Page 7 of Tasteful Anarchy and Tangled Auras
The dress highlights my markings. Most humans simply think I have a sweet sleeve tattoo in an abstract style covering my clavicle and one arm. But my selkie markings are more like cheetah spots, natural and random. The more markings, the stronger the shifter, is the general selkie understanding. I wouldn’t have been considered anything special five hundred years ago, but now, with the population decline, I’m considered a strong shifter.
“I heard you were asking to meet with me,” Seren says. “Would you like to discuss it now?”
The rule of Court is that the walls have ears, but the queen can cast whatever she wants and anyone with sense will ignoreit. I nod my assent, and Seren throws up a strong wall spell so no one can hear us.
“I was doing some reading today, and I wanted to clarify a few things,” I begin.
The queen stares at me in silence. She obviously isn’t going to make this easy.
“I am allowed to take up to three consorts?” I ask. “And they each must be part nymph?”
“Yes, Granddaughter, though I expect at least one pure-blooded nymph.”
I scowl. That hadn’t been in the book. “And I must be taking seed into my body?”
“Correct.”
“And if I get pregnant and have a boy child, I will still become queen?” Seren raises her eyebrows at this. “As I will have proven my ability to produce an heir,” I add.
“If you’ve been at the Archives, you know this to be true.”
My teeth grind together. That isn’t what she’d announced to the court. I need it said aloud. “Is that a yes, Grandmother?”
Seren’s lips purse and her voice is ice. “Yes, Granddaughter. Now go, and if you don’t have a male nymph in your bed and his seed upon your skin by morning, I will choose one for you.”
Shit. How did I get myself into this? I head to the dance floor, angling for a wall. The Royal Hall is decorated like a speakeasy: large square mirrors, glass chandeliers, rich brown leather chairs and sofas, small absinthe fountains on each table.
A bar with tall velvet-covered chairs has been set up along one wall. Rory stands behind it in a white dress shirt with sleeve garters on his arms, polishing a glass, trying to annoy the nymphs who were waiting for a drink.
I catch a glimpse of Eira. She’s in a lavender beaded gown, holding one of those long cigarette stick things. Her dirty-blonde hair is held back by a matching headband. She is surrounded byogling males. Meanwhile, I’m over here giving my best R.B.F. to try to keep the males at bay.
As if my pique has summoned him, Bryn appears. His gaze slides over the room. “C’mon,” he whispers as he offers me his arm.
I slip my arm over his soft dress shirt. His vest and suspenders have him looking delicious. I smile conspiratorially up at him. “Where are we going?”
“Out,” and he quickly tugs me through a servant’s entrance.
“Wait,” I cry, stopping as the door closes behind us. “I can’t just leave! It’s still the middle of the ball. I’ll be noticed.”
“So, no trouble for you tonight? No spankings either, I assume.”
An idea hits me at the same time as heat pools in my belly at his words. I peer up at him through my eyelashes. “Only if you do me a favor later.”
“I’m at your service, Priestess,” he purrs as he swings a black cloak over me. His spicy, clean scent rolls around me as he leans forward to pull the hood over my head. He pauses and gently pushes a curl back behind my ear.
I can feel my pulse race, and I allow myself to be pulled deeper into the castle, towards the kitchens. Or so I had thought, but then Bryn leads me to a level lower instead.
Called “Town Square” by the servants, it is an actual tiny town under the castle and where I had found my atelier earlier. Bryn leads me quickly over the cobblestone roads, heading to a corner of the large square I haven’t really explored. When he opens the door to what is obviously a tavern, I look at him sideways. “We had booze at the ball.”
“Surely you’re not that dumb.” He winks at me and tugs me inside even as I blink in surprise at his words.
The tavern—and it is a kindness to call it such—is small and has several alcoves with torches burning in them. The mainfireplace is near the end of the bar, where a bored-looking wolver stands.
“What can I getcha?” he asks, his words slurred a bit by his snout and carnivore teeth.
“Two Buds.”
My opinion of Bryn falls a few notches but I take the proffered pint before he can take it for me. But damn if his loose waves don’t make me want to run my fingers through them, poor taste in beer or not.
