Rey wouldn’t approve. But Rey didn’t have to know—not yet.
“All right,” Eli said. “But I’d rather walk, if it’s all the same to you. I already know the way.”
“As you wish,” the man said. His gaze flicked to the sky. “I’ll inform him that you’ll be a minute late, then.”
“I’m sure he has the time.”
Eli wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his sword and walked on, past the townhouse and up the winding road toward the palace.
Rey hadn’t felt quite sonauseous in centuries. Eli had seemed almost unbothered about Olivier’s behavior, shrugging it off as he dressed and left to fetch Sabre de Valois, but Rey hadn’t seen that level of animosity even when being chased out of a village by people furious to find their poison of instant death was just lemonade. He bore through almost five minutes of Olivier’s ranting before he stuffed a scarf in his mouth as a gag, and that only muffled his threats.
How many times had Eli fought people like this? Men driven feral with the power of the Wild Hunt, trying to skin him alive or wear his intestines as a scarf, or whatever else Olivier had dreamed up since Rey gagged him? It was no wonder it took so much to squeeze a laugh out of him. If Rey were in his place, he would have become a recluse, hiding from other mortals at all costs. Eli chose to seek them out instead, because they’d inevitably hurt someone else.
Rey crouched in front of Olivier. Olivier’s eyes were blown wide, his breathing harsh, and Rey could almost taste the bitter sting of King Tristan’s magic. His stomach rolled, but Rey reached forward, lifting Olivier’s chin.
“You don’t want this,” he said. He let his own magic, small as it was, drift through the air. “You aren’t a hunter.”
Olivier twitched his head away and snarled into the gag.
“You aren’t a hunter,” Rey said, more forcefully. “The king’s power can’t touch you.” Olivier narrowed his eyes, and Rey pushed back the bile threatening to rise up his throat. He needed a story. Something different, something that wasn’t Olivier’s desire to hurt and maim the de Valois brothers. “You went home the other night and you couldn’t sleep.” That was probably true.It helped to weave something of the truth in his magic. “You couldn’t sleep because you felt something you hadn’t felt before, underneath the rage, something that made you sick inside. You hated yourself for what you did to Sabre de Valois.”
Olivier grunted, and Rey felt something shift in the air, like a bubble of pressure rising in a deep pool. His skin rippled, fur growing over it in patches of red and white, and he could feel his face elongating, becoming more vulpine. “You knew it wasn’t right. You knew it wasn’t what a noble should do, and it made you furious to be called out for it, but you also hated that it was true. Do you feel the guilt inside you right now, Olivier? It’s like a stone weighing down your stomach. Itisa stone. Your stomach is full of stones, Olivier. It’s a curse.”
Olivier lurched, eyes going wide, and made an urgent sound in the back of his throat. Yes. That was good. Rey could feel the story taking shape—a classic story, the kind where wicked noble sons got what was coming to them. People had told stories like that for centuries around hundreds of campfires. The power of those tales wound into his voice as he crouched, body shifting, growing smaller, becoming the fox.
“You’re full of stones, Olivier.” Rey’s ears flicked as thunder rolled overhead. “That’s why the King of the Hunt’s power could find you. It latched onto those stones, because they’re your hatred, your petty jealousy, your sick pleasure in other people’s pain. And if you don’t want them to kill you, fill you up like a sack of dirt and mortar, you need to spit them out.”
Olivier lurched again, and Rey sat up to rip the gag out with his teeth. Olivier bent double, heaving for breath, throat working like he was trying not to choke.
“Oh, fuck,” he groaned. “Oh, no, oh, fuck.”
“Spit them out or you die, Olivier.”
Olivier retched horribly, half sobbing as his entire body convulsed. A wet stone spilled out of his open mouth, clattering to the wood floor.
“Again,” Rey said. “All of it. Get rid of all of it.”
Olivier moaned and coughed, a horrible, wet sound that made Rey’s stomach turn. Bile and spit ran from his mouth as he coughed up another stone, then another, and another, dozens of smooth, small stones that slipped over each other in a slick heap of spit and acrid fluids. He heaved, and heaved, and heaved again, making terrible sounds low in his throat, and the stones kept coming. Sweat stained his fine clothes and dripped from his forehead, and he sobbed as he coughed the last few stones out onto the floor.
Rey stared down at the mess between them. The stones looked ordinary, the kind one would find on the bottom of a creek, but Rey could feel the magic emanating from them like a fire. Somehow, he’d done it. He’d folded the power of the Wild Hunt into a story he could control. He’d never used his power that way before. He’d always carried out most of his tricks by hand or paw, and only used his power to confuse people long enough to escape. Even at the party, he’d drawn people’s attention to the stories about Eli that had already existed. This felt new and powerful, and Rey’s body thrummed with it.
“How do you feel?” Rey asked. He transformed back into a human, but his face still felt too narrow, his nose too pointed, as he pushed Olivier against the wall. Olivier’s eyes were no longer wild and dark, and tears ran down his cheeks. His mouth hung open as he took wheezing breaths.
“I beat my servants,” he whispered.
“Ah.” Rey drew back as Olivier started to shake, and he used the scarf to gather up the stones. They were hot to the touch, even through the cloth, and Rey shivered as he tied the scarf tight around the mess.
“I beat them,” Olivier sobbed. “I…my valet, he left me when I…I wanted him, I hated that I wanted him, and I…I forced him, I forced him and I had his father removed from his position as a butler when he ran...” He was shaking now, spit and tears and snot making a ruin of his face. “I’ve done terrible things, so many terrible things.”
“I can see that,” Rey said, warily. He shoved the stones under the bed, just in case.
“You need to report me.” Olivier’s mouth trembled. “He wasn’t the first. There was a girl, a lower-city girl. She called the guard and I was free the next morning, but it was wrong. They shouldn’t have let me out. They should have believed her.”
“All right,” Rey said. He wondered if he shouldn’t put the gag back on, but Olivier was so distraught that he’d probably choke on it. “Stay here and stay quiet, and we’ll sort it out. But maybe you can save the confessions for the guards.”
“I was going to die,” Olivier mumbled. “Stones in my mouth. There was a fox, he cursed me.”
“You cursed yourself,” Rey said, and sighed as he realized he needed to climb back into his clothes. He yanked on his trousers and picked up his shirt, which was damp with sweat and rain. “I just gave you a push.”
