the dancers. Reluctant as she was to say it, Rinka knew he should leave, return to his guests. He seemed to read her thoughts, straightened, whispered, “Good night, Rinka,” and slipped back through the terrace doors.
In his absence, Rinka’s earlier fears seeped back into her mind, and she was left aching and uncertain in the midsummer breeze.
10
T HREE NIGHTS LATER, Rinka dreamed of Alban.
He was above her, pressing hot kisses down her neck, her breasts, her belly. It was a dream Rinka was not unused to having, and a welcome one, after so long apart. But then, the dream Alban’s fingers on her hips transformed into brutish claws, piercing her skin. He was a beast looming over her, and not human at all, yet he still wore his crown. Garen stood solemnly behind him, watching, his expression smug and bored, even as the Alban-beast slashed open Rinka’s stomach with one cruel swipe.
The pain of it thrust Rinka out of her dream and into the darkness of her bedroom. She struggled upright, her clammy skin sticking to the silken bedsheets. Her hands flew to her belly, but she found herself to be whole and unhurt, and she subsided against the pillows, tucking into herself like a child. Since the night of the party, and in Alban’s absence, her nervous thoughts had remained, though the palace had been quiet. The Restoration arrested and tried, reparations under way to the affected faery clans. But she could not stop thinking of Ottmeyer flinging himself out into the sky.
She absently rubbed her belly, willing away the image of Alban’s face shifting into the phantom of her nightmare, then wiped her face. She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, and when she opened her eyes, blinking back to herself, thinking she would draw a bath and scrub away the poison of her thoughts, she saw it:
A flutter of white. A swift movement of shadow.
Rinka shot upright once more, sharpening with fear.
The window farthest from her was open, the curtains undulating in the breeze, though she hadn’t left the window open that evening. Leska, maybe? But Leska didn’t randomly open windows in the middle of the night.
Slow waves of dread rolled over Rinka, and she stiffened, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. Someone was in the room with her—someone, maybe, in that stretch of dark shapes in the room’s far corner.
Rinka shifted, reaching for the heavy pendant on her bedside table, reaching inside herself to gather her magic—but the intruder was quicker.
He—she?—it was impossible to tell—shot out of the darkness to Rinka’s bedside. A gloved hand seized her wrist; a dagger glinted silver in the moonlight.
Rinka kicked out blindly and rolled—not enough to free herself, but enough to grab her pendant and use the solid heft of it to channel her magic into something functional. A jolt of it shot out of her, slamming into her attacker like an invisible fist—but not before the blade caught her, slicing down her side and across her thigh. Blue dripped onto her white sheets, and she stumbled to the floor, naked and clumsy with pain.
She wished she had bothered to attend Garen’s lectures on defensive magic.
She scrambled for the door to her sitting room. “Leska!” she screamed, though it was a mad hope that anyone could hear her, for her voice was hoarse with terror. “Leska, help me! Alban !”
The assassin found Rinka, knocking her to the ground. She screamed and tried to stand, but then came another hard blow—a gloved fist to her temple. She threw patchy bursts of magic, erratic from terror, at her attacker, but her panic made it uneven and difficult to control. One last burst of it flew wildly from her fingers, but the assassin ducked and lunged at her, pinned her against the floor with a hard arm at her neck.
Rinka struggled, gasping, clawing at the arm that trapped her. Lips against her ear, and a hot voice—it was a man.
“This is what happens to faery whores,” hissed the voice, slick and unfamiliar.
In his absence, Rinka’s earlier fears seeped back into her mind, and she was left aching and uncertain in the midsummer breeze.
10
T HREE NIGHTS LATER, Rinka dreamed of Alban.
He was above her, pressing hot kisses down her neck, her breasts, her belly. It was a dream Rinka was not unused to having, and a welcome one, after so long apart. But then, the dream Alban’s fingers on her hips transformed into brutish claws, piercing her skin. He was a beast looming over her, and not human at all, yet he still wore his crown. Garen stood solemnly behind him, watching, his expression smug and bored, even as the Alban-beast slashed open Rinka’s stomach with one cruel swipe.
The pain of it thrust Rinka out of her dream and into the darkness of her bedroom. She struggled upright, her clammy skin sticking to the silken bedsheets. Her hands flew to her belly, but she found herself to be whole and unhurt, and she subsided against the pillows, tucking into herself like a child. Since the night of the party, and in Alban’s absence, her nervous thoughts had remained, though the palace had been quiet. The Restoration arrested and tried, reparations under way to the affected faery clans. But she could not stop thinking of Ottmeyer flinging himself out into the sky.
She absently rubbed her belly, willing away the image of Alban’s face shifting into the phantom of her nightmare, then wiped her face. She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, and when she opened her eyes, blinking back to herself, thinking she would draw a bath and scrub away the poison of her thoughts, she saw it:
A flutter of white. A swift movement of shadow.
Rinka shot upright once more, sharpening with fear.
The window farthest from her was open, the curtains undulating in the breeze, though she hadn’t left the window open that evening. Leska, maybe? But Leska didn’t randomly open windows in the middle of the night.
Slow waves of dread rolled over Rinka, and she stiffened, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. Someone was in the room with her—someone, maybe, in that stretch of dark shapes in the room’s far corner.
Rinka shifted, reaching for the heavy pendant on her bedside table, reaching inside herself to gather her magic—but the intruder was quicker.
He—she?—it was impossible to tell—shot out of the darkness to Rinka’s bedside. A gloved hand seized her wrist; a dagger glinted silver in the moonlight.
Rinka kicked out blindly and rolled—not enough to free herself, but enough to grab her pendant and use the solid heft of it to channel her magic into something functional. A jolt of it shot out of her, slamming into her attacker like an invisible fist—but not before the blade caught her, slicing down her side and across her thigh. Blue dripped onto her white sheets, and she stumbled to the floor, naked and clumsy with pain.
She wished she had bothered to attend Garen’s lectures on defensive magic.
She scrambled for the door to her sitting room. “Leska!” she screamed, though it was a mad hope that anyone could hear her, for her voice was hoarse with terror. “Leska, help me! Alban !”
The assassin found Rinka, knocking her to the ground. She screamed and tried to stand, but then came another hard blow—a gloved fist to her temple. She threw patchy bursts of magic, erratic from terror, at her attacker, but her panic made it uneven and difficult to control. One last burst of it flew wildly from her fingers, but the assassin ducked and lunged at her, pinned her against the floor with a hard arm at her neck.
Rinka struggled, gasping, clawing at the arm that trapped her. Lips against her ear, and a hot voice—it was a man.
“This is what happens to faery whores,” hissed the voice, slick and unfamiliar.
Similar Books
