Thaddeus’s spine stiffened— as if ’twasn’t stiff enough to start after lying in state like the dead—and he listened to the methodical steps of confidence, if not arrogance, approach at his back. Cecir’s chin rose, hands folded behind his back, and a relaxed—albeit forced, if Thaddeus interpreted that dull flicker in his bright eyes correctly—grin crossed his mouth.
“The man of the hour awakens at last.”
Thaddeus’s expression cooled, a mask he’d long ago become comfortable wearing around all High Fae. Key point in survival around pureblood Councilmen: Never show weakness.
A flutter of dark fabric entered the hazy periphery of his vision. Shortly after, the man wearing the rich robes of the High Fae tier rounded the rock slab that had been Thaddeus’s bed and stood beside Cecir.
Grison.
The deceitful rat of a High Fae scrutinized Thaddeus with icy gray eyes down the slope of his sharp nose. His cold demeanor and lack of compassion and care for all who didn’tfall in line with his personal agenda was naught new to Thaddeus. That dull flick of resentment he caught in Grison’s expression nearly brought a smile to Thaddeus’s tight-lipped mouth. This particular High Fae didn’t take lightly to being shown up by those below his standing, a small detail that brought a wee bit of tension between them.
Before this moment, Thaddeus had had the upper hand over this despicable creature.
Sadly, what power Thaddeus held over Grison failed him in his current pathetic state. He was at an extreme disadvantage, sitting before two High Fae in an unknown location with no recollection of what transpired after he fell on the battlefield. The weak thrum of his own power and magic taunted him more than anything.
The callous grin that tipped Grison’s lips merely added another layer of taunting. The bloody puppet knew it, too.
Slowly, Thaddeus dropped his legs off the edge of the slab and wrapped his fingers around the cool curve of rock, leaning forward.
“What was the outcome of the battle?” An ominous knot formed in his gut. A haunting voice whispered in his mind an answer he cared not to acknowledge. “Where’s Daeanna?”
Cecir’s grin faded. His eyes lowered for the briefest moment. Grison cleared his throat, lifting his chin higher. He folded his hands in his usual regal manner behind his back, mimicking Cecir’s poise.
“Daeanna made a fatal mistake allowing that human to join her force. We lost many men on Talaenian soil. All our efforts were wasted and those of us who survived were forced to retreat,” Grison said. The only hint of emotion in his voice was the raw edge of aversion at the admission of their loss.
The dark organ that resided within Thaddeus’s chest punched at his bruised and aching sternum. He cast his facebehind a mask of indifference, one that hid the turmoil that shook his steadfast confidence to the core.
Daeanna…dead?
Surely, he must be mistaken.
But…
Thaddeus ran the tip of his dry tongue over the cracks along his lower lip. The acrid taste of dried blood stung his tastebuds, leaving a bitter tang in his mouth.
Fae cannot lie.
“How is it possible a human wench killed a Tuatha de princess?” Thaddeus growled.
“The mortal released Dagda,” Cecir said quietly.
Thaddeus winced, then cut his gaze to the Fae. “He would never take the life of his own daughter.”
“Appears that isn’t the case, Thaddeus.” He solemnly lowered his head. “Dagda took her life on his own dais. The remaining guards from the castle are being held in Dagda’s dungeons, awaiting their sentencing.”
Dead.
Daeanna, dead.
His beloved princess.
Dead.
The corner of his mouth ticked. A thick, tarry essence welled from the darkened core of his soul. Loathing. Vengeance.
That mortal abomination. He would hunt her down, torture her until she begged for death. He’d grant her that very wish only after he’d dangled her over the precipice between life and death.
“Where…is…that…mortal?” Thaddeus ground out between his teeth.
