Page 162 of Beneath a Shattered Sky
With that in mind, I fix my gaze on Ashton’s back—now glamoured to hide his wings once more—and follow him across the guardroom to the cell on the far side.
Unlike the other prisoners, Torrance doesn’t stand at my entrance. He sits braced across the doorway behind the sheet of crystal separating us, with one leg bent and the other dangling down the slope on the other side. He’s still wearing fine, brightly coloured clothes, with the fur around the neckline dyed a flamboyant orange that clashes strangely with his tattoos. His dark hair reminds me painfully of Bree’s, except longer, and is tied back neatly in a ponytail.
His hands are cuffed in front of him in silver shackles, but he raises them in greeting when he spots Bree.
“Ahh, if it isn’t my son.” His breath fogs the air, words muffled by the door between us. “And you brought your whore with you.”
“Speak to the Nicnevin with respect,” Bree snaps.
“Nicnevin, is she?” Torrance looks up, and I tense, even knowing he can’t use his magic with those cuffs on. “Funny. She looks like one stiff breeze would blow her over. Hardly what any fae would expect from Danu incarnate.”
Resisting the urge to look down at my clothes, I study him closely. There’s blank space on his neck—the only one visible across the rest of his skin, although he seems to have covered most of himself to protect against the cold.
And he’s also… completely relaxed. It’s as if he’s having a conversation with us in a comfy parlour rather than in a frosty cell.
I wait for Bree to take the lead, but… he doesn’t. His face is a careful mask, and his eyes won’t stray anywhere near the door.
“Curious. In times of war, Danu sends warriors to help us. Not little girls still looking to their mates for guidance.” Torrance tuts. “And with such a poor selection of males in your Guard…I suppose it’s no wonder so many don’t believe you’re fit for purpose.”
The words hit their mark, drawing blood from a deep part of me, but I focus on the last part instead. “My Guard is perfect, and you are a traitor.”
“Traitor?” Torrance clutches a hand to his chest. “You wound me. I’m loyal to my court, and my king, as I always have been. Why, even my most popular ballad is an homage to Siabetha in the sunset.”
Bree’s hand tightens in mine, but he says nothing.
“You mean Bree’s ballad,” I correct, frowning. “You didn’t write it.”
“I made it what it was,” Torrance argues, a fierce glint entering his eyes. “It doesn’t matter who wrote it. I was the maestro who made it great!”
He can’t lie, which means he really believes his own bullshit.
“Careful,” Titania warns, leaning over my shoulder. “Delusions of grandeur can be dangerous in the right circumstances.”
“It’s clear you think so,” I admit, squeezing Bree’s hand. “But you’ve not had any more successes in the last few years, have you? Not since you betrayed your only son and left him to die in the bowels of the Toxic Orchid. Hardly the actions of a maestro or a loyal male.”
“Some fae can’t recognise talent.” Torrance scoffs. “Besides, having a creepy little urchin lurking in the background of my performance was ruining the staging. And the boy was considering breaking apart our duo, anyway. I simply helped him move into a new career.”
At that, Bree’s head finally snaps up. “You charmed me into taking on your debt.”
“And you grew from it!” Torrance grins, apparently pleased to have finally wheedled a reaction from his son. “Withoutme, do you really think you’d have been strong enough to be appointed as a Guard, even if it is to a defective Nicnevin?”
“Rose isn’t defective.”
“That’s not what Eero thinks. Not what the Grand Clerics of the Temple thought either—before they were cast out by a weak high priestess.”
“Tell us what Eero’s plans are,” I order.
This debate has gone on long enough. Torrance obviously feels no repentance for what he’s done, and I won’t let him continue to torment Bree.
He shrugs. “I may not know.”
The evasion is so transparent it’s almost laughable, and Ashton evidently thinks so too, because he snorts.
“You were clearly trusted enough to plant the snakes in my room.” I turn to face the winter prince. “Is there someone in this place who’s skilled in the art of extracting information, or do I need to send for my redcap?”
I’m bluffing, of course. I don’t have the stomach for torture, even if Lore would be only too happy to oblige. But Torrance doesn’t know that, and apparently neither does Ashton, whose brows rise.
“Of course.”
