Page 15

BECAUSE THERE HAD never before been an execution in the Stone Order, Oliver, Maxen, and Amalie had scrambled to devise a setup for it. It was a grisly assignment, and I couldn’t help a deep stab of guilt over pressing it upon them. But it had to be done.

The fortress was a former Earthly realm prison, with a room that had once been used for lethal-injection executions. Since Marisol had the prison transmuted into the Faerie realm and remodeled most of the original structure, the lethal injection room had been used for storage. Amalie had found workers to clear it out.

The execution room itself was the size of a small rectangular bedroom, with a window opposite the door. The window looked into a slightly deeper room. When the fortress had still been San Quentin State Prison, the larger room had been used as a viewing area for people attending the execution—usually the family members of the victim, a few press, and sometimes family of the criminal.

I learned all of this from Amalie, who seemed well-versed on the history of the fortress. She and the others had arranged this execution in a manner that imitated the lethal injections that used to take place when the fortress was an Earthly prison.

I would be in the viewing area for the execution of the man who’d wanted me dead. Carlton Kanab was his name. He was single, no children, and a bit of a loner, by all accounts. It was hard to imagine how anyone could manage to be much of a hermit in the fortress, but perhaps it was part of the explanation for how he’d ended up here, facing death because he’d hung his very existence on his belief that Marisol Lothlorien was the greatest of our people ever to have lived.

However we’d ended up here and regardless of how deeply and remorselessly Carlton Kanab hated me, my chest ached for what I had to do. I wished he’d repented, but he’d been given the choice and rejected my offer.

The Druid had come to strip the other three prisoners of their magic, and that process was still underway when I entered the viewing room for Kanab’s execution. Druidic magic usually involved chanting—the more intricate the magic, the more chanting needed—so it could be hours yet before that was finished. It wasn’t a simple process, and it was one that the subjects had to willingly submit to.

“Here, Your Majesty.” Oliver indicated I was to sit in a high-backed chair on a small platform that was situated at the back of the viewing room. I’d insisted that I not sit in front. I had absolutely no desire to be staring right into the man’s face when he died.

Maxen was the first attendee to come in after me. He bowed and then went to stand at my right while Oliver took the position to my left.

“It’ll be over soon,” Maxen said softly.

I nodded without meeting his gaze. Realizing I was pushing my palms backward and forward across my thighs in a nervous gesture, I stilled my hands by intertwining my fingers and holding them in my lap.

Deciding what to wear to the execution had been yet another macabre little task that I was eager to forget. I’d ended up in trousers and a dark shirt, feeling it wouldn’t be right to put on some fancy dress as if I were attending a ball. I did, however, wear the crown. We’d opened attendance to anyone who wanted to come, up to the limit of the size of the room, and some of my dissenters—not those who’d tried to kill me, but who didn’t want me on the throne—would be in the audience for the execution. I wanted them to remember who was in charge.

They began to arrive, and Oliver’s people who were stationed just outside the door made sure none tried to enter with weapons of any kind.

Raleigh, the stump of one forearm heavily bandaged, was among the first to come in. He stopped to bow before me as etiquette dictated. Tension hung heavy and ugly in the air, but I speculated by the way his shoulders curled forward and his sunken, haunted eyes skirted off to the side he wouldn’t be coming at me again. I imagined he was thinking about how this easily could have been his execution. If he weren’t thinking about how he might be the one facing death, he was a very stubborn and stupid man indeed. I would have been well within my right to have Raleigh sentenced to death after what he’d tried to pull against me in the fortress foyer. But unless he was putting on an act, the loss of his sword hand appeared to have left him shamed and broken.

For me, Raleigh’s presence was a vivid, gut-wrenching reminder of the difficult choices I’d faced. I could only hope that these punishments—Raleigh’s missing hand, the permanent banishment of three Fae from their homeland, and Carlton Kanab’s death—would be enough, and I wouldn’t be forced to take any of these actions ever again.

I hoped, but I also had to remain realistic.

Another half dozen people filtered in and quietly took seats in the three rows of folding chairs set up between me and the viewing window. There was no conversation, only quiet, careful shifting, clearing of throats, and other subtle noises.

Belatedly, I wondered if we should have made more of a spectacle of the event, perhaps requiring all adult Carraig to attend. But that felt too tyrannical, even if it might have been effective in dissuading more attacks against me.

Maxen went to pull the door closed and turn down the lights. Half a minute later, the curtain on the other side of the viewing window was pulled aside, revealing three people in the execution room.

Carlton Kanab was strapped to a gurney. One of the fortress’s lead medics was hunched over a stainless steel surgery tray. And next to the prisoner was Jaquard. A master swordsman and one of my former teachers, Jaquard was also my failed assassin. Marisol had sent him to kill me, but he’d found a loophole in her command and allowed me to escape. He and I hadn’t spoken since I’d returned to the fortress to take the throne, but Oliver had informed me that Jaquard had been keeping a low profile, being very careful to avoid association with anyone who opposed me.

Apparently, Kanab had chosen Jaquard as the one person he was allowed to have as support at his execution. I wasn’t entirely sure how to feel about my former teacher’s presence on the other side of the glass. I decided to focus on how Jaquard showed me mercy and saved my life at the risk of his own and was now offering comfort to a man who was facing death.

The medic straightened and faced the viewing window holding a small vial filled with pinkish liquid in one hand. Then he turned to Kanab. To his credit, he opened his mouth and allowed the medic to pour in the poison without struggle or resistance. Carlton Kanab had balls. In spite of his actions, I couldn’t help thinking it was a terrible shame we had to lose him.

It was over quickly. Kanab’s body slackened, his head falling to one side, as if sleep had suddenly overtaken him. After about a minute, the medic felt for a pulse at the side of Kanab’s neck. The medic stepped back and gave a slight nod. An unseen hand pulled the curtain back across the window.

Maxen raised the lights and opened the door, and the spectators filed past me, offering their bows and curtsies as they left. I sat rigidly, enduring it with as much stoicism as I could muster.

When the room was finally empty except for me, Maxen, and Oliver, I slumped. I thought I’d mentally prepared for what had just happened, but the full force of reality barreled into my chest, and I realized I’d been kidding myself. I squeezed my eyes closed for a second.

“Thank Oberon that’s done,” Maxen said, his voice low and ragged.

“Maxen, Nicole and I will join you in your quarters,” Oliver said to me. “I’ll bring my Gnome-made single-malt. We could all use a drink. Except Nicole, of course. She can have herbal tea.”

My father wasn’t a drinker. He also wasn’t an offerer-of-comfort. He recognized how deeply the execution had affected me and was trying to help, but I couldn’t stand the thought of trying to make conversation. I needed to be alone.

I shook my head. “I’m not good company right now.”

Avoiding Oliver’s and Maxen’s eyes, I rose and swiftly walked from the viewing room. Guards trailed me as I strode to my quarters, but my father didn’t try to follow me. With numb fingers, I let myself in.

A man was dead, but he probably hadn’t even been one of the leaders in the uprising against me. Several of them had escaped through doorways before Oliver’s meager security team had managed to apprehend them. It all felt so senseless in one respect. But I knew I’d had to follow through on the threat of execution. I’d managed it, but I’d hated it.

Walking through the dark rooms, I pulled the crown from my head. It slipped from my fingers and fell with a series of metallic pings on the tiled floor somewhere along the hallway leading to the second living room. I heard the jeweled crown roll to a stop.

In some corner of my mind, a thought tried to form about how I shouldn’t treat such a valuable item so carelessly. But the admonition was crushed under the weight of my guilt and sorrow.

I pushed through the French doors and went out into the courtyard, where I began tracing the same path around the lovely grounds that Maxen and I had followed earlier. The darkness enveloped me as I walked and walked, wishing I could just dissolve into the refuge of the night as if stepping into the netherwhere.

A man hated me on the throne so much he had voluntarily chosen to die.

I turned the thought over and over, my mind trying to reason it out in ways that lifted some of the responsibility from me. Perhaps he’d been bitterly unhappy long before I took the crown. Maybe he’d been infatuated with Marisol—he certainly wouldn’t have been the only stone blood to have harbored feelings for the exquisitely beautiful, obsessively driven leader. He might just have been one of those people who couldn’t accept change.

But it didn’t really matter why he’d done it. Carlton Kanab was dead because of me.

There were too many Carraig who didn’t want me on the throne, and it was for good reason. I wasn’t fit for the job. I knew it. Maxen knew it. Everyone knew it. I couldn’t let this farce go on. I was a fighter, not a queen, and nothing in Faerie was going to make me into the queen the Carraig Sidhe needed. Oberon had forced me under the crown, but I would find a loophole. I’d give the Carraig what they wanted, what they deserved. I would create a position that made Maxen Lothlorien the de facto leader of the Carraig Sidhe, and I’d go back to what I did best: wielding a sword.

My tension eased a little after that, but I continued on my circular path as if the night air could cleanse me of all troubles.

I wasn’t sure how long I paced around the dark courtyard, listening to the cheery little trickle of the waterfall, but at some point, the phone began to ring. I ignored it, but it insistently continued. Finally, I went inside and snatched up the receiver.

“Yes?”

“Petra, let me in.” It was Oliver.

“What?”

“I was pounding on your door for ten minutes.” His irritation came through in the snarly edge to his voice. “I had to leave to find a house phone to call you. Now that I know you’re not dead, I’m coming back. You’ll let me in.”

He hung up.

I scowled at the phone and then dropped it back on its cradle. I wanted to be pissed, to tell him to leave me alone, but I was too damn exhausted. Letting out a long, weary breath, I passed my hand over my eyes and began trudging toward the front of the apartment. When I reached my fallen crown, I bent to retrieve it and left it in the kitchenette.

The sound of a heavy fist pounding wood echoed through the formal living room.

“I’m coming!” I hollered irritably.

When I opened the door, I found not only Oliver, but also Maxen and Nicole. They crowded inside before I could protest. Nicole gave me a quick hug.

True to his word, Oliver held a velvet bag that contained his bottle of Gnomish whiskey. I knew what the bag held because I’d found his stash back when I was still living at home. The bottle was nearly full back then, as my father rarely drank, and I’d slugged down about an ounce just to try it. It’d slid like smooth fire over my throat, but even as a dumb teenager, I realized it was good stuff. I’d never touched the bottle again, though, for fear he’d notice some was missing.

“I’ll grab some glasses,” I said, resigned to playing host.

I went back into the kitchenette and opened cupboards until I found neat rows of water glasses, wine goblets, champagne flutes, narrow highballs, and shorter lowballs. I grabbed three of the latter. I also grabbed the electric kettle, a box of herbal tea, and a mug for Nicole, and put everything on a tray.

In the living room, Oliver poured three shots. He, Maxen, and I each took a glass, raised them, and then knocked back the amber liquid. I cleared my throat and licked my lips. It was even better than I remembered.

Nicole busied herself making tea.

Oliver leaned back in his chair and crossed one ankle over the other knee.

The warmth of the Gnomish whiskey spread through me, loosening the ache in my chest by a fraction.

“What’s the news from the Summerlands?” I asked Maxen, breaking the silence. The day had been so intensely personal, I needed to focus elsewhere, beyond the fortress.

He leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees. “It’s not good. Finvarra’s nowhere to be found, but it hasn’t affected the Unseelie assault. They’ve come up with some new weapon that seems to be slowly weakening Melusine’s shield around the Summerlands castle.”

I blew out a loud, irritated breath. “If only we could have caught the bastard when he was here in the fortress.”

“Oberon thinks Finvarra is still helping to direct things from wherever he is. Periclase is the face of it, but Finvarra is probably still heavily involved in the decisions.”

Nicole made a small hum of agreement and took a sip from her steaming mug. She was sitting on the sofa next to Maxen, nestled into the corner with pillows around her, shoes off and legs curled up.

I tilted my head and slanted a look at a corner of the ceiling.

“What are you thinking?” Maxen asked.

“We need to take Finvarra out before the Tuatha decide to show up.” I was stating the obvious, but I also had the seed of an idea.

“Yeah? How?” he said.

“Do you remember Eunice?”

He gave me a blank look.

“The, uh, naked lady who came through the doorway with us to the Summerlands after we surprised Finvarra.”

“Ah, yes. Of course.”

“She’s here in the fortress,” I said. “Apparently they were keeping her under house arrest in the Summerlands, and she begged me to come back here, so I had Amalie set her up.”

Maxen’s dark blond brows rose slowly.

“We should talk to her. She spent several months as one of Finvarra’s companions, going back to when he was hiding out with the—”

“The Undine.” Maxen finished my sentence. He straightened. “Do you think Finvarra’s gone back there? He and Queen Doineanne seemed to have an arrangement.”

A crawling sensation worked up the center of my back at the sound of the Undine queen’s name. She’d held me and Jasper captive for a short time, and she’d had obvious designs on Jasper, boldly propositioning him. Beyond that affront, she was cold, wild, and rather creepy with her too-round fishlike eyes.

I lifted a shoulder and let it drop. “Maybe. Or Periclase might be hiding him. Good old blood dad was doing his damnedest to ingratiate himself to Finvarra last time I had the displeasure of being in their presence.” I squinted at Maxen. “Don’t we have spies or something?”

He snorted a laugh. “We have contacts and allies, but Carraig aren’t exactly built to be spies.”

He had a point. As a race, we weren’t known for grace and subtlety. Stone bloods preferred sword fights to intrigue and sneaking around.

“The woman, Eunice. You think she might legitimately be able to help?” Oliver asked, circling us back.

I shrugged. “She seems to think she has some useful knowledge about Finvarra, and she’s very eager to help.”

“Let’s get her in here, then.”

My brows rose a fraction, and I flicked a glance at Maxen.

I stood and went to one of the house phones and dialed the reception desk in my office, where I knew one of the three pages Amalie had assigned to me was on duty.

“Hello, Jaci,” I said when a female voice answered. “I need a guest brought to my quarters.”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

I gave her Eunice’s details. It was late enough that the woman might have retired to bed, but I was willing to take the chance. Things were worse in the Summerlands, and we needed to take down Finvarra.

Eunice arrived fifteen minutes later, and if she’d been sleeping, she did a good job of looking alert and put-together. She was an attractive woman, probably a bit older than I’d initially pegged her—maybe fifteen years my senior.

She looked around, her eyes snagging on my father. Her lips parted, and her cheeks pinked subtly. Oliver’s expression didn’t budge.

“Your Majesty.” Eunice dropped into a deep curtsy.

“Apologies for the late hour,” I said. “Please take a seat, Eunice.”

She went to the chair opposite Oliver’s and perched on the edge with her knees pressed tightly together, her hands folded in her lap. She peered at me expectantly.

“We’d like to know anything useful you can tell us about Finvarra. Anything that might help us discover where he is now.”

Her eyelashes fluttered. “Oh, yes, of course. I’m happy to help, Your Highness. Ah, let’s see. Well. He has a deep affinity for squid from the Kelpie realm. He adores linen sheets produced by the Sylphs, can barely sleep without them, the baby. Oh! And he favors Elvish wines. The dark, meaty reds, you know, the ones that pair well with—”

“But do you know where he is?” Oliver cut in impatiently. “His alliances. Friends. People who might be willing to hide him.”

I shot him a hard look and gave a slight shake of my head.

“I believe I see where you’re going, Eunice,” I said gently. I was trying to think of what Maxen would do to try to draw out information he needed. “Whatever ruler has taken him in would consider it an honor to have the Unseelie High King as a guest and would want to please him. If we can discover where some of Finvarra’s favorite things are being delivered, it could lead us to him.”

She nodded vigorously. “Yes, Your Highness.”

“And what of his potential allies?” I asked. “Did you ever overhear him speak of realms where he might feel safe?”

“You already know he’s spent time with the Undine,” she said.

“Yes, you’d mentioned you first met Finvarra when he was in Doineanne’s realm.”

She nestled further into the plush cushion, and her expression became shrewd. “Well, he’s not there now.”

I tilted my head. “Oh? Why not?”

A conspiratorial grin tugged at the corners of her lips. “He and the Undine queen had a falling out.”

“Really,” I drawled. Seeing she enjoyed gossiping, I leaned in and smiled encouragingly. “What happened?”

She looked down at the floor, a smirk still playing across her face. “She propositioned him. He refused her. That made Queen Doineanne positively livid.” Her gaze lifted to me, and she covered her mouth with one hand, giggling behind it.

Oliver let out a noisy, annoyed exhalation through his nose. My father abhorred this type of chatter and rumormongering, but even he had to see that it was useful information. Fortunately, Eunice didn’t seem to notice his disapproval.

“So Doineanne kicked him out?” I pressed.

“Pretty much, yes. And that’s when we all moved to the Duergar realm at the invitation of King Periclase, your esteemed birth father.” Her eyes sharpened on me.

I snorted. “Periclase is a horrible man. No need to speak of him with any deference in my presence.”

Her lips formed a surprised little O. “I can’t say I disagree with you there,” she whispered and then looked around with paranoia, as if someone would jump out of the walls and punish her for not protesting my criticism of the Duergar king.

I imagined Eunice had spent most of her life as a companion to powerful men, or at least men who had more power than she did, and it was clear from my interactions with her that she wasn’t the type to use her sexuality to try to gain control. She’d taken a different approach. For someone like Eunice, a harmonious and subservient demeanor was a matter of survival. I liked the thought of her coming to a point in her life where she could speak more freely.

“Do you think Periclase might be aiding Finvarra?” I asked. “Maybe that’s where he returned.”

She shook her head. “It wouldn’t be my first guess. I imagine King Periclase would have offered, but I think the High King Finvarra would instead go some place a bit less obvious.”

I nearly told her to stop calling Finvarra “King”—the title was self-proclaimed, as the man didn’t even have a defined realm of his own—but held back. She couldn’t help her habits of etiquette.

“One of the less civilized Unseelie kingdoms, perhaps?” Maxen suggested.

“That’s my assumption, my lord,” she said. Her brows drew together, and she tapped a finger against the corner of her mouth for a moment. “Not the Ogres. Not the Boggart realm. I’m sure he mentioned not being on good terms with either. I’d say Daoine Sidhe or possibly the Salamander kingdom.”

I turned to Maxen. “I thought there was bad blood between Finvarra and his former tribe?”

Finvarra was Daoine, though he’d broken from the kingdom generations ago, abandoning his homeland to seek greater power.

I’d expected Maxen to be the most knowledgeable on Faerie history, but Eunice answered instead. “You’re right. There was. But while King Finvarra was supposed to be banished from Faerie, he mended fences with his people. All in secret, of course, as King Oberon never would have allowed it.”

I drew a slow breath and gave Eunice a nod. “You’ve been extremely helpful. That’s all for tonight. Please let me know if you think of anything else that might aid us.”

She gave me a pleased smile, peeked at Oliver, and then curtsied.

Once she’d departed, my father harrumphed and shifted around irritably in his chair.

I gave him an amused look. “She liked you. You could have been a little nicer to help grease the wheels.”

He grunted and reached for the bottle of Gnomish single-malt and splashed a bit into his glass.

Nicole stifled a yawn against the back of her hand. “I think I need to turn in,” she said. “I just can’t seem to stay awake into the night these days.”

Maxen turned to her, a soft smile on his face. “Let’s get you home.” To me, he said, “I’ll see what I can do with Eunice’s information.”

I had a feeling he would be up late making inquiries.

Oliver also stood. “I should be off as well.” He left the Gnomish whiskey on the table.

I rose and saw them out. I would speak to Maxen soon, to inform him of my decision to appoint him as the acting leader of the realm, a sort of prime minister to my crown, but I needed to quickly get some things in place first.

I stayed up late, scouring the archives and by-laws of the kingdom for information about establishing a new position in the realm. It was very late by the time I found what I needed, but I wrote up a document that I believed would suffice as a royal decree. It was designed to give essentially all decision-making power to Maxen and written as an order from his monarch, which he couldn’t refuse. I felt a tiny stab of guilt at laying all of that on him, but it was the right thing to do. He would accept the responsibility, and it would ease tension in the fortress. I’d tried to do it Oberon’s way, but it was obvious how disastrous his decision to put me on the throne had turned out to be.

I sent the documents off to Amalie for processing and then collapsed onto my bed.

I awoke to the ringing of my house phone.

“Your Highness, one Jasper Glasgow has arrived outside the fortress seeking audience with you,” came Jaci’s voice. “He says it’s urgent.”

My heart bumped at Jasper’s name. “Please admit him to the fortress and send him directly to my quarters.”

I straightened the creased clothes I’d slept in and quickly twisted my hair up into a loose bun.

My stomach tightened with the uncertainty of whether Jasper was bringing good news or bad. The way things were going in Faerie lately, I wasn’t optimistic.