“We’ll argue about that later,” I said aloud, then glanced at my people. “Let’s get this over with.”
A hush fell over the Courts as we walked up the flowered forest path toward the male who had reached out his bloodied hand in peace—a hand I must take, or watch my House burn.
The Prince waited at the end of the walkway in a small circular courtyard, forest gardens pressed against its borders, standing on the first step of a sweeping staircase. The stairs led to the lower level of his open-air throne room, a hall of forest and light during the day, shadows and screams during the night.
Courtiers drifted to either side of the uneven white stone pathway, as lovely as the blooms that arched over our heads obscuring the lingering daylight as evening set. Their heady fragrance failed to hide the Fae’s toxic psychic scents. Malice, lust, amusement mingled with disdain and curiosity.
The scent of moral ambiguity combined with barely checked ambition.
Blood and jasmine.
The rot of age entwined with semi-eternal youth.
“Vultures.” The word slipped out of my mouth. I didn’t bother to catch it. None of them had graced the white stone courtyard with their blood or burned under the scorch of wyvern fire.
“Manners,” Baba said without moving his lips.
“Tellthemto stop fucking staring.”
“Aerinne.”
He'd aged since my mother's death, his broad shoulders carrying the weight of our grief. He could have returned to his hometown northwest of Nairobi, or even to his family in New York, but he’d remained for me.
Others wondered how House Faronnebentthe knee to a human Lord. Simple. He was beloved. Fear and power were not the only tools by which one might rule.
“Lord Étienne Capulette,” an orderly droned once we were halfway down the path, “Regent of House Faronne. Aerinne Capulette, Lady of House Faronne.”
Each step brought us closer to the Prince, the mostpowerfulof us all. Not merely a High Fae, but an Old One, immortality so entrenched, power so vast, our people considered those like him to be demi-gods.
Too bad the ascension from High Fae to Old One was usually marked by going stark raving mad.
“Does anyone think his two-century nap actually repaired any brain cells?” Juliette asked, not bothering to whisper. Since she was behind me, Baba couldn’t give her A Look.
“If two centuries is enough to repair five thousand years of trauma, insomnia, paranoid anxiety, and the rot of unlimited wealth,” Numair murmured.
“The rot otherwise known as entitlement.”
And yet here I was, walking towards him.
My fingers itched to grab the iron dagger strapped to my thigh as we traversed the gauntlet of Fae. If I drew it, the blade would fly, embedding itself in the Prince's eye—but unleashing now would reveal at least one of my Skills. I’d survived because my enemies underestimated me. Assuming the strike would even kill him.
He descended the step as we approached, his remote gaze sharpening.I suppressed an instinctive flinch. I'dneither earned nor wanted this male's interest.
“Lord Étienne, I'm gratified you accepted my invitation,” he said. “You, and your daughter.”
As if we had a choice.
“I'm pleased to have accepted it,” my father replied in his smooth, warm voice. A diplomat’s voice. “I'm equally pleased to present my daughter, Lady Aerinne, Heir Presumptive of House Faronne.”
Because I knew him, I heard the thread of hope in his voice. My father wanted peace; he’d be pissed when I confessed the Vow tightening around my neck.
The Vow to kill the Prince or die trying?Darkan said.
I struggled not to cringe at his tone. He and the infernal Prince should co-write a book: Shades of Icy.I make one little rash Vow, and you don’t stop lecturing me about it.
If it were the only rash thing you have done,I might spare us both the lecture.
The Prince shifted subtly, as if aware he didn’t have my attention. “I am delighted to formally meet you, Lady Aerinne.”
