Page 1 of To Wake a Kingdom

Chapter One

ThefirstthingInoticed was the sweetness of roses, twisted with the violent scent of blood. The second was the sting of an icy breeze that whispered of winter. The third was a man hovering over me, a leer on his face, his sour breath clinging to my skin.

I blinked through a syrupy fog of recollection.

Flowers in a spectrum of colors nested around my face as if I’d grown from a garden. A soft pillow cushioned my head, and my hands lay crossed over my heart. Like a corpse laid to rest.

But I was not dead. At least, not yet.

The man kneeled on the bier where I lay, the glint of bloodied steel flashing in his hand. I blinked again, trying to untangle my confusion.

Where had he come from? Who let him in here? Could no one have bothered to protect me?

Our gazes locked, shock carving into his ruddy features.

My heart thumped as understanding fused into iron. I screamed and did the only thing that made sense—lifted my knee and drove it between his legs with every ounce of strength I had.

With a howl, he clutched his groin, his head thrown back.

Skirts tangling around me, I flipped off the platform and landed in a crouch.

The man rolled on the ground, writhing, his eyes watering. “You bitch.” He rocked back and forth, gulping deep breaths. “You fucking whore!”

Spinning on my heel, I plunged through the door and entered the adjacent room where twelve women lay slain. Not women—Fae.

I remembered them.

I was slowly remembering everything.

Their gossamer dresses ripped and shredded, they lay bent and broken like discarded dolls with dull glass eyes. Some had slid to the ground, while others remained seated upon the thrones where they had once argued, schemed, and plotted.

Death crawled across the stone floor like afternoon shadows.

Bile rising in my throat, I covered my mouth, shudders stamping into my skin. The man with the sword had killed every one of these Fae.

What else had he done? The vile possibilities expanded in my mind. I was to be his thirteenth victim before I’d woken up.

But why was I awake?

Behind me, the murderer roared again, and I ran.

Through the hallways of the castle I’d grown up in, I ran. Every passage familiar, my soft slippers pounded against the dark stones as I scattered around corners.

I knew with the confidence of the bricks in these walls that the man would kill me if he caught me. Only death lingered on his shoulders. Attempting to block his pursuit, I knocked down vases, suits of armor, and tottering candelabras. Given his age and girth, he was inconveniently nimble. He kept close behind, shouting obscenities that would make even the merpeople blush.

My chest constricted from lack of use, bands tightening and squeezing. I careened into the throne room—the heart of my home—and came to an abrupt stop. Sunlight winked through stained glass windows, painting the walls in rainbows.

My mother and father sat asleep on the dais, dressed in furs and silk, exactly as I remembered them. Around the massive room, guards and courtiers and servants slept. Some leaned against the walls. Some lay on the ground. Some swayed where they stood—towers ready to topple from the force of a stiff breeze.

A breath, sharp and bitter, scraped the back of my throat.

A curse.

I remembered that too. How could I ever forget?

The man roared again, and I snatched the sword lying across my father’s lap.

With a sneer, the man prowled deeper into the room. “Put that thing down. You don’t want to cut yourself, Princess. I won’t hurt you. I just want a taste.”

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