Chapter 8 #2
“I tried to calm her, but that made it worse,” Thad whined. “Cook barely blinked before she went mental! I’d no idea the sweet, wee thing was so bloodthirsty.”
“Serves you right!” Magnus laughed, his palm smacking against the table and rattling the dishes. “Spend five minutes watching the old lass butcher a side of beef. There’s a gleam in the eye there, lad.”
Lunara couldn’t fathom how she’d ended up at midnight supper with the Demon King of Straelon, three of his cousins, and two and a half Imperial Sons. It was utterly surreal.
She cleared her throat, determined to participate anyway. “Forgive me, Your Highness—”
“Ach!” Magnus’s outrage was too ridiculous to be genuine, but she froze anyway. “I beseech you, witchling, to never call me that again. Honorifics make me cringe. Fucking confusing too, when there’s five of us bastards sitting ‘round a table. I’m Magnus or Mag, and that’s bloody it.”
“They feel much the same as you, Just Lunara,” Nyri said around a mouthful.
“Right, um… Magnus… how did they not know it was Thaddeus? Being naked is about as apparent as it gets.”
Magnus drew his lips in between his teeth, fighting more laughter. “You don’t know how happy you’ve made me, Lunara.”
“Mag, I’m begging you.” Thaddeus threw her a fleeting glance from down the table. “Don’t.”
“You see, what happened was—”
Thaddeus threw himself over the table, scattering dishes and cutlery as he slapped a hand over Magnus’s mouth. The Wolflord Son grabbed hold of Thad’s forearm, flipped him off the end, and followed him down to the sound of muffled grunts and curses.
Bawdy jokes. Wrestling. A king who spoke to her as if she were any other person. From the time she’d woken up, Lunara had been confused. Especially because they seemed to be doing their best to make her feel comfortable?
It’s the lack of sleep. Soon as you find a bed, you’ll remember you don’t belong here.
Lunara was searching for anything to say, always a chore, when the faintest tingle ran down the side of her face. Again.
She snapped her gaze across to the Demon Son, Brandir, who was pointedly ignoring her existence—just as he’d been doing all evening. Lunara would swear she could feel him peering at her here and there. But whenever she turned, his attention was entirely directed elsewhere.
As if an Imperial Son would waste his time staring at you.
Fair. She probably looked exactly like the only sleep she’d gotten in days had been spent sprawled over a tabletop.
Charming.
Of course, her finger chose that moment to catch on a particularly nasty snarl when she went to nervously twist a curl of her hair.
Get yourself out of here before anyone notices, you bogging halfwit.
Or, maybe she could coax Brandir into saying something. Just to draw his attention and see if that sensation happened again.
“Your High—”
“You have to forgive them,” Lyriat interrupted. “Wolflords are rowdy at best, and I’m not sure they possess a single manner between all of them in the Westrealm.”
So much for that.
“Please, don’t worry on my behalf,” she murmured, slow to switch her focus from Brandir to the king. “People are at their worst in a sickbed. If I can handle that, I can handle a rowdy meal. Speaking of…” Lunara swallowed, suddenly unsure whether it would be wise to continue.
Lyriat smiled as if he knew her thoughts. “Go on.”
“You all seem very close. I admit, it baffles me. I expected a certain level of rigidity.”
He chuckled. “A fair point. Our relationship with Thodelebor has always been thus. We benefit each other, perhaps, on a more fundamental level than the other realms. Since our needs align and trade is strong, the relationships have become even stronger. Provided we can agree on timing and costs.”
Faldir snorted from her other side. “Don’t let his feigned humility fool you. My cousin is beyond shrewd when it comes to trade.”
“A hobby of mine, nothing more,” Lyriat said, sniffing.
“Bloody obsession, more like,” Faldir grumbled into his plate.
Lunara couldn’t help smiling into her cup when Lyriat rolled his eyes.
“Anyway, my cousins are all that is left of my own family, and the Imperial Wolflords seem to have taken it upon themselves to ensure we are never lonely. Besides, we Demons do not thrive on formality as some of the other realms do. It suits us better to be relaxed. Quite unlike Starkeep, if I may be so bold.”
“Ah, yes. The luminous capital of the Evesong,” Lunara said, barely keeping her tone light. “I would have to agree. It’s almost too formal.”
Careful.
“I’ve only been a couple of times, but the vision stuck with me. For a realm that boasts no sunlight, it’s very bright.”
She nearly choked on her wine. He wasn’t wrong. From plants to pathways to Sorcerit themselves, every last thing in the city glowed, as if each was solely responsible for combating the dark.
Wretched place.
Lunara had to tamp down the urge to run and hide, to scream until she forgot that heap of garish, glowing rock existed. She was already too damned tired. The last thing she wanted was to sit and talk about a place that made her skin crawl.
That’s what you get for lying and not escaping when you had the chance.
“Are we talking about Nachthelliae?” Magnus said, breathless and practically shouting. Apparently he and Thad had finished their grappling. “I’ve got a story about the Evesong Realm that you might enjoy, witchling.”
Lunara donned a polite mask, though she felt anything but.
Just change the subject.
“That’s the second time you’ve called me that. Is there something I’m missing?” She was proud that only a speck of her true irritation colored the words.
Then again, she’d do just about anything to avoid the subject of her home and anything that went on there.
Including, apparently, being rude to those who possess more influence in their pinky nail than you could ever hope to boast.
Right. He was an Imperial Son, no matter how ludicrously he behaved.
Magnus blushed and, against all odds, some of her annoyance dissipated at the sheepish look.
“Ach, no. It’s just, you’re a witchy—Sorcerit—spell caster—thing, and you’re so small. Wee witch is too tongue twisty. Wee witch, wee witch, wee witch.” His rich baritone snagged between the words and, that time, she did choke on her wine. “See? Ridiculous!”
“Magnus likes to remind everyone how tiny they are compared to him,” Hedda said, a twinkle in her eyes even as she scowled at him.
“Why don’t you go all ragey and prove me wrong,” he growled low, waggling his brows. “I’d love to be thrown around for a change.”
Nyri flopped onto the table, gagging.
Magnus reached over and ruffled her perfect hair, making her screech. He dodged her clumsy slap, and said, “If it makes you feel better, I called Araxis a witchling once. He got all broody and shite, and then, well… let’s just say it was only the one time and I didn’t try again.”
Lunara froze.
Araxis. Youngest Imperial Son and High Ambassador to her realm.
If there was anything Lunara had taken away from the total handful of minutes she’d spent in his presence, it was that the bastard probably didn’t enjoy any form of teasing.
Reel it in.
Unfortunately, it seemed possible that Brandir might have more in common with his younger brother than with the older one.
Too bad, really, with a face like that.
No, no. Don’t even go there.
King Lyriat threw a crumb of something across the distance, hitting Magnus square in the face. “I thought you were going to tell us a story about Nachthelliae.”
Damn it. They were supposed to have forgotten.
Magnus released Nyri from a headlock and chucked her under the chin. “Aye, I’ve got a few actually.”
It meant something to her that they were being so welcoming. It did. And it was obvious they were basking for themselves, released of worrying over Baldrir, but Lunara couldn’t take it.
Not for another second.
She’d run out of things to say or feel, and the awkwardness of the Demon Son’s silence was too much.
There’s only one thing for it.
Lunara slipped a hand under the table, so as to not give herself away. “By all means, I would love to hear some of them.”
More lies.
Magnus settled into his tale, but she didn’t hear a word. Rubbing her fingers together, she called the tiniest bit of power from that deeper place. All she had to do was make it look like she was listening.
A flick of her wrist and magic tingled over her skin, imprinting her rapt likeness in the chair. Easing forward, Lunara gauged the group’s reaction. Just in case, and at the risk of looking like she’d lost her mind, she spun on King Lyriat and stuck her tongue out.
Not so much as a twitch.
Lunara laughed, free at last to slump back and relax with no one the wiser. It was worth the deep ache in her gut to steal a few minutes and recenter. She could get more blood and moonlight—she could not come back from offending a Realm Ruler because she’d run screaming from his table.
The first thing she did was fix her eyes on the ceiling, her mind emptying. She stared at the beams and the glass and the trees, all silvered by the moons’ light above, her breaths evening out as she came back to her peace little-by-little.
Maybe that’s what she should do when she got home. She could build herself a gigantic hall, tall enough that the endless cobwebs and piles of dust would be too far away to see, and she’d never have to clean again.
Everyone shouted and Lunara shot upright, sure she was caught, but the others were firmly focused on Magnus as he waved his arms about, his face twisted into a dramatic grimace.
And then she felt it, the tingle in her cheek that shot down her spine like lightning tendrils.
She lifted her gaze across the table, and—
Lunara didn’t bother stifling her gasp. No one would know she’d done it anyway.
Brandir aht Bordoroth was staring directly at her with a look of such unbridled longing that it stole her breath right back away.