Page 42 of The Crown of a Fallen Queen (Curse of the Fae #4)
Dreyah
DEVI
A laric leads me to the second-floor entrance of the ballroom, where a long hallway lined with tall windows overlooks the space below. From here, we can observe the guests unnoticed, watching the gathering unfold before we step inside.
The High Fae wear dark tones, the Storm Court’s seamstresses favoring metal over gem. Women drape themselves in platinum, silver, and tungsten necklaces, cuffs, and rings. Smooth metal polished to a ruthless gleam. But none of them wear lyranthium.
Only me.
The skirts are short, with no trains, no fabric dragging across the floors. I suppose such things would be soiled within a minute in a land ruled by storms.
“It’s not very…festive,” I remark.
“It’s a dreyah , a special funeral in which we are mourning the loss of the king.
It’s customary in Storms for the new king to stick to the shadows until the ninth night after the old king’s death—after the provinces have celebrated their departed leader.
I used to think it was out of respect for the departed—a tradition meant to keep the Chosen of the gods and his possible challengers from the spotlight while we mourned, but given the burns I suffered, I think it’s out of necessity. ”
He’s probably right. “So these are the High Fae of Lightning Point?”
Alaric’s mouth tenses. “The Raynes have ruled over this citadel for centuries. I’d argue the Raynes are the only true High Fae of Lightning Point, but yes, the influential families of the province are here.”
“And where is your beloved?”
“She’s standing next to her father, Lord Grimmage.” Alaric points to the line of courtiers waiting to pay their respects to a statue of the late king.
At the base of the effigy, a giant stone bowl holds water, and the guests dip their index and middle fingers in it before touching their foreheads in reverence.
Tatiana holds the arm of an older man midway through the line in a perfect picture of courtly grace.
I’m a sexy tin man to her Snow White, her glittering black gown leaving her delicate shoulders exposed.
Every inch of her is composed—chin lifted, back straight, hands folded just so at her waist, but something dark is tucked behind her eyes.
Nathaniel walks up the line and stops to greet her, all wet and disheveled. The predatory stance of the Raven is gone, like he can turn it on and off at will. Alaric tenses beside me as his brother kisses Tatiana’s hand.
Nathaniel bows low, all charm and honey, and brushes his lips against her knuckles. Smooth bastard.
She blushes, like she wasn’t expecting the touch to land, and Alaric’s younger brother speaks with her father for a moment before he disappears into the mass of courtiers.
Alaric stiffens and guides me past the door to the top of the stairs. The onlookers gasp and elbow their companions, all eyes turning to us as we descend the regal staircase.
Storm clouds frame our entrance. The glass dome overhead is most inconvenient and must be a nightmare to maintain, but to my astonishment, there’s no rain blurring the view. As dramatic scenery goes, it beats even the mural of the Fall of the Mist King.
Goosebumps tickle my spine.
Alaric leads me to the front of the line, and we both pay our respects to the late king’s statue. Excited whispers and murmurs follow in our wake. I put on my best queen mask, holding their stares with a crafted air of superiority and mystery I mastered back at the academy.
“Look at them. They’re practically drooling over you,” Alaric notes quietly, frowning like he didn’t expect their reactions to be so intense. “When are you planning to act?”
I pat his arm in a soothing manner. “A woman needs her secrets, Your Majesty. I’ll act when the time is right. Introduce me to your court, and enjoy their envy, for now.”
Alaric’s jaw clenches, but he nods in agreement. He makes the rounds, greeting his unsuspecting guests as the eldest son of the late warden, and not the king.
None of them dares to address me directly. I’m still a criminal, still in exile—but no one dares speak out.
Tatiana and her father approach next.
“Warden, may I compliment your companion?” Lord Grimmage asks Alaric.
“You may.”
Lord Grimmage gives off a stern, grandfatherly energy as he bows to the waist. “You’re a vision, Your Highness. For as long as they live, the High Fae of Lightning Point will never forget the sight of you in that dress.”
“It’s an honor to meet the famous Devi Eros.
” Tatiana curtsies in a meek, respectful manner, but there’s a definite edge to her voice.
“Alaric deserves such a beauty by his side. A Spring legend is more fitting of his appetites. I hope this means you’ve forgotten about me, Ric? ” She asks him through her lashes.
“Tatiana,” her father clips, scolding her for either her taunt or familiarity—probably both. “Excuse my daughter, milord. She feels emboldened by the recent death of our king. It’s widely accepted that she should be queen soon…” the man trails off, beaming.
“Heard from your royal fiancé, lately?” Alaric shoots back.
Tatiana’s brows knit together. “He’s still mourning his father.”
Alaric smiles a cold, humorless smile. “And you think that’s why he stayed away?”
“Have you heard from the capital since the Chalice was destroyed? From our new king? Do you know what he plans to do about your father’s seat?” Lord Grimmage asks in a way that spells out both his devotion for the hierarchy and his low opinion for my companion.
Alaric grinds his teeth together. “Yes. He’ll be here tomorrow, as a matter of fact.”
Lord Grimmage’s dubious, wrinkled expression matches his daughter's.
“Here, milord?” he asks.
“Yes. Here. Spread the news, Grimmage. All of you are expected back here tomorrow night, to pay your respects to your new king.”
I can’t tell if Alaric is improvising or not, but he keeps his composure, the tick in his jaw the only clue that he’s not in perfect control.
“We’ll be here, milord.”
Grimmage and his daughter bow, and Alaric guides me over to the next group of courtiers.
“Make it happen soon, yes?” he mutters under his breath. “I want to see that snobbish man’s face decompose when he realizes his precious virgin daughter will be mine. That she’ll have to kneel for me at the altar tomorrow and take my cock in her tight little cunt, for everyone to see…”
The joy boiling in his voice brings a chill to my spine, and blood drains from my face. By Eros, I’d assumed my love potion would be enough to sway Alaric, and convince him to let us go. I’d never expected him to actually marry the girl tomorrow .
We join the next circle of guests, and Alaric serves them the same enigmatic invitation. Come tomorrow and meet the new king. Fuck.
No one seems to suspect the truth.
“Won’t they figure it out now?” I say quietly.
Alaric shakes his head. “These idiots wouldn’t recognize raw power if it cooked their own balls. They all treat me with condescension—heeding my invitation, but no more—because they think I won’t be confirmed as warden.”
“Why give them the opportunity to humiliate you?”
“I want them to dig their own graves. Believe me, they will fear me more for it.”
I’ve played at politics long enough to know he’s right, and if an unsuspecting woman wasn’t standing between Alaric and his demented revenge, I’d gladly let him have it.
The courtiers grin knowingly at our quiet chat, my presence not enough to sew a seed of doubt and alert them that something is amiss.
“Wouldn’t it be simpler for you to reveal yourself now and demand Tatiana as a bride?” I suggest.
It’d spare us the unpleasant aftermath of the love potion.
“I want her to beg for it,” he clips. “To beg for more as I tear her open, so her father always remembers how much of a whore she really is. Lord Grimmage might be stupid enough to betray me. He’s the only one in this province connected enough to try, but seeing his daughter squirt around my cock… That’ll haunt him.”
I bite my cheeks hard, holding my fists close to my body.
There’s no point arguing with a psycho king, no point picking a fight I can’t win, so I switch my focus to the sprites carrying trays full of canapés and drinks through the ballroom.
I inventory the offerings with care, scanning past the sugared tarts and candied éclairs until I see stemless metal flutes of Feyfire wine heading our way.
The bronze and tungsten design showcases the Rayne sigil.
They are only now being passed around, and Alaric grabs two flutes off Brel’s tray.
“You’re serving Feyfire wine?” I ask loud enough for everyone in the circle to hear.
Alaric raises his cup in cheer and hands over the other. “In your honor.”
Feyfire wine is strong enough to mask the taste of my brewed potion, fragrant enough to cover any bitterness, and an aphrodisiac in its own right, which can bear the blame for the aftermath. It’s like Alaric knew I’d be using a love potion instead of arrows.
I squeeze his lower arm for his guests’ benefit and whisper, “I need a minute alone.”
He nods, and I skip out of the room through the nearest door, exiting to an empty hallway. Once there, I reach for the clear glass vial tucked between my breasts, my hands trembling.
I tug on the Aurelian talisman to get it out of my cleavage and activate it. The disk is cool against my skin, its crude chain matching the gown in an oddly perfect way.
If I had my magic, this would be easy. Instead, I’m stuck relying on a third-rate invisibility enchantment. My heart pounds. I have to move fast, before any of the Fae have time to notice my shadow.
As I return to Tatiana’s side under the spell of the talisman, my steps are quick and silent. The flats were a stroke of luck.
I twist the seal off the potion, and my fingers turn white around the vial. I don’t want to do this. Gods, I really don’t. It goes against everything I believe in. Everything I’ve fought for.