Page 2 of Bride to the Fiend Prince
“Approach the Seat of Ghast,” she intoned.
I lifted my eyebrows. With the drug haze dissipating, my tongue was as agile as ever. “Why do you people give everything such doleful titles? Seat of Ghast, Cursed Palace, Fiend Prince, Dreadlord.” I released a faint chuckle. Humor was usually my backup plan when I was in trouble, my comfort space when I was nervous. But the people around me did not react—except that the black-gloved fingers of the Fiend Prince twitched slightly. As if he couldn’t wait to get his filthy hands on me.
All my humor drained away. “I did not agree to this marriage,” I said. “I do not consent.”
A low raspy voice issued from beneath the king’s mask. “Your father has given his consent. We do not need yours.”
“He doesn’t own me. He cannot do this. You have to let me go—I only found out about this at dinner—” The guards’ hands closed around my upper arms and I jerked against them, snapping into fight mode instantly. My father had been wise to drug me. I had achieved top marks in every combat course I’d ever taken.
I used the guards’ grip for balance as I swung outward with my leg, smashing my foot into the right-hand guard’s kneecap. He groaned and bent, and when his grip loosened I popped my arm free, following up with a quick blow to his throat with the side of my hand. I whirled, swinging the left-hand guard around, slamming his body into a third guard behind us. While they were struggling to right themselves, I faced off with the fourth guard, faking a blow, dodging under his attempted block, and landing a solid kick to his groin.
All of that took more breath and effort than usual, thanks to the cursed satiny skirts weighing me down. I hoisted the gown and started to run, but a net of slim green whips curled around my limbs. As soon as they impacted my skin I was petrified, frozen in place. My body revolved slowly around as the sorcerer dragged me toward the dais, like a fish on a line.
My limbs wouldn’t obey me, but my mouth was free. I let loose with the most depraved and disgusting of curses, every foul word I knew and some that I invented on the spot. Maybe if I behaved horribly they would deem me unfit to marry their prince and send me home.
No such luck. The sorcerer whipped another cord of magic across my mouth, and it nestled between my lips, burning and buzzing across my tongue. The lines of green light around my body tightened, painful and hot. I tried not to make a sound, but tears pooled in my eyes in spite of my resolve, and I glared through them, hating myself for the weakness.
The ceremony that followed was half in Common Tongue, half in some Terelonian ancestral dialect. Apparently I was promising reverence and obedience to my husband. I was agreeing never to withhold my body for purposes of pleasure or procreation, never to so much as look at another man, never to leave his side without his permission—all sorts of nonsense. I tried to form words again, to protest, but the burning cord of magic between my jaws thickened, scorching my tongue so sharply I yelped with pain.
“Andreas.” The voice came from the Fiend Prince’s mask. At the word, the sorcerer’s line of magic thinned again, cooling slightly. It was a welcome mercy, but I doused any fleeting sensation of gratitude. The Fiend Prince was marrying me against my will. A truly kind and good fiancé would have demanded that I be unbound and allowed to speak.
When it came time for me to affirm the vows, the woman reciting them paused for half a second, and the sorcerer flexed his magic, bending my neck in the semblance of a nod. “Assent is given,” droned the woman, and moved on to the Fiend Prince. He assented with a sharp jerk of his head. “Assent is given,” she repeated, and moved into the final words, “You are now bound by mettle and magic, by ichor and ice, for pain and pleasure, soul to soul and blood to blood.”
The king stepped forward, impatience in the hard angles of his shoulders. “Take her to his bedroom.”
“Yes, Dreadlord.” The sorcerer headed for a hallway, dragging me along by my magical green leash.
As we left the throne room, I heard the king say to his son, “You must ensure her compliance tonight. Call the physik if you need something to sedate her.”
Panic raced along my nerves, and more tears trailed along my cheeks as I felt my own wretched helplessness. How I hated magic! So unfair. Without that advantage on their side, they could not have subdued me so easily.
Try to uncover the source of their magic.My father’s secret words grated against my mind. Why hadn’t he warned me what he was planning? What hadn’t he given me more information, more time, more consideration—
The horrible truth of it was that he didn’t care enough. That he was willing to give me up for the sake of his precious people—sell me to Terelaus and give me a last-minute, half-assed directive to spy on my new husband and his father.
Well, I wouldn’t be doing any favors for my father. And I’d be damned if I allowed the Fiend Prince to dose me into “compliance” tonight.
3
The sorcerer pushed me between a pair of ornately carved ebony doors. Then he kicked me, full in the rear, and I sprawled on my face on the floor, unable to break my fall since my arms were still bound with his magical ropes.
“Brintzian scum,” he snarled. “Wretched whore. You’re not worthy of carrying the heir’s seed. Know that if you attempt to bring harm to the Fiend Prince tonight, I’ll slice off some precious little parts of you. You’ll never be the same again.”
The door slammed, and the magical lines around my body vanished.
A low fire glimmering in the grate yielded the room’s only light, and its orange glow didn’t reach far, because the Fiend Prince’s bedroom was immense. It was so heavily swathed in shadow I could only guess at its dimensions. The hiss and pop of the flames comforted me, a familiar sound in a room heavy with dark drapery, opulent floral scents, and a carpet so plush that when I sat up, my hand sank into it.
It would not be long before the Fiend Prince came to me. Even if he was reluctant to do so, his father seemed like the type to hurry him to the consummation. Apparently Terelaus was desperate for an heir, though I couldn’t think why. The king seemed healthy enough, and the prince was rumored to be a fearsome warrior. Difficult to tell what state they were in with the masks, though. Perhaps they were hiding some terrible encroaching disease. I shuddered, thinking of sharing a bed with the diseased body of the Fiend Prince, thinking of scabrous hands crawling over my body—
No. No, that could not happen.
I lurched to my feet and began hunting through the room, looking for anything I might be able to use as a weapon. The fireplace tools were an obvious choice, but also harder to conceal. Stealth would be my only friend in this endeavor.
At last, in a bottom drawer, I located a pretty little jeweled dagger, probably the brightest and most cheerful thing in the room. It lay half-concealed by some of the prince’s underthings—soft black shorts and one pair of scarlet silken drawers. I pushed those aside and pulled out the dagger, delighted at its feel and craftsmanship. A little light and frail perhaps, clearly meant as a decorative piece—but its blade was sharp enough when I tried it against my thumb. It would do the job nicely.
The Fiend Prince’s bed matched the scale of the room, a horrifying, haunted castle of a thing with towering twisted spindles, draped in curtains the color of ink and blood. A gauzy black negligee lay across the sheets. I couldn’t very well climb into the bed in my ridiculous wedding gown, and I would die before I’d put on that bit of silken shadow. I divested myself of the dress and shoes and slid between the sheets in my corset and lace pantalettes.
I’d chosen the bed as the best place for the assault. When the Fiend Prince entered he would likely be on the alert, ready to fend off a full-on charge or a sneak attack from behind the door. Lying on the bed would give him the impression that I had given in, that I was ready to submit. He would approach me smugly, read to take his prize, and then—I’d give him a surprise instead.
