Page 69 of The Wicked Lies of Habren Faire
“Don’t bother.” I back away. “You can’t lie, Neirin, but your idea of the truth is twisted beyond understanding anyway.”
“There’s more to it than that, and you know it.”
For all his charm and the fireworks he lights in my chest, Neirin is merely John Branshaw dressed up like a fairy prince—and he’s happy to use me just the same.
“I have to save my sister,” I snap at him.
“We have a deal.”
“I lied!” I throw my arms wide. “Isn’t it wonderful? I can say whatever I want and mean nothing of it.”
“I know you.” He jabs a finger in my direction. “You weren’t lying—”
“I just needed a guide—”
“You trusted me for a moment—”
“For a moment, yes! Until you locked me up in your big house, even after everything I told you. You’re no better than your brother. Now get your finger out of my face!”
Neirin points at me again. “You dare compare me to my brother?”
“Get your finger out of my face before I cut it off!”
“You’ll come crawling out of Y Lle Tywyll as some mindless thing, banging on the wall to my manor without even knowing why,” he says hoarsely, like he’s exhausted with me.
I go almost blind with fury at his lack of faith. He sounds just like everyone else who’s ever doubted me, everyone who’s treated me as less than a person. My rage is so strong it’s almost choking me, and I know that if I open my mouth no sense will come out.
Neirin takes my silence as acceptance and, with one last joust of his finger, he says, “Or you’ll die in there, like your sister probably has.”
All I see is the finger pointed in my face.
My blade slices through the air and takes his finger with it.
The iron practically melts through him; I can smell his flesh cooking. Neirin’s shriek of pain pierces me, right to my core, and we both stagger back in empty astonishment.
I’m not a violent person. At least, I try to believe that I’m not—that I couldn’t be—but the still-twitching digit lying on the grass between myself and the fairy prince is damning evidence. I lied and cheated my way here; I’ve stolen, I’ve marred flesh; and now I’ve taken a finger in the process.
I’ve loved Eu gwlad all my life, believed even when I couldn’t see it—but it was never meant for me. I’m not Habren Faire, despite Neirin’s encouragement and how much I want to pretend. I’m only Sabrina Parry, and this was never meant to be my story.
We both lunge for the severed finger, but Neirin is a dissolute royal in pain, and I’m fast and hardened and burning with regret. I shove it in my pocket and dash into the night, leaving Neirin screaming behind me.
21
yn erbyn y llif
(AGAINST THE CURRENT)
My head start doesn’t last long. Neirin’s voice booms through the forest, so laden with pain it shakes the trees at their roots. Pain that I caused him.
As I run, pumping my legs and arms like a machine, the truth echoes in my ears. I’ve always known Neirin was using me—for entertainment, or to sate his own curiosity—and that was fine. I was the only one who bore the brunt of it. But now, I know that he’s been manipulating me—and Ceridwen—to grapple for power, and that goes far beyond us.
Just like the lords in their big houses. Just like the gentlemen in Westminster, and the entitled, and the royals, and the judges, and everyone else who gets to treat the rest of us like ants to be crushed under their boots.
I’ll die before I’m a part of that.
The burn in my chest as I sprint blindly through the forest warns me that I might. This patch of woods is endless, and Neirin is, for a spoiled, lazy lord—no, even worse—a lazyprince, relentless. I know he’s behind me. The air crackles with his presence, and the hairs on my arm stand at attention. Desperation claws its way through my ribs, until the rush of water hits my ears, and a river rises on the horizon.
Morgen.
