Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MONTY
H earing Daphne refer to me as teacher does something strange to my belly. Strange but pleasant. If only it was pleasant enough to erase how pissed I am at this turn of events. Though why I’m pissed is beyond me. I should be thrilled to have company. I should be celebrating the ease with which we encountered a practice specimen, no matter how contrived it was.
Yet this derails my plans. I was supposed to teach Daphne how to enjoy herself. To ease her into socializing so she can realize there’s more to life in seelie society than work. She wants to be an illustrator so badly that she’s willing to enter a quick marriage just to cut ties with her home village.
The reminder that she’s engaged to a goddamned honey badger—and will be forced to live with him in her hometown if she doesn’t find a husband in less than three months—makes me even more pissed. It also gives me the fuel I need to go along with her ruse.
“Lesson Two,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Do not chase or waste time on uninterested parties. We’ll allow Araminta to make introductions, and I’ll maintain my distance to give that boy the opportunity to demonstrate his interest. If he doesn’t take it, we extricate ourselves from their party and continue our lesson my way. Agreed?”
“Agreed.” Her smile widens, showing her relief in having swayed me to go along with her and Araminta’s setup. That’s perhaps what pisses me off the most. That Daphne didn’t trust me. Maybe I don’t deserve her trust after how cold I was to her after The Heartbeats Tour, but I still know her. I understand her. In many ways, she’s the same shy yet snarky little creature she was in her unseelie form. In other ways, she’s new and bold and different, and not just based on appearances. Doesn’t she know that I see her? That I would never put her in an uncomfortable position for the sake of my case study?
Then again, maybe I’m the only one who’s noticed how easily our friendship has rekindled, despite the lapse of time and the pain I caused.
“Anything else?” she asks, and I realize I’m staring at her. “Or can we join them now?”
My jaw shifts side to side. “If he does show interest, we move on to Lesson Three: a first meeting is merely an interview. Act with curiosity. Listen and assess. Share about yourself for the sake of connection, but don’t give everything away. And continue to keep Lesson Two in mind. If he disrespects you, repulses you, or loses interest, we move on. Give him a chance, but only so far as he deserves. We do not waste time on unsuitable options.”
“Agreed,” she says again, and her studious expression tells me she’s truly taking my words to heart.
I force my mouth into a false grin. “Let’s go meet this fucking boy-child, shall we?”
My lips threaten to shift into a snarl as we return to the three interlopers. Araminta makes our formal introductions, first between me, Daphne, and David, the man from the boxing club whom I technically was not introduced to at the time.
“It’s so lovely to officially meet Ari’s parents,” he says with a formal bow.
“Not my parents,” Araminta snaps.
His face is flushed as he straightens. He leans close to Araminta and whispers, “Who are your parents then?”
“I don’t know,” she says with a shrug. “They’re worms.”
Next, she introduces David’s friend, Conrad, who pales as I tighten my hand around his during our handshake. Of course his name is Conrad. What an insufferable name. Though I can’t say I’ve ever disliked the name until now.
Daphne greets him with a polite yet casual curtsy, and I’m reminded of what she said earlier about having studied etiquette when she debuted in high society. That’s a story I’m desperate to hear, yet the look on her face relayed what a sensitive subject it is.
That sparks a protective fire inside me as I assess Daphne and Conrad’s first verbal exchanges. She asks a few rehearsed-sounding questions, which he answers with a lopsided grin. Her posture is tense, her fingers tightly knit at her waist, cheeks burning crimson. My annoyance flares at seeing her blush for Conrad. Why the hell should she blush for him? He should be the one blushing—well, he too is getting a bit pink in the cheeks, especially when he addresses her by her first name.
My gloved fingers curl into fists at the sound of Daphne on this stranger’s tongue. I make a mental note to convince her to take a surname before our next lesson, just so fuckers like Conrad don’t think they’re special in being allowed to address her so casually.
The man’s gaze suddenly flicks to me. “How are the two of you acquainted? Are you…”
That’s when I realize I’m hovering a little too closely for someone who is supposed to give the impression Daphne is unattached.
Daphne pulls her chin back. “Us? You mean me and Monty?”
Conrad’s expression flickers with disappointment, probably at hearing her refer to me as Monty and not Mr. Phillips. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t feeling smug about that. Yet I can’t let my pride interfere with our lesson.
“We’re merely colleagues,” I say, forcing a disinterested drawl into my voice. “I’m a columnist at the Cedar Hills Gazette while Daphne works at Fletcher-Wilson Publishing. We’re currently working on separate projects in a similar field.”
“Are you writing an article on the carnival?”
I give him a mirthless grin. “Something like that.”
He turns his gaze back to Daphne. “And you? What kind of work brings you to the Wandering Trees Carnival today?”
“I, uh…” Her cheeks flush all over again and she tucks a strand of her dark hair behind a pointed ear. “I’m an editorial assistant. And sometimes I illustrate book covers. With bodies on them. There are so many…bodies around us, aren’t there?”
Conrad’s grin turns a bit perplexed. He opens his mouth, but Araminta speaks first.
“Shall we play some games?” she says, her arm linked through David’s. “I read all about the carnival in the Gazette yesterday when I was browsing obituaries, and apparently games are fun .” She says it with the enthusiasm of someone who doesn’t realize most of us already know what carnival games and fun are.
Daphne wrings her gloved hands, the only other person not acquainted with the subject matter. “I’ve never played a carnival game.”
Conrad’s eyes brighten. “Oh, we simply must play.”
We.
He said we .
That paired with the hope in his eyes as he stares at Daphne tells me one thing.
He’s interested.
Fuck.
“Yes,” I say, extricating a cigarillo and lighting it. “Let us play.”
Conrad is absolute shit at carnival games. Either that or he’s using his ineptitude to draw Daphne closer. She’s maintained a polite distance from him while I’ve done my best to edge as far from the couple as I dare. Whenever I stray too far, Daphne reels me closer with a panicked glare. So I must stay close enough to appease Daph yet distant enough to allow Conrad to flirt with her. Which means I have to hear every inane word that comes out of his mouth.
“How do you think I should position this?” he asks Daphne. He holds a mock rifle in his hand, one made from thin twining vines. It’s a toy modeled after a hunting rifle, and it’s tethered to the stall’s counter. Behind the stall stand several rows of tall panels, one before each shooting station. Each panel is covered in moss interspersed with bulging green bubbles of varying sizes. The objective of the game is to pop the bubbles with the burst of air that shoots from the toy rifle. The bubbles are so dense that only a direct hit at the center will pop them. For every bubble that pops, a green vine grows vertically from the counter beside the rifle. The smaller targets are worth more and grow the vine faster. It’s a group game, and whoever grows their vine to the stall’s brightly colored awning first wins.
There is still a minute or so before the game begins, so the players are still settling in. I hover at the far end of the stall, near a pair of open seats, not intending to play.
“Should my hands be here?” Conrad asks. “Or perhaps here?”
I clench my teeth. He’s asking her how he should grip his fucking gun. If I had even the slightest inkling the innuendo was intentional, I’d haul him behind the stall and punch him in the dick, but I honestly think he’s just that stupid.
Daphne shrugs from the seat beside him. “Maybe like everyone else is doing.”
Bless Daffy Dear for her complete ignorance of his poor attempts at flirting. To be fair, up until now, she’s been brilliant at discovering the trick to most of the carnival games we’ve played. Or they’ve played, I should say. I’ve merely watched Conrad fumble balls, rings, and darts while restraining my desire to show him up. Even David and Araminta are better than he is.
“I’ve never held a gun before,” Conrad says with a boyish grin. “It’s rather intimidating.”
I roll my eyes and take a long drag of my cigarillo. Of course he hasn’t held a fucking gun before. While guns are generally forbidden on the isle, hunting rifles are permitted for temporary use under strict guidelines, and only during scheduled hunts on approved grounds that don’t put unseelie fae creatures at risk. It’s rare to see even a toy rifle, which gives credence to his lack of familiarity with the weapon.
“Aren’t you going to get ready to play?” He casts a questioning glance at the rifle she’s yet to pick up.
Daphne wrinkles her nose. “I’ll just watch.”
“If you’re just going to watch, we should team up. Here, you hold the barrel while I pull the trigger. That way you don’t have to do it alone. I know it’s strange holding such a large weapon for the first time, but it will be fun if we do it together.”
I bristle at his words. First he asks her how he should grip his rifle. Now he’s asking her to hold his large weapon for him. I flex my fingers, my eyes boring into the side of Conrad’s head. Not one more insidious reference, you cunty bastard .
With a grumble, Daphne moves closer to Conrad.
“You can sit in my lap if you want?—”
And that’s the last fucking straw.
I clamp my cigarillo between my lips, reach for the rifle at the empty shooting station before me, swivel, aim, and fire.
The smallest bubble on the mossy panel bursts with a loud pop.
The other players turn startled gazes toward me.
“It’s not that fucking hard,” I snipe at Conrad.
“You!” shouts the dryad at the far end of the stall. She’s one of the youthful types with a humanoid figure and long strands of willowy green hair. With a dark glower, she turns a crank under the counter and a new bubble grows to replace the one I popped. The vine that had begun to grow beside the rifle shrinks down to a bud. “I didn’t say you could start yet. Take your seat.”
I’m about to tell her I’ve no intention of playing when Daphne bounds over to me, eyes bright as she stares down at the weapon in my hands. “That actually looks fun!”
“To your stations!” the dryad shouts, signaling the game is about to begin.
With an excited squeal, Daphne scrambles into the open seat next to me and takes up the rifle at her station. I meet Conrad’s disappointed stare and grin back at him. I hold his gaze without falter as I finish my cigarillo and extinguish the butt beneath the heel of my shoe. Then I take my seat beside Daphne and lean toward her. “How about a game between just the two of us? Whichever of us loses owes the other a favor.”
A vicious boldness curves her lips. “You’re on.”
The dryad shouts for us to begin just as a jangling, mechanical tune begins to play behind the counter. I swear this carnival utilizes the most ear-shattering music to disrupt players’ concentration. Yet I manage to hit three out of my first five targets.
“How are you so good at this?” Daphne says, her voice rich with laughter as it carries over rifle shots and music.
“I’ve gone hunting before,” I say, lining up my next shot and popping one of the larger bubbles. My vine has grown elbow-high already. “It’s an aristocratic pastime.”
“I’ve gone hunting before too.” She shoots off several rounds, only hitting one target. “I’ve probably killed more prey than you.”
“Yes, well, I’ve hunted with a rifle.”
“This can’t be much different. I just need to find my prey’s weakness.” She shoots again. Again. Her next shot pops another bubble. She lets out a proud squeal. “I get it now! The problem is the looky thing.”
“The sight,” I amend.
“Whatever it’s called, it’s inaccurate. I have to aim to the right of where it shows.”
I’m sure she’s correct. Knowing carnival games are almost always rigged, I haven’t bothered using the sight at all. I give her a teasing smirk before I pop my next target. “You may have figured out the trick, but I have a head start.”
She ignores me, taking aim with precision and popping her next six targets. Her vine is as high as her shoulder while mine is maybe only a foot taller. She’s catching up to me.
Yet I remain calm and pop my next target.
Daphne releases a frustrated growl, then half rises from her seat to prop her knee upon it, elbows on the counter. When her next shot misses, she growls again.
I chuckle at her annoyance, popping another target with ease. “Don’t be too hard on yourself when you lose, Daffy Dear. I’ll make sure the favor I ask of you isn’t too humiliating.”
She huffs a laugh. “Don’t get too confident. I haven’t lost yet.” With that, she rises further from her seat, props her foot on it, and hikes the hem of her skirt clear up to her thigh.
Just the sight of her gartered stocking in my periphery is enough to make me miss my next shot.
Meanwhile, she props her elbow on her now-exposed knee, supports the butt of the rifle on her other shoulder, and blasts six small bubbles in a row. Her vine is now equally as tall as mine.
I swallow hard and force my eyes fully on my panel of targets. I successfully pop my next bubble. “That’s quite improper, Daph.”
“Oh, come on,” she says, striking her next two targets. “You’ve seen my legs before.”
“That may be true,” I say, keeping my breaths steady as I pop just enough bubbles to keep her vine from outgrowing mine. Only a foot remains until one of us will reach the top. Half my mind remains tangled in what she said. How I’ve seen her legs before. She’s referring to the sexy yellow dress she wore to the gala during The Heartbeats Tour. The one embroidered with pink flowers and a scandalously short hem. That was the first time I saw her in seelie form and nearly died of shock when I first laid eyes on her stockinged legs. “But that was at a gala where half the crowd was dressed as boldly. This is a public carnival in the middle of the day. People are looking.”
“I don’t think they are,” she says, popping three more targets while I manage to hit only one. “I think you’re the only one looking. Are you really so flustered, Monty? Even after I almost showed you my breasts?”
My next shot misses spectacularly, thanks to the hitch in my chest. She lets out an unrestrained cackle. I cut a glare at her. “Daph! We’re in fucking public. You can’t talk about that.”
“Worried about my reputation?” She gives me a mock pout. “Worry about your own after you lose to me.”
I can do nothing but stare as she shifts her gaze back to her target, a wicked grin on her lips that’s so wide, it shows the dainty points of her canines. I’ve never noticed them before. Then my eyes sweep over the length of her white stockings, the hiked-up hem of her pink day dress, the soft golden flesh on display around her garter. Her shooting posture is far from ladylike, as is the unrestrained squeal she utters as she hits her next target. It’s the strangest combination of feminine and feral I’ve ever seen.
Blazing hell…Daphne is goddamn gorgeous.
My breath hitches yet again, and my pulse rackets. Daphne is so close to winning, and I’m almost of a mind to forfeit. Almost. Yet I’ve never backed down from a challenge. Never forfeited a game unless I was losing on purpose.
And now that Daphne has flustered me so, I’m determined to get revenge.
I take a calming breath and face my target. Lift my rifle. Aim.
“Hey, Daph,” I say as I pop one of the bubbles.
“What?”
“Remember at the club last weekend when you sucked candy floss off my fingertips.”
She yelps, and it isn’t a sound of triumph. At the same time, her rifle fires without popping any bubbles. She bares her teeth at me, cheeks flushed pink.
It’s my turn to grin wickedly. “It got me thinking.”
“About what?” she says, voice tight as she carefully aims her next shot and misses.
“About that skilled tongue of yours.”
She pauses, her only movement the heavy rise and fall of her chest.
I pop six more targets, then glance briefly at her with a wink. “And how it might feel on my cock.”
Her mouth falls open, cheeks burning crimson.
I pop four more bubbles, and a celebratory mechanical melody erupts over my station, announcing me and my towering vine as the winner.