Page 24 of The Deep End of Death (Twilight Lake #4)

Cormac Illfinn POV

He wasn’t sure what he was thinking.

In fact, Cormac Illfinn was entirely sure he’d lost his mind completely.

Maybe it was because another one of his friends had fallen victim to the wide eyes of Maeve Cruinn.

He’d heard the prophecy. They all had. The Mad Queen’s final words had echoed through every drop of the lake upon her passing. The Tarsainn scholars had gathered, agonizing over the meaning of the words with little success.

The five creeds will meet over the divide of war, and only then will the lake know peace.

They’d thought it was so obvious. Once the creeds came together, there would be peace. It was so simple.

Except it wasn’t.

Cormac had to admit that it had crossed his mind. Once Rainn and Tormalugh had found themselves mated to Maeve.

She was the Mad Queen’s daughter. The true Cruinn heir. She would bring peace to the lake.

By spreading her legs.

Cormac snickered as the mistress of the brothel led him down the hallway to the private suites.

He’d never spent much time above water. He’d had no need for it. Mer didn’t socialize with land-fae, with good reason.

Once upon a time, a hungry Mer might have lured a lost traveler to the lake's depths to feast on their flesh and consume their magic.

Every step on land felt like sharp stones, but he didn’t show it as the Mistress pulled back the fabric curtain, revealing a haven of blood-scented incense.

Mistress Whitesnake was truly worthy of her name. With pale skin, the color of a fish’s underbelly, and a flat nose with slits instead of nostrils, she truly looked like one of the poisonous water snakes that Cormac had been warned of as a child.

Mistress Whitesnake dressed entirely in red, her robe pooling at her feet like a deadly wound.

Finally, she turned on her heel, extending her hand in a strange pose.

“My Lyra awaits. You have paid for her time but not her body. Whether she takes you to her bed is her choice alone.” The Mistress declared.

Cormac knew of whores and brothels.

He wasn’t entirely without friends in Tarsainn, and the other young males often bragged about the establishments that lined the Trench—the sordid part of his beloved city.

Bedding a mermaid was very different from bedding a fae with two legs and a twat between them. More different still, it seemed, was bedding a courtesan.

Cormac remained silent as he pushed back the curtain door to the private suite. He didn’t know why, but his palms grew clammy, and his heart beat against his ribs. It wasn’t even about sex. He had simply paid to spend time with a beautiful woman.

So why did he feel like he was committing some great sin?

The main floor of the House of Blissful Dreams had been designed with a bed in mind, but the private suites had gone for a more utilitarian approach. Paper walls, with painted scenes of exotic flowers between the panels, and wooden floors and austere chairs reminiscent of a throne.

The main lounge had been designed to encourage relaxation. To lower someone’s guard to part them of their coin.

The private suite seemed to mimic his advisor's room back in Tarsainn. A place where academics gathered as equals to impart wisdom.

He hadn’t noticed the other male in the room until the redhead cleared his throat and lifted his cup to his lips.

Cormac jabbed a shaking finger in his direction. “You!” He snarled at Cillian Lane. “You left us to the Thiggen, you fecking toad!”

Cillian Lane squinted drunkenly as if trying to place the angry Mer on the other side of the room. He shrugged and took another swig from his wine glass. “Are you waiting for Lyra?”

“That’s no business of yours.” Cormac crossed his arms over his chest.

“Maybe not.” The redhead chuckled to himself. “I thought you were with the blonde, that’s all. The girl from the ship?”

“What are you doing here?” Cormac answered him with a question.

Cillian Lane placed his cup on the table, and twisted in his seat to face him. “Mistress Whitesnake has been gracious enough to hide me. Lest another foolish person tries to collect the bounty on my head.”

“You’re valuable then?” Cormac quirked a brow.

“Aye.” Cillian winked. “But at this moment, I’m here to make sure you don’t touch Lyra. Not without her permission, of course.”

“Of course.” Cormac echoed, his stomach sour from hearing the woman’s name. Maybe he could make his excuses and leave. Accept the coin as a loss and find Maeve and the others. He shook his head to clear it.

He didn’t know why he was so angry .

Maeve’s relationship with Shay had nothing to do with him.

Maybe it was the sight of Shay’s cock, still hard and wet with Maeve’s juices, that had made him realize what he was missing.

Cormac Illfinn was lonely—homesick for Tarsainn.

Balor had promised Maeve to him as a bride. And though Cormac knew she would never accept him, he could admit that the notion had opened a door in his mind that he struggled to close.

An image of peace and a wife more beautiful than moonlight.

The curtain on the other side of the room snapped open, revealing the diminishing figure from the stage. Without the shadows to hide her face and body, Lyra, the courtesan, looked smaller and thinner than he had expected—her eyes so wide and expressive that they showed her nerves all too well.

The courtesan wore a white robe. Her dark hair was fixed in an array of confusing pins, making her a spiny urchin.

No feeling stirred in his loins. No desire to pin her, as the Mer did when they mated, tying tails in an elaborate dance.

In fact, staring at the courtesan—he felt nothing at all.

Cormac resisted the urge to grab his cock, wondering if it was somehow broken.

“Shall we sit?” The courtesan extended a hand.

“Of course.” Cormac tried to rescue his reputation with a cocky grin as he swaggered to the chair, ignoring Cillian Lane’s snicker.

“Would you like to play a game?” Lyra gestured to the shelves. “Or perhaps, just talk?”

“So you can decide if I’m good enough to fuck?” Cormac cocked his head to the side. There was no scorn in his voice, just simple curiosity.

“Courtesans chose their partners.” She kept her eyes down.

“Then why do we pay silver for your time?” He asked.

“Though I am skilled in bed play, I have knowledge of many things.” She stated plainly.

Cormac rubbed his chin. “What about the local jail?” He kept his voice light and his tone uninterested. “How would one go about freeing a prisoner from their clutches?”

“One of your friends had too much to drink?” The courtesan guessed, holding back a smile.

“Something like that.”

“The guards will release them in a day if their crime is simply too much wine.” Lyra propped her elbow on the table, cupping her chin as she studied the Mer.

“And what is the crime was more serious?” He pressed.

“Then the guards will take him to Midnight to be tried.” The Courtesan shrugged. “What was his crime?”

“Being a demon.” Cormac’s voice was dry. The courtesan hadn’t told him anything he didn’t know.

Across the room, Cillian Lane twitched in his seat, trying very hard not to show his interest in the conversation.

“Hypotheticals aside,” Lyra stood up, her hand brushing the table as she walked its length. “Your friend will perish if he stands before the Dark King alone.”

“Hmm?” Cormac feigned ignorance. “Who said I have friends?”

“Everyone in this horrid town knows about the demon in the temple.” Lyra reached the armoire filled with boxes.

Games, Cormac realized. A worn pebbles set sat prominently on top, ignored, as Lyra reached for a velvet pouch, pulling the drawstring and checking the contents.

A deck of cards fell into her palm, and she shuffled the cards absentmindedly.

The action was born of habit rather than a desire to play.

Cormac did not recognize the cards as the unfamiliar images flashed in her hands.

Without speaking, Lyra drifted back to the table and sat down, still shuffling. Her eyes were downcast as she laid a spread of cards face down on the table. She waved a hand over the hidden cards. “Pick one.” She demanded in a soft voice.

Cormac scoffed but had paid for the time, so he did as the courtesan said.

Lyra flicked the card up to face her, and a satisfied grin flashed over her face, quickly hidden. “I see.”

“What?” Cormac’s brow furrowed.

“You are running from something.” She noted.

He was. Balor, amongst many things.

Lyra pressed the card to her forehead, the face still hidden. “What do you desire most in this world?”

Cormac sucked his lips between his teeth, giving the question the thought it deserved.

Truth be told, he didn’t know what he wanted.

Maeve’s face floated in front of his vision momentarily before dissolving.

“I don’t know.” He admitted. “I don’t know what I want.”

“Why are you here?”

“To spend time with you, of course.” Cormac winked.

Lyra ignored his attempt at flirting, rightfully so. It felt unnatural. Forced.

“There is a darkness following you,” Lyra told him, brandishing the card. “You are not simply one person if you ever were. You are connected now. You cannot run. You will have to make a choice, but you will die, regardless of what you choose.”

His lip pulled away from his teeth. “Is that a threat?”

Lyra continued. “The Dark King can be bargained with.” She told him. “But you will need a friend to teach you how.”

Cormac failed to see how Rainn, Tor, or even Shay could teach him such a thing, and all his other friends were dead. His mother, his closest advisor, was dead.

He was alone in this world. He lived alone, and he would die alone.

“Everyone dies,” Cormac told her, pushing himself to stand. “Your guidance is appreciated but unnecessary. As much as it pains me to leave, I must.”

Lyra nodded as Cormac stepped away from the table. Her gaze grew sharp as she glanced at Cillian Lane. “You should go with him.” She said impassively.

Cillian’s brow furrowed. “You saw something?”

“You cannot run any longer,” Lyra warned. “This is the only way you will survive.”

Cillian’s face grew stony. He nodded once, the action resolute as if he had come to some silent and ominous decision.

Cormac dismissed their private conversation as he turned to leave.

Cillian Lane joined him on his heels a moment later as he navigated his way from the private suites.

Since he had abandoned the ship, Cillian had bathed in scented oils and brushed his hair to a high sheen—no longer the rat-bitten prisoner in the bowels of a pirate ship.

Cillian Lane wouldn’t have been out of place in a royal court, Cormac noted, as the man walked sedately by his side, his hands knitted together and his spine rigid.

“Do you want to apologize?” Cormac said; the snide joke contained a mocking hint of truth. “Because I’ll happily take a boon if you wish to give it.”

“I owe your Nymph a boon already.” Cillian Lane commented lightly. “It seems fate has determined that I will pay my dues now rather than later.”

“Hmm?” Cormac glanced at the redheaded male out of the corner of his eye.

“It is your Nymph the city guards took, isn’t it?”

“My Nymph.” Cormac mused, nor confirming nor denying.

“Meet me at the jail steps when the North Star moves to the highest point. That is morning in this part of the Night Court.” Cillian commanded, in a tone that told Cormac he was used to being listened to. “Fecking town, mist so thick you don’t even know the time of day.”

“If you wanted to experience day, perhaps you should move to the Day Court.” Cormac raised a brow.

Cillian waved away his comment. “The Night Court didn’t always live in darkness, though I wouldn’t expect a youngling like you to understand. The tales have grown too twisty to tell, but if you meet me at the jail steps, I will help you free your friend.”

“Why are you helping me?”

“Didn’t you hear the courtesan?” Cillian gave him a sad smile. “I can’t run from my past forever.”