Page 9 of Sharpen Your Claws

“Let’s keep back here,” he whispered.

Charmaine didn’t need to hear him say it; he wanted to avoid Nicholas. The simple thought of Nicholas strangled a breath from his throat. He snatched a glass of wine from a passing butler and downed the beverage in one gulp.

Robert hummed in warning. He didn’t understand. None other than the surviving soldiers understood the evening’s tension.

William’s mind raced with possibilities, how it’d be easy for an enemy to strike. The bright ballroom and loud music put a target on their backs. Every wall had an exit, three further into the interior of the castle and one to the gardens. With the amount of guests, an attack would incite panic. There would be a stampede, so he kept himself close to the door. One hand lingered at his back by the blade tucked beneath his uniform.

Soldiers crowded the room. Many shared similar expressions; dead-eyed and tired. They wished to be free, to escape this torment. In his case, he hoped to escape without seeing Nicholas. That damned fae haunted him for too long. He took root in William’s heart. He was a ghost appearing in the dim morning light, pretending to be capable of love.

Not long after their arrival, horns blared, and the crowd surged. The pressure between them had William gulping for air. He saw the battlefield, the last fight. Fearworn’s monsters raining from the sky. Rifles in his peripheral. Soldiers crying, begging, snarling, doing whatever they could to survive. He couldn’t breathe, thinking of all the blood upon his fingers, bodies broken beneath his cracked fingernails, and Fearworn’s final attack ripping through his body, taking pieces of him.

A fierce hand gripped his arm. “Take a breath,” Charmaine whispered, sounding as panicked as he.

He heaved through his nostrils. Shutting his eyes, he told himself where he was. The king’s ballroom. Fearworn was dead. The war ended. They were far from war, safe.

When his eyes opened, he and Charmaine gazed upon the second floor landing where a man wearing a peculiar feathered hat announced the arrival of their royals.

First came King Ellis, adorned in enough gold to sink a ship. His crimson cloak billowed at his back as he descended, hands raised as if to stop the applause. Next came King Shepherd of the Krenia Kingdom, where Fearworn took his last breath. King Shepherd was equally bejeweled, albeit older in years. He walked crookedly, back bent and most of his weight held by a thick cane.

Then the fae followed. Their silhouettes swam in his blotchy vision. His heart rang in his ears, louder when Laurent appeared. Even in plain navy robes, Laurent had more presence than any in the room. It was his eyes, the way he held himself, like he believed beyond any doubt how better he was. White gems hung from his antlers, appearing like fallen snow. He was ethereal in every sense of the word, deceiving in his beauty.

And at his side was Nicholas, beautiful, breathtaking Nicholas, with his raven hair caught in a low ponytail. Unlike his father, Nicholas wore a suit in blinding gold with dark stitching. He summoned the attention of all in the room. The cursed bastard who stole William’s heart then left it to rot, eyes brilliantly violet, terrifying in their hue. He nearly whimpered because for a long moment, it was not Nicholas he saw, but Fearworn. His silver hair, crooked smile, and eyes such a fierce purple they were painful to gaze upon.

William’s reality shuddered. Sweat dotted his brow. His hands flexed. A woman nearby passed a curious stare, whispering to her husband. They stepped away, like they knew what he hid beneath his gloves. They may as well have.

Upon his return, King Ellis insisted the Vandervults throw a ball in their son’s honor. Of course he became adored, in the only manner high society could adore anyone, because it gave mortals a person to call a hero, to parade as a fine specimen of mortal loyalty and love for country. While they all spoke ill behind his back, the half-man cursed by wild fae magic, the man with cursed limbs, a man destined to die by a fae’s hand, one way or the other. He hated every moment of the event, how the king grabbed his arm to show off like a trophy.

“I need air,” he muttered.

Charmaine called after him, but he skirted around the crowded room to the hall. His vision swayed. Sweat soaked through his uniform. He found an empty lounge and fell upon the carpet, convulsing.

He wheezed, clawing at his chest that refused to expand. Dark spots exploded in his vision. The walls closed in, suffocating. His head pounded, brutally painful. He laid there whimpering, waiting, hoping the fear would pass.

The panic eased little by little, from him counting backwards from a hundred because that’s all he could think of doing. Then his shaking hand fell on a nearby end stand and he forced himself onto his feet.

Blood filled his mouth. He pressed a finger to his lips, then along his tender tongue. Red stained his fingertips. He bit the inside of his cheek, probably the moment he saw Nicholas with those eyes…

Nicholas fell. Losing himself as Fearworn had was his greatest fear.

William pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, silencing the sorrow he cursed himself for feeling. Nicholas abandoned him. He disappeared when William needed him. He didn’t write and never showed up to ask how he fared. Nicholas played the trickery of fae well, and William had lost.

“You can’t care,” he whispered, leaning against the end stand. His body ached. He undid the buttons of his uniform, trying to fan himself. In his thoughts, he didn’t notice the shadow within the threshold until it was too late.

“My wicked,” Nicholas whispered, and his heart stopped.

4

Nicholas

Likeafairytaleprincesslocked away in a tower, Nicholas waited for a savior. In his case, his captor was his father, desperate deals struck, an equally bored Evera, and annoying siblings.

They waited on the second floor for mortal kings, who were fashionably late. Dolled up in a gown spun from captured starlight, Evera Bloodbane did not wait to greet the courtiers before partaking in the evening festivities. She terrified a server into fetching faerie wine, which she finished in two hastened gulps. The gold caught on her pale blue lips and she sighed, sounding most content when treading along the road of intoxication.

Nicholas’ brothers wandered around the overflowing dining table. Treats and delights towered atop porcelain, silverware sat polished so brightly they reflected the flickering flames atop the candelabra. Maids trailed Solomon’s steps, brushing away the twigs cascading from his hair. Vines coiled themselves through his long brown hair and his green fingers caught a treat to savor, then passed one to Percival. Unlike his elder brother, Percival had his hair shaved to the scalp, skin nearly charcoal black in tone.

Percival and Solomon gossiped about slipping Faerie treats into the mortal food for a little fun. Unfortunately for them, mortals had been tasked with triple checking everything, ensuring to return any treats Percival dropped to its correct plate.

Humans couldn’t consume the food of Faerie without dire consequences. If they did, all else would taste worse than ash upon their tongue. Water wouldn’t quench their thirst, no matter how much they consumed. Their minds would wither, their bodies too, until they succumbed to death or the call of Faerie.

---