Page 4 of The Crowned Fae Queen
Shooting him a dark look, a rumble of his easy laughter comes through the bond, making one side of my lips tilt up into a small smile.
“I already hate this.” Miranda points between the two of us. “You talk in your heads, and I have no idea what’s going on.”
“Bear was just agreeing with me, that’s all.”
Dirty little liar.He whispers only to me. Outwardly, he rolls his humor-filled eyes.
“As long as you aren’t thinking about me in my underwear, I guess.” Miranda wiggles his eyebrows.
“Now that’s a mental image.” Bear smirks.
Any trace of Miranda’s humor slowly melts from his face. It’s replaced with soft sorrow that wrinkles his forehead. “I’m not suggesting that the curse is real. I’m merely askinghow. Though after reading about this Bloodroot, it does suggest that some people would have an immunity. Which explains how not everyone has died yet.”
How? How? How, How, How.
That is the question. That’s the fucking question that makes me want to rip out my hair. How did Aisha poison a nation? How did Aisha get away, and how have I not found her yet? How did she access dark magic?
Heat blazes across my cheeks and up over the tips of my ears. Bear leans forward, watching me closely. A few stray sparks ignite on the ends of his fingertips and fall onto the table, fading into nothing.
“There is time, Syren,” Miranda whispers, one hand lifting from the book to reach across the table and cup mine. “We have time to find Aisha and time to figure out how exactly she’s doing it, how she's doing everything.”
Underneath his comforting touch, my hand tightens into a fist. Rage fueled by despair bubbles inside of me. I want to bang my hands against the table. Or scream out in frustration.
None of that will do me any good.
“Miranda,” I whisper, the words strangled in emotion, “I’ll get you your answers.”
2
The Queen’s Court
Syren
Outside, the sun is heading for the horizon. The golden rays fade into blushing pinks and brilliant oranges. As the sun hides behind the smoke of the burning piles of fae lost to Aisha’s poison, the air feels more frigid.
I curl my fingers into the yellow shawl draping over my shoulders. Silky and hardly thick enough to keep anything warm, the fabric caresses my skin. Watching the carriages pull away, I suppress a smile as the figures, shadowed by the sun, take to the steps of my star-lit onyx castle.
One by one, they travel through the new wooden doors chatting amongst each other. The chatter follows them through the shifting halls and into the small meeting room, where they arrange themselves on the waiting plush furniture.
Purposely, I leave the curtains open. Not for the sunset that can’t truly be seen or for a glimpse of the hedges that were so carefully trimmed this morning, but so they could see the flickering light of the fire.
So I can see the raging fire.
My nose has grown accustomed to the scent of burning bodies. A thought that sends an uncomfortable shiver down my spine. I don’t want to be comfortable with the death outside these doors.
Glancing out into the hallway, I give Rigs a nod as I grab the handles of the double door and pull it closed, careful not to get the skirts of my gown caught embarrassingly.
Iri watches me from across the room, his large arms folded over his chest, and a familiar frown curving his perfect lips down. His attention flickers up to my gaze, holding my stare as I take a deep breath.
I hope you know what you're doing.He raises a single eyebrow, never taking his eyes off me even as I turn my back on him.
Sure I do.My response is laced with a false air of sweetness.It’ll be fine. I’ve got you and my plain old dumb luck.
A small huff of laughter erupts behind me. I resist the urge to turn around and instead send the mental image of me giving Iri a pleasantly foul gesture. The laughter only becomes slightly stifled.
Hovering near the window in his long white gown held onto his lumpy figure by a single red cord, the chaplain blinks, looking from the roaring fire outside and around the room full of men and women of status.
Jesting Krow strokes the hand of his wife, Everly, the two of them making up the foreign affairs council. Everly gives him a pouting look as she taps the toes of her pointed shoe against the ground. He weaves his hand through his faded blond braids, pushing them over one shoulder.
