Page 48 of Fairies Never Fall

“The staff room’s right under the hotel rooms,” Plato admits sheepishly.

“Fuck,” I groan.

Later, when the club’s emptying out and Plato is in the kitchen, Orion grabs my arm.

“Be careful about His Highness,” he says quietly.

I straighten. “What do you mean?”

“Messing around, I mean. There’s a reason in the old stories the fairy king never has a partner for the blessing. They’ve always scattered their seed freely, especially around humans. But when it comes to feelings, everyone knows they’re cold as ice. And you don’t strike me as the casual type.”

“Lysander’s not cold.” The image of him hot and writhing flashes in my head. Even outside the bedroom, he’s the farthest thing from cold. Guarded, maybe. But you don’t have to dig that deep to get to his warm, sweet center. “And Icando casual. I just usually — don’t.”

Orion only shrugs. “I don’t want to see you get hurt, man. It would be a shame to have to hire your replacement.”

I jostle him. “You could never replace me.”

His words stick in my head. I’m touched that he’s looking out for me — besides Fitzie, no one’s bothered worrying about me for a long time. But the way Lysander blooms under attention, touch, and companionship, I don’t believe for one second that loneliness is his natural state.

Still, I know plenty about how easily people form opinions based on assumptions. Orion and the rest might not care that I’ve been to prison, but that doesn’t mean they don’t have blind spots.

Maybe it’s not only Lysander who needs to learn about friendship.

20

LYSANDER

The night before the Greening is a rush of excitement, preparations, and on my part, an attack of nerves. Since King Thurgraen provides a space for the festival he’s technically a more appropriate sponsor than me, but Syril still has me come along to every meeting and I’ve never felt more out of place. Thurgraen is a huge, venerable dragon, his claws cracked, his horns dulled by time, and the color long since leached from his muzzle, leaving behind a dusty maroon. With the crown practically welded to his head, he looks every inch a royal.

In comparison, I feel young and flighty. When his gilded eyes sweep me from head to toe, I get the distinct feeling he doesn’t think much of me.

“Your hospitality to the stoneskins is duly noted, Syril,” Thurgraen says when the last of the logistics have been thoroughly dealt with. “It mustn’t be easy, with you being a wildling.”

“Half,” Syril corrects, brow arching elegantly. “On the contrary, Your Highness, it’s as simple as opening the doors. But if you truly feel that way, a discount on the lodge wouldn’t go amiss.”

Thurgraen chuckles as if they’ve told a clever joke. When we leave the office, Thurgraen gestures me through the door first with a faint bow. I return the bow — deeper, of course — and flee, glad to have these infernal meetings over with. Every single one is like that, with both of them prodding each other as if trying to find a chink in the other’s armor with a fencing foil.

Hurrying down the hall, I run right into Ezra.

“Lys!” He steadies me. “What’s up?”

I shoot a look over my shoulder, but Thurgraen and Syril must have gone the opposite way — probably off to share a pipe on the back patio.

“Politics.” I shake my head.

“Sounds grim,” he says. Then he brightens. “Orion and Plato told me about the special ceremony you’ve got going on at the festival.”

I wince. What exactly did Orion tell him?

The Oath is an old tradition, and one that’s deeply…us. Monster. Non-human. And it’s notjusta tradition, but one of the core tenets of our whole world. If these discussions with Syril and King Thurgraen have taught me anything, it’s that I could never step into the role of king.

I don’t regret letting Syril talk me into taking the Oath, because there hasn’t been one since my father died, and all wildlings have felt the consequences. Unlike waterspirits or shadowfey, we rely on our Oath to keep our population strong. Now that I’m fertile, I can hardly deny the wildlings of Greenriver — or anyone else willing to travel — the chance to help their dwindling numbers.

But I can’t imagine what Ezra thinks of it all.

“It’s not a big deal,” I begin, but he shifts closer, bracing an arm on the wall over my head so I’m boxed in.

“It sounds like kind of a big deal, sweets. Is that what’s got you all tied up in knots?”

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