Page 23 of Thief of Souls
But I can’t help feeling as though I’ve just made a dangerous misstep in the game somewhere.
5
The Court of Blood is housed within the heart of a mountain. Long-ago fae chiseled halls and rooms from within the slate, and each gaping “window” looks like the mournful eye of a monster. Stars glitter like a shimmering cloak draped over the mountain’s shoulders, but it’s the blood moon in the sky that captures my attention.
Many years ago, the king of the Court of Blood was married to a daughter of the Court of Frost and Fangs. He despised his new bride and ridiculed her by parading a never-ending cast of hundreds through his bed. In retaliation, she fled to her father’s court and cast a curse on the Court of Blood by the power of the blood moon.
The waters of the court would run with blood. The stone of his mountain court would crack. And the king’s… ahem… would never flourish again.
He could look. He could admire. But he could never, ever rouse, even to a lover’s touch.
The only way to break the curse was for one of his lovers to sacrifice herself—willingly—to the bonfire.
It’s a little inauspicious to begin a wedding beneath such a powerful astral sign that did so much damage, but the Court of Blood have always been a little strange.
A maze leads toward the entrance to the court.
It’s formed of hedges of bloodstar, with their dark red leaves and silver branches. There are whispers they water the trees with blood, which gives the leaves their stunning color, and the entire effect is eerie.
The Court of Blood isn’t pretending to be anything it’s not.
It’s a malevolent trap. A warning. An imposing fort with an elaborate welcome mat and a trap door that’s prepared to slam shut behind you.
Getting in without an invite is impossible.
Luckily, I have the most delicious-looking invite a girl can find. The Prince of Dreams is the coup of any social event—a reclusive prince with enormous power, a gorgeous face, and, whilst my way in is on his arm as his betrothed, technically, until the ceremony happens, he’s still unmarried.
The hardest part of the entire affair is convincing the powers-that-be thatIbelong here.
Me. A wraith-born bastard forced upon my fae mother. A monster cut from her womb.
My fingers dig into my palms. I feel sick and shaky all of a sudden, though I could have sworn I banished these moments long ago.
She loved me. She had to have loved me, because she named me true, and named me thrice before they stole me from her arms. Every fae child receives the gift of three names from its mother. Without them you are truly Unblessed.
Zemira Ashburn. Gravekissed, the Black Hawk, Winterborn.
No one knows those names except for me and my father. They’re imprinted on my soul and bind me to my oaths. A fae’s true name is what forces them to uphold their word, once given.
Armed with my true name and my soul, he can control every inch of me.
“Merisel,” Keir murmurs, his golden eyes watching me in a way that makes me feel as though he can see right through me. “Are you all right?”
I breathe through the moment, swallowing it all down like poison I’ve consumed far too many times to fall prey to it. “I’m fine.”
His face remains chiseled from stone. Impassive. He sits across from me, clad in sophisticated black velvet with golden dragons embroidered down the lapels. Rubies glint on his fingers, so dark a red that they seem almost black.
I have no idea what he’s thinking.
Can he see it on my face? That I mean to betray him?
Surely not.
He wouldn’t be lazing back against the carriage seat across from me if he was.
I have to believe that, and yet, for some strange reason, that knot of tension is back within my chest. I toy with the sapphire rings on my fingers, forcing my shoulders to square.
“We’re nearly there,” he says, glancing through the windows.
