Chapter 15 #2
She caught glimpses between partners, the fae lord she'd impaled on thorns, watching from the shadows with hatred in his eyes, Lady Corvaine speaking intently with other older fae.
Along the edges of the room the Withered stood so still they looked like strange sculptures until their antlered heads turned to track movement.
When she finally returned to her seat, her feet ached and her skin felt crawled over. Malus watched her resettle herself, something pleased in his expression.
"You're quite popular," he said. "Though you're sweating, perspiration doesn't become you."
He traced a finger along her throat, and she saw the moment he noticed it—the faint residue of oil. His expression didn't change, but the temperature around them dropped.
"I—" she started.
"Quiet." The command was soft but absolute. He stood, drawing her up with him. "It's time."
He moved to the pedestal, one hand keeping her close. The hall's attention focused on them, conversations dying. With theatrical deliberation, he pulled away the cloth.
The box beneath was carved from bone, symbols etched into its surface that seemed to hum with a magic that made Briar take half a step back. He opened it, revealing a knife, its blade seeming to shift between silver and something darker.
"Some of you," Malus said, addressing the court, "remember the old ways. When this blade had purpose beyond ceremony."
She felt the shift in the room, anticipation from some, confusion from others. Lord Pendron actually smiled.
"Long ago," Malus continued, lifting the knife and brandishing it for all to see, "before we forgot ourselves, before we pretended to be civilized, we understood what humans were for. Warmth. Fear." He paused, the blade catching candlelight. "Blood."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. She saw Lord Tamlin take a step back.
"My lord," Tamlin said carefully, "surely you don't mean—"
"I mean exactly what our ancestors meant." Malus turned the blade, admiring it. "The sharing of human essence. The old feast. The true communion. The real reason behind your Wild Hunt."
"This is barbarism," Lord Garrett said from the back, his voice carrying shocked disapproval.
"This is tradition," Lord Pendron corrected, his ancient voice cutting through the murmurs. "This is what we were before we grew soft."
Lord Garrett stepped forward, his young face set with determination. "I didn't support your claim to the throne for this. This isn't restoring proper rule, it's—"
"It's what?" Malus asked softly, still holding the knife. "Do finish your thought."
"It's an abomination." Garrett moved closer, several other younger fae shifting behind him as if building courage. "We're not monsters who feed on humans. That's not what the Forest Court—"
"The Forest Court," Malus interrupted, "existed long before your birth, young lord. Before we pretended to be civilized and forgot our true nature." He set down the knife with deliberate care. "But perhaps you need a reminder of what we truly are. Of what defiance will afford you."
He made a small gesture, barely visible. The Withered moved.
One moment Lord Garrett stood defiant in his court finery. The next, a Withered had stepped from the shadows behind him, one decayed hand settling on his shoulder.
Garrett's scream cut off almost immediately. Where the Withered touched, his shoulder began to age—the fabric of his coat crumbling, then the flesh beneath going gray, then black, spreading like rot. His skin wrinkled, hair whitening and falling out in clumps.
"No," someone whispered. "No, stop—"
But it was too late. The decay spread down Garrett's arm, up his neck. Briar wanted to look away, to close her eyes, but Malus wouldn’t allow it.
“Watch,” he said, and so she did.
The fae lord aged decades in seconds, centuries in a moment. His eyes clouded, skin pulling tight over bones that brittled and cracked. He tried to pull away but his body was failing too quickly, muscles withering, tendons snapping like old rope.
When he fell, he was already crumbling. Not dead, something worse. He was still aware as his body became dust and memory, consciousness trapped in failing flesh until the last possible second.
The Withered stepped back, returning to stillness. Where Lord Garrett had stood, only the tattered remnants of clothes remained around a pile of gray ash and bone fragments.
The hall was silent.
"Anyone else," Malus asked pleasantly, "have objections to tradition?"
No one spoke. Even Lord Pendron looked unsettled, though whether by the method or the waste of fae blood, Briar couldn't know for sure.
Malus raised the knife to her throat. "Now, where were we?"
The attention in the hall shifted back to Malus, to her. Briar closed her eyes and held her breath, bracing herself for the sting of the cut. The blade touched her skin just below the copper leaves, and slid off.
He tried again, pressing harder this time. The knife skittered across her skin like it was polished glass, leaving nothing behind, not even a scratch.
Briar opened her eyes.
The silence grew heavy. Malus tried once more, this time with enough pressure that even a dull blade should have drawn blood. Nothing.
"My lord?" Lord Pendron's confusion was evident.
Briar saw the moment Malus's control cracked. His jaw tightened, his eyes went flat, and for an instant, rage flickered across his features before he smoothed them.
He set the knife down carefully and turned to her with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. Then he grabbed her throat and slammed her back against the throne.
The violence of it shocked the court. Several fae stepped forward instinctively, but more Withered moved from the shadows, their presence both a threat and a promise to anyone who thought to intervene.
"Someone," Malus said, his voice still casual despite his hand crushing her windpipe, "has been getting creative."
He yanked her forward, then drove her back again. Her head snapped back against the wood leaving her dazed.
Malus leaned in. "Did you think," he said against her ear, fingers tangling in her hair at the nape of her neck, "that parlor tricks would stop me?"
“Don’t—!”
He sank his teeth into her throat, tearing through whatever protection the oil provided through sheer savagery. She screamed and her hands came up, striking at his face, his shoulders, anywhere she could reach.
He caught one wrist, pinning it against the throne while using his body weight to trap her. Her free hand clawed at him, drawing blood from his cheek before he grabbed that wrist too, holding both now as he fed.
The warmth in her chest raged, pushing against her skin, trying to manifest. She could feel it building into something violent, something that wanted to shove him away from her, but the oil created a barrier it couldn't breach.
Malus drank deeply, and she felt her strength ebbing. The futility of it, the pain, the violation of being fed upon in front of the entire court. When he finally pulled back with a gasp, she was shaking. Blood ran down her throat, staining the autumn silk.
"What—" He released her wrists to touch his mouth, staring at the blood on his fingers. Then at her. His pupils had dilated strangely. "You taste of forests. Deep forests. Old growth and shadow and—"
His expression shifted from confusion to rage.
"You taste of him."
The court erupted in whispers. Malus grabbed her jaw, forcing her to meet his eyes.
"How?" His fingers dug into her skin. "The bargain is mine. The marks are mine. But your blood carries his forest." He inhaled sharply against her hair, her skin. "What did my brother do to you?"
She couldn't answer with his hand crushing her jaw. The warmth in her chest pulsed with something like satisfaction. Even claimed by another, her blood knew its true master.
"My lord," Lord Pendron said carefully, "what does this mean?"
Malus released her face to grab her by the throat again, displaying the savage bite to the court. "It means," he said, "that my brother left more than marks. Her blood carries forest magic. Old magic."
"That's impossible," someone said. "She's human."
"She was human." Malus's grip tightened, and she could feel her pulse pounding against his palm. "Now she's becoming something else. Something that belongs to the forest itself, despite my claim."
He released her suddenly and she collapsed against the throne, gasping, blood still running from the wound. The copper leaves at her throat were splattered with red.
"Clear the hall," he commanded. "Everyone out."
"But my lord—" Lord Pendron began.
"Out!" The word cracked like thunder. Autumn leaves throughout the hall burst into flame, then crumbled to nothing.
The fae fled. Even the ancient ones who'd been eager for blood seemed startled by his fury. Within moments, only the Withered remained, still as death in the shadows.
Malus turned on her, and she saw murder in his eyes.
"You knew," he said. "You knew what you carried."
"I didn't—"
The blow came unexpectedly, the back of his hand connecting with her cheek with such force that it sent her sprawling from the throne. Before she could recover, he grabbed her hair and dragged her to her feet.
"Don't lie to me." He shook her hard enough to make her vision blur. "The oil was one thing. A servant's trick. But this? Blood that rejects me? That sings of another king?" Another violent shake. "What are you?"
"I don't know!" The words came out desperate, but true.
He studied her face, then smiled. It was worse than his rage.
"Then we'll find out together." He started dragging her toward the doors, her feet scrambling to keep up. "In private. Where I can be thorough."
The Withered parted as they passed, their antlered heads turning to watch. She caught a glimpse of the great hall, the abandoned feast, overturned chairs, blood on the throne.
Then Malus hauled her into the corridor, toward his chambers, his grip in her hair never loosening.
"You're going to tell me everything," he said as they climbed the stairs, Briar tripping and stumbling in an effort to maintain her footing.
"About the warmth in your chest. About when it started, every moment you've felt it react.
" His fingers tightened. "And if you lie or if you resist, then my brother loses a finger.
Then a hand. Then more. Do you understand? "
“Yes."
"Good." He kicked open his chamber door. "Now we begin your lessons in what happens when you try to deceive the Forest King."