It was all too bright, too perfect.
She glanced back up at the floating flowers above the table, and—there. The faintest of shimmers winked back at her.
Glamour.
If she didn’t have this damned iron collar around her neck, she would have noticed it sooner. But at least now she knew for certain that Parisa had glamoured the entire space. Maeve didn’t know what true horrors were hidden behind the overly sumptuous façade, but she somehow thought it wouldn’t be long before she found out.
“Maeve, I’m so glad you could join me.” Parisa gestured toward the other end of the table with her bony fingers. “Come. Sit.”
Maeve didn’t move. She remained as still as a corpse, a kind of knowing dread kept her rooted in place.
Parisa’s brow pulled together, collecting across her forehead in ripples of extra skin. Her lips pinched and she snapped her fingers.
Gromede snatched Maeve by the shoulders, lifting her from the ground completely. She tensed under his hold, wincing slightly as he dumped her into the chair.
“Eat, Maeve,” Parisa commanded, and a bowl filled with a rich brown broth and stewed vegetables appeared before her.
When she hesitated, Parisa only loosed a dramatic sigh, and rolled her eyes toward the chandelier. “It’s only soup. I have no need to poison you. In fact, I can think of far better ways I’d prefer to see your demise.”
She slammed the tip of the Aurastone into the table’s wooden surface. “Now. Eat.”
Maeve grabbed the spoon, worried that if she hesitated again, Parisa would use the Aurastone against her. Gingerly, she scooped up a small helping of the soup, and without taking her eyes off Parisa, she ate.
It was bland but not atrocious, tasting lightly of herbs, and Maeve rolled the flavors around on her tongue before finally swallowing it down. Her stomach almost revolted, it had been so long since she’d eaten. The stale bread and murky water in the dungeon hardly counted as legit sustenance. Those had likely only been offered to her just to keep her alive. She had a few more bites of the soup, glad to wash it down with the glass of clean water she’d been given.
“Good,” Parisa crooned, taking dainty spoonfuls of her broth as well. “You’re going to need your energy.”
Still, Maeve said nothing, but the flesh along the back of her neck pebbled.
There was a shift, an unsettling sensation she couldn’t quite shake, and thevirdis lepatitedangling from Parisa’s neck glowed, burning a hideous shade of green.
Music floated through the dining hall, a discordant and grieving melody. It was a harrowing tune set to the beat of a waltz, as though only the minor chords were being played. The sound of it caused her nerves to fray.
“Oh, look.” Parisa eased back in her chair and folded her hands in her lap. Her eyes glinted with a kind of ravenous hunger. “It’s time for the entertainment.”
Maeve stared in shock as the Spring fae who’d gathered in the far corner of the hall filed into the center of the room and started dancing. They paired off in precise uniformity, moving about the space in slow circles. On any other occasion, dancing would have been fluid, a gentle ebb and flow of movement. Yet this seemed compulsory, stilted, as though some kind of outside force was compelling them. Each fae wore an expression of vacancy, an empty mask devoid of life. Save for their eyes. Their eyes told another story entirely. One of fear. Of panic.
“What game are you playing?” Maeve demanded.
She only knew of one fae who could command others through their minds. One fae whose magic was so strong, so powerful, that he could control movements, could make others bend to his will.
Tiernan.
“No game, my pet.” Parisa tapped her long nails against the table, the noise clicking in time to the haunting melody. “Members of the Dark Court love to perform for their queen.”
This was wrong. All of this was wrong. Parisa shouldn’t have this kind of power, she shouldn’t possess such an ability. Maevehad to find a way to save these fae, to free them from Parisa’s grip on their minds.
Anger coursed through her, and she clutched the spoon in her hands, bending it in half.
One of the Spring fae, a male, strode up to her. He jerked forward into a hasty bow and held out his hand.
“He only wants to dance,” Parisa chided, motioning for Maeve to accept his hand.
She tried to swallow the knot of trepidation clogging the back of her throat and glanced up at the fae in question. Sandy blond hair fell across half of his face, and there was what looked like the remnants of a bruise alongside his jaw. The skin there was sallow and slightly swollen. But what drew her in were his eyes. They were the color of honey, framed with dark lashes, andpleading. As though begging for her help.
A breath shuddered out of her. “I…”
Gromede took one step toward her, and she bolted out of her seat.
