubbornly, I pull the boring book I was reading into my lap and stare unseeing at the page.

“Kat,” I whisper, tasting the name on my tongue. My eyes flit up from my book every few minutes to linger on her. I find the longer I look at her, the more my mouth tilts down.

I’m going to find out who she’s hiding from, and it’ll take a great deal of self-control to not let the Nothril prince in me rip him limb from limb.

It is after midnight when I rise from the table. I snuffed out the candles hours ago, and Kat is lost to a deep sleep. She does not stir as I slip across the room and take the servants’ door out.

I stay close to the shadows as I traverse the streets, heading toward a very specific destination. It does not take me long to find the city’s stop for the coach. My ollea dose has worn off, leaving my senses sharp as I cover the area, scenting for anything familiar. The freshest scents are not familiar at all. I investigate past those, hunting for the broken trails, the ones that have been almost completely buried.

And there, I find one tiny sliver remaining. One that immediately registers in my mind.

I take off, following that scent. Several times, I almost lose it, but every time I slow down, retrace my steps, and I pick it up once more.

The trail ends in an alleyway. I pick my way around debris, broken slats of wood, and jagged bottle caps until I reach the alley’s dead end.

Four bodies lie huddled together, all male. I survey them from the youngest to the oldest. A father and his three sons. The father is missing half of a leg. He is the source of the strange arrangement of footprints I noticed.

Soundlessly, I approach. I crouch before the oldest boy, who sleeps on his side, half in front of his father as though to defend him. Quickly, I lay my hand over his mouth.

He jerks awake. His eyes immediately go white-ringed.

I lean close and whisper, “Come with me and don’t make a sound, or I will kill your father.”

The youth trembles as I release him, but he does what I say. I prod him to walk in front of me to the mouth of the alley. I expect him to start blathering the moment I motion for him to speak. Instead, he remains silent, fingers flexing at his sides.

His time in Faerieland has increased his courage.

“Tell me about the Ivy Mask.” I keep my voice low.

“Or else you will kill my father?” asks the boy.

I don’t intend to kill his father, so I let my silence be taken as affirmation.

He draws a deep breath. His exhalation is shaky. “What do you want to know?”

“What is his name?”

“. . . the Ivy Mask?” the boy replies.

“You do not know his name?”

He shakes his head.

“Then what does he look like?”

He shrugs. “He wore a mask the entire time.”

“His height then.” I sit on an empty crate, drumming my fingers on its splintery side. “His build.”

“He was almost as tall as you,” the boy replies. “Though somewhat slenderer.”

What a little liar. I saw the footprints from the Ivy Mask’s last raid. None of them could have belonged to someone of my height. I withdraw a three-inch blade from my sleeve and twirl it casually on my fingers. The boy visibly swallows. I lean forward. “I think he is a little shorter than what you are describing.”

“He probably is,” he replies. “I was not paying close attention.”

So he remains loyal to the Ivy Mask. I can change that. I can also drag one of his other brothers out here and get him to talk. If they had information that would be crucial in identifying the Ivy Mask and sparing Pavi’s life, I’d do it.

But they don’t have what I need.

I sheathe my knife and jerk my head toward the alleyway. “You’re free to go.”