Page 107 of The Rebel and the Rose
‘When was that?’
Caruso rubbed his forehead. ‘Hours ago.’
‘Did you speak to the prince?’
‘I found myself in better company.’ His eyes flicked to Val. ‘Nadia did. She made a point of it actually.’
Unease churned in Ransom’s gut. ‘Has she come back yet?’
‘Isn’t she in her room?’
‘No, Caruso. She’s not in her room.’
‘Well, don’t look so narky about it. You fucked off long before I did. And I had my hands full with this one.’
Ransom looked at Val. ‘She’s drooling by the way.’
‘It happens.’
‘All hell,’ he muttered. ‘Youlikeher.’
He spluttered a laugh, a familiar sneer curling his upper lip. ‘I don’t like anyone.’
There wasn’t time to needle Caruso about it. Ransom’s thoughts were on Nadia now, his feet already leading him out onto the dawn-lit street. More revellers appeared as he headed north, bodies drifting aimlessly through the town as if they’d forgotten where they lived. Their eyes were glassy and, despite the rising sun, they were shivering.
The closer Ransom drew to the red mills, the more disquieted he felt. He had seen enough hangovers – hell, he had endured enough himself – to know that whatever this strangeness was stretched far beyond alcohol and tainted smoke. It reminded him of the comedown after a Shade-heavy night, the creepingpanic that twisted magic so often left behind long after it had run you through.
As quickly as they were swept off the streets by plain-clothed mercenaries, more appeared, with bare, bleeding feet, wandering around like lost children. When Ransom tried to speak to one – a man not much older than him – his words came out garbled, his eyes unfocused.
Ransom broke into a run, the mills soon rising to meet him. They were grotty in the morning light, the wooden blades cracked down the middle, their red paint chipping away. The smell of stale alcohol mixed with fresh vomit was even worse up here. Ransom held his breath as he ducked inside the Rose Garden, scanning the dim, airless interior. There were bodies on all the couches, revellers groaning as they tried to sleep off whatever strange magic was still coursing through them.
Raised voices filled the cavernous hall, echoing back at him. Keeping to the shadowed alcoves, Ransom crept closer, eyeing two figures standing by the stage. Despite the low lighting and distance between them, he could tell one was the prince by his golden mane of hair and the outfit he had been wearing the night before.
Still pristine.
The blonde woman beside him bore a passing resemblance to him. Ransom recognized her as the same one who had briefly sat with Andreas and Seraphine last night.
‘… to come to us. Or you’ll scare her off,’ Andreas was ranting.
‘To where?’ She threw up her hands. ‘I’m tired of waiting, Andreas. I’m getting bored.’
‘So dance, Talisa.’ The prince’s voice was hard and low, the words more a threat than an invitation.
The woman whimpered. ‘Andreas,please. I don’t want—’
‘I said, dance,’ he hissed, his eyes flaring gold. ‘Dance and be merry, and stop breathing down my fucking neck.’
To Ransom’s horror, the girl began to twirl. And twirl and twirl and twirl. She slipped, losing a shoe, then crashed into a glass table. Picking herself up, she twirled again. Her dress had ripped and her leg was bleeding, and still she danced. Crying out, she begged him to let her stop.
The prince swished his hand about, waving her off. ‘Dance away from me. Until your feet give out and you remember which of us is in charge here.’
Wailing now, she moved like an unsteady spinning top, staggering towards the doors. She passed Ransom, but her eyes were glazed, looking right through him. And then she was gone, crying and twirling into the harsh dawn light.
Now the prince stood alone on the dance floor.
Without turning in his direction, he called out, ‘I don’t care that you saw that, Dagger.’
So much for pleasantries. Ransom had already downed his vial of Shade anyway. He stepped out of the darkness, dragging the shadows with him.
