Page 88 of Thief of Souls
And no.
Because once this is over, I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again.
* * *
The skies openup as we make our way toward the enormous orangery that stands in the heart of the maze. There are guards along our path, all of them carrying torches. One or two servants have disappeared during the maze this week, and I think Malechus is taking all precautions.
Of course, he’s probably not aware there’s a questing beast lurking within it.
The glasshouse is where the final ball will be taking place, though Malechus hasn’t counted on the weather obeying his commands.
“Under here,” Keir says, tugging me beneath an enormous oak as the winds whip at my skirts.
In the distance, lights gleam within the orangery. Malechus will be there. Mistmark. Belladonna. All of them playing one last game….
Keir peers out to check the skies, as if to see if they’re going to let up long enough for us to make a run across the last stretch of grass. My silvery skirts are already spattered dark gray in patches, and though he shielded me with his coat as we ran, my hair is a mess.
I press a hand to his chest. His heart is beating steadily, but the look he gives me is anything but steady.
And I can’t stop myself from asking, “Why do you want the cauldron so badly?” It can’t be power. He was born a dragon king. According to the stories, he gave most of his power up, gifting it to the cauldron in order to bring peace between the fae and dragonkind.
Keir gives the clearing a savage look, his answer clear.Not here. Not where there are so many listening ears.
“The folly,” I say, tilting my head.
Away from the glasshouse.
Away from the ball.
Away from the politicking and backstabbing, and the tremulous threads of betrayal sweeping me toward a final, treacherous conclusion.
Keir tugs me out from under cover. We run through the rain, my heels sinking into the lawn and rain slicking my gown to my skin. I can’t stop myself from laughing breathlessly.
“This way,” Keir yells, hauling me to the left.
There’s a folly there.
One crafted of scrolled iron and glass. Several fae lanterns hang in the rafters, and wisteria curls its way around the iron. The firefly flicker of light hovers around several bunches of its flowers; Will O’ the Wisps humming like fat bumblebees in the night as they steal nectar from the flowers.
The night is still and humid around us. All the other guests seem to have fled in the direction of the orangery.
We’re alone. In the dark.
Alone and somehow, I’ve never felt more vulnerable.
Rain glides down the glass ceiling above us. A Will O’ the Wisp drifts past Keir’s shoulder, highlighting the stark planes of his cheekbones and those hungry eyes. His black lashes are clumped together with the wet, and the effect only makes those amber pupils more hypnotic.
Hunger darkens his eyes.
He traces the glyphs marked into my arm with his magic, and as his finger strokes down my clammy skin I shiver. Each rune is the promise of a single day that I owe him. A year and a day of service. Every morning I wake there’s one less rune.
And maybe I’m a fool, because there’s a little part of me that mourns their loss.
Once they’re gone, he’ll be out of my life.
A complication I never wanted.
A dream I don’t dare dream.
