Page 102 of Thief of Souls
“By Blood, Ash, and Cord, I name thee bound before the goddess,” the priestess calls, dipping her thumb into a pot of ash, before she paints it between each of their eyes. “Goddess bless this union.”
Everyone leans forward in anticipation, because this is the moment we’ve all been waiting for. A single kiss to seal the ceremony.
The Lord of Mistmark steps toward his bride, his lips pressing together thinly as his face lowers toward hers. There’s no sign of distaste upon his face—Mistmark’s an expert at keeping his horses well in hand. I’ve met him several times this past week, and I still don’t know a cursed thing about him.
It’s the bride who hesitates, casting a slightly stricken look toward the crowd as if searching for a particular guest.
Come on. Come on.
Play the game. Do your part….
I squeeze my fingers into a fist even as the bride does the same.
Even as she tilts her painted red mouth toward her new husband’s.
Their lips meet.
It’s a breathless moment as all the guests shift, some of them leaning forward hungrily as if in search of a hint of discord, and some of them merely curious.
Instead, the bride slides her hand behind Mistmark’s neck, hauling his mouth against hers. Her hips tilt toward him, a hint of unexpected longing echoing in the curve of her spine.
Malechus allows a dangerous smile to stretch across his face.
But it’s Mistmark I didn’t account for.
The groom draws back sharply, touching his hands to his lips and staring at his bride’s face. Confusion draws his brows together.
My heart sinks through my chest like lead.
He knows.
And then he staggers to the side, going to one knee as if he’s a puppet with cut strings. The color drains from his face, his fingers bleeding red. The same red as the bride’s lipstick. The same red as the miroire flower, renowned for its ability to murder a fae within minutes.
Anger flashes over Mistmark’s expression as he grabs a fistful of the wedding gown. It’s too late. He doesn’t have the strength to fight, even as he knows what has happened.
The last thing he whispers is “Sora?”
Before he collapses on the dais at the bride’s feet.
21
Time to roll the dice.
Malechus is no longer smiling. The crowd gasps. And the bride looks ready to flee.
She can’t escape now. I still need her to play her part.
I move to Sift, even as someone screams, but Keir snatches my wrist, searching my gaze. “What did you do?”
I try and pry him free, but there’s no shifting him. “I took care of Belladonna’s threat.”
“Youkilledhim?”
“I just need Belladonna to think I’ve killed him,” I whisper in his ear. “Let me go. I need to finish this. I need to fetch the horn.”
“You were supposed to wait forme. If they realize you’re gone—”
“They won’t. Because you’re going to summon an illusion of me,” I whisper. “Make it look real.”
