Page 3 of Tasteful Anarchy and Tangled Auras
“How nice to see you again too, cousin,” I deadpan with a murderous look in my eyes.
He offers me a hand. Hitching my backpack higher on my shoulder, I stand on my own. I see doubt flicker in his eyes. Good. Prick.
“I was hoping I might get a chance to speak with you tonight,” he continues. His golden hair is braided down his back, and his large eyes are brown and gold. His ears come to a slight point, as they do for most nymphs. He doesn’t have the build of some of the older male nymphs, but he is still beautiful, tall, thin, and fit. He is also vain and pretentious. Goddess, I have no idea how Olwyn puts up with him. He must be a hell of a lay.
He steps closer to me and I freeze. My eyes search the hall. Nothing but me, him, and the mirror. Shit. I draw myself up, refusing to give an inch. I am a royal female, even if I am a black sheep.
My change in demeanor brings a lascivious grin to his face. “I’m excited to see you take your place tonight, Adelaide. You’ve been overlooked by your family for a long time. It’s arealshame.” He steps even closer; definitely closer than a male should be to a female, unless she was his.
Plenty of Fae treat me as human, and it’d be a lie to say that it bothers me. But when a male of the royal court treats me like this, invades my space or tries the human-polite touches, it is never intended as friendly. For a nymph to do that to a female that isn’t his, well, it’s only ever meant as an intimidation or domination tactic.
My anger flares, even as I roll his words around my head. I try to take some deep breaths. Last thing I need is for this jerk to get a hard-on.
“Back the fuck up, Malcolm.”
Surprise crosses his face. He doesn’t get shot down often, apparently, or maybe he’s out of practice. While having lovers wasn’t unacceptable, per se, the female nymphs of the ruling family—that is, my family—generally do not entertain the thought oftheirmales having other partners.
“As pleasant and ladylike as you were when you left,” he sneers, making his beautiful face cross into haggard. He spins on his heel and storms down the hallway. “Do let me know if you change your mind,” he throws over his shoulder.
“Get bent!” I call in a sing-song voice. Goddess damn it, I’d been here five minutes and had already been propositioned by a family member’s husband. This does not bode well.
I start down the hallway slowly. My feet lead me to my old room. I place my palm upon the door, and the wood around my hand glows blue as the door unlatches.
Just as I left it. I smile weakly but wonder: How does this place somehow feel like home? I shake my head. It’s probably just nostalgia. I enter my reception room and push the door shut behind me. A handful of comfortable, jewel-toned chairs surround a wooden coffee table. Large paintings—generally ones that humans have marked down as “stolen” long ago—cover most of the walls. I kick off my boots and look under the tall sideboard, wondering if I left a pair of slippers here. The cold of the stone floor seeps right through my wool socks.
The hinges of the door to my bedroom open silently. I toss my bag on the large and well-appointed bed covered in a fluffy navy-colored blanket with heaps of maroon pillows, then deposit my now-non-functioning cell phone into a drawer of the bedside table. I’m happy to see my plants are still doing well; a simple light spell was all that was needed, as the servants surely have been watering them. They hang from the ceiling in the corners and out of the way places, their vines edging around the room.
I walk to the empty archway on the far side. The walk-in closet on the left is long and narrow. At the far end there are three mirrors angled towards a center platform. The mirrors are spelled to not allow calls or travel, of course. No one needs a call while they’re inspecting how their ass looks in something. The hangers are full of formal, traditional, and human-style wear. It’s pretty luxe, separated by style and then color, with plenty of matching boots and flats tucked underneath. No heels, though. I think heels are bullshit and absolutely refuse to wear them, even though they’d give me a needed boost in height.
I grimace as I walk in. I don’t know what the theme or formality of the dinner is tonight. Grandmother’s motto is that it is better to be overdressed than under. And trust me, you did notwant to show up to her gatherings underdressed. I quickly grab a simple but elegant black floor-length gown, hoping it gives off a timeless vibe that will work for tonight.
I hurriedly strip and head into the bathroom. I refresh my curly hair with a bit of water then perfunctorily brush my teeth before shimmying into the gown. Uff, good thing it’s stretchy; too many of Marianna’s pastries. The sleeveless boatneck gown reveals the markings running across my right collarbone and down that arm. I’ll admit, I like to show them off to piss off the aunts.
I grab a massive emerald necklace on a long, heavy chain from my mother’s jewelry box and hurry out of my rooms. Turning to head towards the throne room, I run into what feels like a brick wall, but it is just the chest of Urien.
“Easy there, little fairy,” my large, blonde cousin chuckles. “I heard you were back and came to escort you.”
I grin. The twins are really the only nymphs at court that I care for. We had grown up close in age, and they are considered as useless as I am, so we bonded over causing trouble and sneaking out. I hug him.
“Good to see you, Urien. Where is Albon? What the fresh hell is going on?”
“‘Fresh hell’?” he repeats with a chortle. “You and your human speak. Grandmother dearest is angry about something.”
“You’re very helpful, thank you.”
His eyes dance. “I’m told I’m exceedingly helpful with some things.”
I laugh. “Ewwww. Spare me.” I had missed him. We banter as he leads me down to the throne room.
Urien pushes open the carved wood double doors. Covered in traditional Celtic knots, they make my heart clench. I had been born in America shortly after the Fae were resettled. However, I had spent much of the later 1970s in Dublin. Not only had Igotten a degree from Trinity, an appreciation for London punk, and more than my fair share of whiskey, I had gotten to know the land of my people. The ley lines there felt incredible, their power running through the land like slow-moving streams. I visited as many of the “historical sites,” as humans called them, as I could. They were often built on ley line convergences, like cities usually are now, even if most humans don’t feel that energy the way we do; they are still called to it.
I try to summon my bland court face. The Royal Hall is large and multipurpose. It is where formal dinners are held, as well as banquets, balls, dances, public punishments, and ceremonies. Tonight, the stone archways are empty of trimming. Instead, the large candelabras with their sweet-smelling beeswax pillar candles cast light that plays across the stained glass windows. It gives off rich medieval church vibes.
As we enter, I see Grandmother on the dias at the head of a table. A slim crone of a nymph, she doesn’t have time for anyone’s nonsense. Frankly, I hope I give as few fucks as Grandmother when I’m her age. However, being that Seren is queen, well, her temper and low tolerance for bullshit meant you can be banished or some accident could easily befall you, and no one would say a word about it.
Her heir, Aunt Avilion, sits on her left. While nymphs tend to slender, Princess Avilion seems nothing but bones with skin stretched over them, tall and emaciated. Her long white-blonde hair is curled into ringlets, probably in an attempt to make her face appear not as sickly. She has always been power hungry and bloodthirsty. A bad combination. Below is her daughter, Olwyn.
Olwyn has her mother’s white-blonde hair and her deceased-before-she-was-born father’s blue eyes. Rumor has it that Avilion had killed him upon finding out she was pregnant because she had no intention of sharing the throne, even with a male who would have been nothing more than a figurehead.
