3. Isla
3
ISLA
I try to twist around, but the male tightens his grip on my throat until I’m wheezing.
“Did Meriam give you access to my quarters?”
Since he’s speaking Glacin, I reply in his tongue, “Meriam? No, I let myself in.”
“Impossible. Try again. Who granted you passage?” He flexes his arm, the bone drilling into the column of my throat.
“No one!” I snarl.
I’ve never murdered a Faerie before, but there’s always a first time.
Through gritted teeth, I bite out, “Fucking—let—go.”
“Not until you tell me which sorceress or Serpent sent you in here and why .”
Is this guy serious? Does he actually think I pranced inside a steam bath in a towel to ambush him? How paranoid is this asshole?
Done explaining myself, I attempt to shift into my Crow but fail, which is as fucking weird as it is annoying. I grip the Faerie’s forearm and conjure my talons to shred his skin, but my nails don’t lengthen, which turns my mood violent.
Is he stifling my shifter powers, or did a Shabbin ward more than his rooftop?
I jam my elbow into his ribs, which earns me both a satisfying grunt and a tighter yoke. As my spa mate yanks me backward, I dig my human nails inside his skin, glad I keep them nice and long and pointed in this form. When I draw blood, he crushes my windpipe and lifts me off my feet.
All I wanted was to heat my frozen bones, which I would’ve explained if he hadn’t been so intent on strangling me. I roll my head as far forward as I can manage, then fling it backward. Satisfaction fills me when the back of my skull clips some protruding bone of his.
I hope it’s his nose.
I hope I broke the damn thing.
Yes, he’ll eventually heal, but in the meantime, it’ll hurt like a mother. Been there, done that.
Predictably, he growls into my hair, “You’re starting to try my patience.”
“And you’ve—obliterated—mine.”
Praying only my Crow side is being smothered, I dig my thumbnail into my chronically-scabbed index finger until my wound drips and then I lift my hand to my sternum and draw. When white and gold bleeds over my black hair, a sigh of relief trips past my lips. I don’t even care that I failed to alter my body along with my face.
A muted gasp disturbs the Faerie’s hold. “ Yegma .” Witch.
Before he can recover, I whirl and clip him so hard in the mouth that it sends his head sailing sideways. I grab onto his shoulders and aim my knee at his groin. Somehow, he manages to bat it down before it can connect with that fragile part of his anatomy.
His fingers cinch my throat and squeeze hard enough to leave a mark. “Who are you?”
Though the light is insipid, and the steam thick, my eyes clock his flashing gray ones.
“Someone you shouldn’t”—I eye the row of graduated diamond studs glazing his broad ears—“have pissed off.” I jump and lock my legs around his waist to destabilize him, then grip the bejeweled points of flesh and yank so hard I manage to rip out a few gaudy stones.
He staggers backward.
“Regretting you didn’t listen when I asked you nicely to let me go, Fay ?”
Bloodied nostrils flaring, he crushes my larynx, lifting me so high, my feet unlock and I lose my purchase on his torso.
“Tell me who you are before I truly hurt you.”
“Cute threat—asshole.” My vision dances with dots. I blink them away, then swing my knee into his chest.
Though it makes contact, it neither shortens his breath nor slackens his grip. Merely makes him hold me higher and farther away.
A smile crooking my lips, I streak a line of blood down his forearm. Before I can top my line with an arrow tip, he drops me. My lungs rattle as I streak toward the door, only to be bounced backward.
My calves bite into something hard, which makes my knees buckle. As I slam down onto a bench, my towel springs open. I begin to sketch the invisibility sigil on my thigh when a burst of air swings my hand away and pins it to the perspiring wall.
“Who are you?” His recurrent question is a low hiss that coils toward me on wisps of steam.
“Your newest worst enemy.”
“I highly doubt it. Your name?”
“You shouldn’t doubt it or me.”
“I repeat. Your name.”
“Like I’d give it to you.”
“I won’t release you until you do.”
I snort. “You may have cornered me, but you haven’t trap—” A burst of air slots itself between the tiles and my fingers, interrupting my sigil-drawing. And yes, I’m aware my Shabbin spell may not have adhered to the damp wall, since my blood isn’t viscous like the black ichor that runs through Serpent veins, but drawn quickly enough, it might’ve led me somewhere.
“You were saying, Yegma ?” Is that a smile lilting his voice?
“ Annos dòfain ,” I mutter under my breath.
“Hmm. A Shabbin who speaks Crow…and without an accent at that.”
I lurch to my feet but achieve a mere inch of air between my ass and the white mosaic before I’m slammed back down by magic. “I know you favor inbreeding in Glace, but in the south, we like to mix it up.”
A snort echoes through the steam bath. Ah …the sound of a pure-blooded High Fae who believes himself superior to others. How terribly predictable.
I try to press my fingers back against the wall, but the jerk keeps all ten of them gloved in air. “Look, I came in here to relax. And obviously, not a second of this has been relaxing. I’m not sure why you’re so intent on prolonging the moment, but I’m done steaming , so can you quit using your little air-magic to corral me in here?”
A shadow blisters the billows of white, one that grows in clarity as the Faerie draws nearer. The light coiling through the steam is too weak to make out much more than his snow-white pallor and foil-bright eyes.
“You thought you’d relax in my quarters?”
Someone feels mighty at home inside their borrowed suite… “Entitled much?”
“Speak your name, and I let you leave.”
Am I tempted to tell him who I am, or rather, who I’m related to? Absolutely. Do I? No. I prefer to keep the mystery alive a while longer. It isn’t as though he’ll make it out of this situation unscathed once Dádhi gets wind of my detention.
I fold my legs, wishing I could do the same with my arms, but they remain buffeted by the Faerie’s magic. “Behati.”
“Your hair was black before your spell. Besides, Behati is”—his gaze moves over my bared torso—“ slighter . Not to mention she and I are well-acquainted.”
Out of all the Faeries in Glace, I had to bump into someone who knows Behati? Fuck my life. “Which kingdom are you from?”
The haze must be thinning, because I detect his eyebrows—which are as dark as his hair is white—inclining toward his thin, bloodied nose.
“I’ve new terms for you,” he responds, instead of answering my question. “Tell me how you penetrated my chambers, and I’ll recall my magic.”
To end this monotonous cross-examination, I confess, “I entered with a sigil, which I painted on the bedroom skylight.”
The angle of his frown becomes vertiginous. And then he’s spinning on his heel and pounding away, making good on his promise. I’m so startled that he’s released me that my arms flop down and I remain planted on the bench. Nevertheless, the sound of a door whooshing open has me pitching forward.
As I near it, I glamour myself out of sight with a sigil, just in case he intends to manhandle me some more. When I pop free of the mist, the Faerie’s halfway down his corridor, clipping along at a ridiculous pace, pale-blue towel still wrapped snugly around his backside.
All right… Maybe he wasn’t planning on pursuing the interrogation outside.
Rubbing my bruised neck, I study his defined biceps, powerful legs, and finely-muscled back that casts his taut spine in shadow. No wonder his grip hurt. There’s not an ounce of softness on him.
I sweep my clothes off the floor and yank them up my invisible limbs, then grab my boots. I don’t spear them on, since bare feet will make less sound than leather soles.
Intent on slipping through the front door of his suite unnoticed, I tiptoe after the Faerie, trailing him into an adjoining parlor, where a desk sits, laden with stacked parchment and a—a?—
I lash my stare toward the white-haired male, then back onto the glittering snowflake crown. One of my boots drops and thuds on the parquet flooring. Focá.
The male continues walking, thankfully oblivious to my presence.
Or not…
“My castle’s a maze, Yegma ,” he says, reaching for the door handle. “You won’t reach your destination without the help of one of my guards.”
My castle.
My. Castle.
My! Castle!
I assaulted Izolda’s older brother.
I assaulted the King of Glace.
“I’ll have someone lead you to your destination. Which room were you hoping to reach?”
When I don’t reply, Konstantin Korol pivots in the direction of my fallen boot. I gape at his swollen bottom lip, at the smear of blood rimming his nostrils, at the angry peaks of his ears.
My father isn’t going to kill him ; he’s going to kill me .
The Ice King tilts his head, which unsettles the large silver medallion hanging between his pecs. I need to book it out of his chamber…out of the castle…out of Glace. I snatch the shoe—no way am I leaving any evidence of my visit behind—and then I creep to the nearest wall.
“So, where should I command my guards to take you?”
If I tell Konstantin where I’m headed, he’s going to put two and two together and figure out who bloodied his mouth. “I’ll find my way.”
“You won’t.”
For once in my life, I know I will, since my destination is his ceiling. Or his castle’s front door. Whichever I reach first. I’ll never know my mate, and my wings might just fall off midflight from fatigue, but staying in the Ice Kingdom is inconceivable.
“The least you can do—after you struck me—is allow one of my guards to escort you to your destination, Isla Ríhbiadh.”
My heart misses a beat. Six. Twelve. Even after I ascertain I’m still invisible, my pulse fails to ease.
Konstantin’s bluffing. He has to be. He may have noticed the color of my hair before I adopted Behati’s, but many people have black hair, especially Crows. All the Ice King holds for a fact is that I speak both tongues and possess Shabbin magic.
With a sigh, he says, “Fine. If you manage to slip through my wall, take a right. Your cousin’s suite is six doors down, right beside the oil portrait of my dead sister.”
He’s kept a portrait of his traitorous sister? How vile.
“I am curious about something. Will you be pretending to be Behati all evening?”
“I won’t be pretending to be anyone, since I’m not planning on staying.”
The Glacin King sweeps his thumb over his mouth that seems to curl with a smirk that screams: You walked right into that one, Witch.
“No boats will set sail tonight,” he continues. “We’re expecting some weather.”
How fortunate that I have wings.
“Not to mention that Izolda would be much aggrieved if you missed the Jubilee. She was terribly upset when she heard your grandmother had taken ill, and you’d decided to stay at her bedside. I take it Arin has made a full recovery?”
Goddess below, the male’s chatty. Here I’d heard—from Izolda—that he was the quiet, broody brother.
Though it is possible that he’s chatting in the hopes of tricking me into revealing my identity.
My lips itch to retort that I didn’t come here to party, but my reason for coming is none of his concern. Naturally, that serves to remind me of Behati’s vision.
If I leave, I never meet him .
If I stay, Konstantin might exact a punishment.
I glance over my shoulder at him, find his head still tilted and his chrome eyes still trained on the area where I hide in plain sight. He might not be able to see me, but I imagine he can detect my heartbeats with those broad ears of his.
“Make sure to pass through the part of the wall bearing the framed map,” he says. “Otherwise, you’ll hit one of the fire orbs.”
Fire orbs? My gaze clocks the wall and the map that must be as old as Glace considering how ochre the parchment has become. I readjust my position but then wonder if it’s a trick. What if it leads me straight into one of his guards?
“It’s not a trick,” he says.
My skin breaks out in goosebumps as I twist my face back in his direction and concentrate on the expanse of skin between his black eyebrows and white hairline. The silence that resonates there steadies my nerves. If I cannot read his thoughts, then he cannot read mine. It was only a lucky guess. My sigh of relief is so brisk that it stirs the damp hair framing my face.
“You’re probably wondering why I’m aiding you…”
Since I am curious, I linger a beat.
“You didn’t penetrate my chambers with the intent to harm me.” As though he senses he’s captured my attention, he folds his arms across his bare chest that tapers into slender hips.
The male resembles an icicle—long-limbed, pale, sharp…cold. The kind of cold that never cracks, only hardens to cut deeper.
“Am I correct, Isla ?”
The sound of my name is a pinch to the brain, a reminder that I must make haste before my spell fades and reveals my true visage to Konstantin. I almost reply, right , but that would be the equivalent of admitting my identity. No one—aside from Lachlano and Naeva—know that I’m in Glace. Not even Konstantin. He’s just assuming.
Actually, he spoke about boats… If he were a hundred percent certain I was the Crow Princess, he would’ve warned me against flying.
A new consideration drives a shiver down my spine. If he emits the hypothesis to my father, the latter might decide to concentrate on the tether that binds me to him—not because he’s my father, but because he’s my king—and learn my location before I can pop out like a cheeky jester.
Dádhi might keep my presence under wraps from his northern ally, but, Skies, how cross he’ll be with me.
If only I hadn’t dropped through the wrong skylight.
If only the Shabbin who secured the Korol’s castle had also warded it against sorceresses.
If only I could paint the forgetting glyph on Konstantin’s brow.
Not that I’ve ever gotten it right in the past, but perhaps…under duress… I snort, envisioning myself asking the Faerie to stand still while I attempt to sketch the complex grid of lines and swoops.
I suddenly think that this is why my parents kept me away: not because of the mate-prophecy, but because they somehow intuited I’d do something to ruin diplomatic relations with Glace, blunderer-extraordinaire that I am. May my meet-rude not lead to war.
The urgency to leave the Ice Kingdom finally guides my bleeding fingertip to the white wainscoting. Before pressing my palm to the lock glyph, I gather my boots against my chest and tuck in my elbows.
I don’t bump into anyone. The Faerie didn’t trick me.
I emerge inside an alcove, right next to a giant glass sphere filled with suspended flames that splashes soft beams onto the oil portrait of a white-haired Faerie. One who greatly resembles Konstantin Korol. His father, perhaps?
Their resemblance is so uncanny that it takes me a moment to detach my gaze from the painting. When I do, though, a gulp makes the bruise on my neck smart.
No wonder the Glacin King was perplexed as to how I entered his chambers.