Page 40 of A Court of Ravens
I raise an eyebrow. “Aye, but I usually don’tdatethem. I take what I want. I’ve never wanted anything likethis.”
Her lips twitch upward, a small victory I’ll take any day.
Caitlin interrupts, dropping menus onto the table. Felicity glances at me, her gaze still holding a hint of curiosity. “What can I get you to drink?” the waitress asks.
“Tom Crean Irish Lager,” I reply without looking away from Felicity.
“And you, miss?”
“Water, please,” she says, her voice steady despite the faint blush staining her cheeks.
The waitress leaves. Felicity’s gaze sharpens, catching me off guard.
“So,” she begins, leaning forward slightly, her finger tracing the edge of the menu. “Where exactly are you from, Niall?”
Her question is innocent enough, but there’s a flicker of curiosity and something sharper. Suspicion, maybe. She’s fishing. I’m not keen on being caught. “You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you.”
Her brow arches, a slight smirk tugging at her lips. “Oh, you’d be surprised what I’m willing to believe these days.”
Damn, she’s good. Too good. I might find her persistence annoying if she weren’t so gorgeous. Instead, it’s compelling. I lower my voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “It’s a place that’s more myth than map.”
Her smirk deepens. “That’s not an answer.”
I hesitate, deciding how much to share. “The short version?Tír na Scáilis a barrier, a world built on magic to keep ours divided from your Ironlands. Keeps the monsters where they belong, stops the past from coming back to bite us all in the arse. Beyond that, there’s the In-Between and the Otherworld. Shadows and endless trouble. And then, of course, there’s the delightful mindfield of fae politics. Seven courts, seven headaches. There used to be eight.”
She crosses her arms, narrowing her eyes. “And you? Which court do you play politics for?”
“Wraithwind. But if you’re imagining ballrooms and politicking, you’re way off.”
Her eyes search mine, and she bites her lip. “And these courts you mentioned? What are they like?”
I chuckle. “Now you’re digging for the juicy bits. Mine is full of tricksters, púca shapeshifters who’ll charm you blind and laugh while you try to figure out what’s real. Then there’s the Crimson Court. Imagine vampire fae with wings and a thirst for blood magic. Delightful lot.”
Her brows knit, a flicker of something I can’t place crosses her features until she schools her expression. “You sound like you don’t trust them.”
“I trust them to look out for themselves, which is why I keep my distance. The Obsidian Court, though? They’re in a league of their own. Shadowborn witches and demons, ruling the darker corners with an iron will and zero patience for lies. They’re not ones to cross.”
Her lips press into a thin line as she studies me. “And the others?”
She’ll find out soon enough. No point sugarcoating it. “The Aerielis Court? Sylphs. They’ve got angelic wings and magic that could light up the darkest soul, but don’t let that fool you. We haven’t exactly patched things up with them. The Uisce Court? Naiads from the lake and merrows from the sea, constantly at each other’s throats. The Shade is home to the Glimmers, who live for mischief. And then there are the reapers from Dreadmist Isle. Banshees, harbingers of death. They’re not all bad, but trust me, you don’t want to piss them off.” I keep my tone casual, but my eyes lock on hers, daring her to flinch. “That’s the short version, Shadow Witch. Welcome to my world.”
Her lips quirk into a hesitant smile. “You make it sound like some kind of soap opera.”
My grin is all teeth. “Oh, love, it’s far worse than that. Soap operas at least pretend to have endings.”
Tomas—the fae who once tore someone’s head off because he ‘didn’t like his mouth breathing’—introduced me to human entertainment on the telly back at the cottage. He makes dark fae weep with a single glare and now spends his evenings glued toBridgerton. And I meanglued. He’s got theories about Lady Whistledown, refuses to forgive Anthony for screwing things up with Kate, and once hurled a tankard across the room shouting, ‘NOT HER BANGS!’
And the shipping. Gods, the shipping. I still don’t fully understand it, but Tomas will gleefully discuss why Daphne and Simon are endgame while sharpening his knife. Crazy bastard.
I sigh. “In our world? The drama never ends. It boils over into blood feuds and eternal grudges. It makes your soap operas look like nursery rhymes.”
Her expression softens into something more thoughtful. “So it’s all grudges and betrayals. But the Shadowborn—where do they fit in the picture?”
My smile slips, replaced by something colder. I hate talking about the Shadowborn. Not because they scare me, though they damn well should, but because the story always ends the same. Badly.
“They’re not just part of the picture,” I say, leaning closer. “Theypaintit. There was a Shadowborn Witch pulling the strings for every power play and betrayal. Dark fae hunters, loyal to no one but their purpose. They no longer hunt, and for all I know, they’re nothing more than ghosts.”
Felicity tilts her head, her expression a careful mask, but the glint in her eyes gives her away. “So they were enforcers? Keeping the big, bad fae from running amok?”
