“Of course,” she muttered quickly, dropping into a clumsy curtsy. “I’d love to dance.”
She allowed the male to lead her onto the floor, and as he clasped her hand, she bit back a gasp. His skin was damn near frozen. She wasn’t even sure how it was possible for him to still be breathing. One hand came to rest on her waist, and even then the frigid feel of his flesh bit through the loose blouse she wore. He guided her into a steady waltz, and not once did she take her eyes off his face. His lips twitched, as though he was trying to speak, to communicate with her, but his mouth never opened. But as he stared down at her, she couldn’t help but think his mind was still intact, that he was very much aware of what he was being forced to do. Or worse, that he possibly knew what was going to happen next.
The soup curdled in her stomach, causing her insides to sour.
“Now, you may be wondering how I acquired such lovely dancers, considering most of these abhorrent creatures are practically peasants.” The legs of Parisa’s chair grated against the gilded tile floor and she stood. Maeve glanced over her shoulder as the fae who healed her in the torture room entered the dining hall, rolling a silver cart. A white cloth was spread over the top of the cart, and five tiny daggers were laid out in a row. Next to them was a bottle with a cork stopper, the insides swirling with an inky potion. “These fae fancy themselves to be artisans, shop owners, and crafters. But their magic is mundane, just like their pathetic lives. For example, your dance partner is the son of a winemaker.”
Parisa cackled and Maeve’s heart stilled.
She looked up into the face of the male once more, searching, until the faint traces of familiarity stole the air from her lungs. His features were similar, but less pronounced by his youth. She’d rescued his father and younger brother from the Hagla when the Summer Court had been overrun by Spring fae desperate to escape Parisa’s clutches.
A pang lodged deep inside of her, filling her with a tumultuous ache.
He hadn’t been able to escape with his family.
“What are they doing here?” Maeve asked, already dreading the answer.
“I’m so glad you asked.” Parisa glided over toward the silver cart, the sharp angles of her face illuminated by the glow of thevirdis lepatite. “You might remember a little substance I’ve been working on. I believe your brother used it on you some time ago, yes?”
Maeve blanched.
Garvan.
He’d stabbed her with that seemingly insignificant blade, yet it had been potent enough to render her absolutely useless against him.
The fae spun her around, edging her closer to Parisa.
“Ever since then,” Parisa continued, her voice becoming more gravelly, “I’ve been working on perfecting it. There’s been a little trial and error, and unfortunately some rather severe side effects. But I believe I’d nearly got the right dosage for the desired effect.”
“What are you talking about?”
The male tightened his hold on Maeve, and she glanced back up at him. His eyes were coated with a misty sheen. Tears.
“The potion I created was intended to control both the body and mind, much like the magic of your beloved High King.” Her lips pursed as she pulled out the cork stopper from the bottle on the tray. She lifted one dagger, then slid the blade into the potion, giving it a little swirl. “It seems, however, not all fae are able to tolerate the injection. Some of them maintain control of their minds, like your dancing partner, but most of them…well, let’s just say they’ve gone a bit mad.”
“Mad?” Maeve repeated numbly. “Mad, how?”
She tried to disentangle herself from the dance, but the fae’s grip locked around her with unmatched strength, as though his hands were fused to her. She stumbled as he hauled her into another spin, unable to break free from his grasp. Panic bubbled to the surface, and she fought to get away from him. But his fingers dug deep into her waist, bruising her. Tears slipped from the corners of his honeyed eyes.
“Crazed, my pet. Their minds are empty voids, they lack any form of self control.” Parisa eyed the blade in her hand, inspecting its grayish gleam. The air was once again heavy with the suffocating scent of nearly rotten cherries, and Maeve tried not to gag. “I know it sounds wonderful, considering they’reall under my control, but they’ve become addicted to this new substance, and I simply can’t produce it fast enough to appease them.”
Maeve was reeling, valiantly attempting to process everything Parisa had unloaded upon her. She’d experimented on the fae of her own court, on innocent lives. And she’druinedthem. She’d turned them into mindless addicts of something beyond her control, and the fae who managed to stay strong enough were trapped here in the palace to do her bidding. All while being aware that their bodies were no longer their own.
“Where are they?” Fury enraged Maeve and she whipped her head around to face Parisa. “These fae you’ve poisoned? What have you done with them?”
“That’s for me to know, and you to find out.” Parisa spread her palms wide. The dagger was gone. “It is too bad so much potential was wasted, but in reality, I only need one good batch.”
There was a violent tug on the iron cuff encircling Maeve’s neck and she was yanked backward. She clawed at it, gasping as the cold metal cut off her air supply.
Something sharp and painful lodged itself in Maeve’s back and she yelped, her spine arching. She’d been stabbed. No, that wasn’t right.Injected.
Maeve whirled around, the colors smearing together as her vision blurred. Gromede was there, the edges of his hideous face distorted, and in his hand was the blade Parisa had dipped into her bottle of poison. She swayed on her feet, losing feeling in her arms and legs. Her tongue felt thick, her eyelids heavy. An icy sensation flooded her veins, cold and slinking. It slithered through her, seizing her muscles, coiling around her like a vise.
Her magic hissed in return, lashing out at the intrusion, a violent clash of dark and light. Flames roared to life, plumes of smoke gathered in reckless abandon, and the lifeblood of creation clawed its way to the surface, scouring past the coldmetal holding her power hostage. The iron around her neck clamped even tighter and Maeve convulsed, her body and her magic victim to the darkness owning her, burrowing deeper inside of her with every passing second.
The frozen dark magic sluiced its way into her mind, searching for any opening, any way to breach the wall Maeve had constructed around her thoughts. To protect herself from Parisa’s assault.
“How does it feel?”Parisa’s voice echoed, jarring. It was as though Maeve could feel the length of her nails scraping along the wall, looking for a sign of weakness, any possible flaw or break.“Knowing that there’s nothing you can do to stop me? Knowing that I can control your every move, your every thought?”
