Chapter 22 #3
I glance at the Fae male who points at the table next to our booth.
His copper hair is dry and scraggly, overgrown near his ears, and his shirt is too tight around his waistline.
He looks to be middle-aged by Mortal standards, but I’m not sure what that equates to in Fae years.
His companion, another male, looks to be about the same.
“Go ahead,” I motion toward the table.
The two sit, placing their drinks on the table and settling in. I’m content to turn back to Derian when the sound of their conversation suddenly catches my full attention.
“They found another body on the outskirts of town.”
The copper-haired man stiffens. “Like the others?”
“Exactly like the others,” his companion says. His voice lowers as he leans towards him. “It’s the first time I’ve seen one of the victims myself. After five hundred years and a war, I thought I’d seen it all, but this was something out of a nightmare.”
I frown. Why are bodies being found here?
Is someone else here hunting the Fae?
Or is this what all those warriors at the fortress are training for?
Bowing my head, I try to look inconspicuous as I shift further to the left. Close enough to hear them clearly.
“Black veins and sunken eyes,” the man continues in a hushed tone. “Really, all that was left of his eyes were darkened pits. And his jaw was hanging wide open, broken I think. And Gods the smell.”
Something cold washes over me.
I can’t hear them anymore. I can’t hear anything but the rushing of my own blood in my ears. And I certainly can’t stop the flashback of a memory that locks me in place, even as I clench my hands onto the table in front of me.
Bloodied sheets.
Blackened veins.
My throat raw from screaming.
“Fucking Velkai,” the copper-haired male says with a snarl.
My knuckles are turning white. My heart is pounding. I’m desperately trying to suck in air, and yet nothing is coming. Nausea pours through me, nearly sending me doubling over, and for a moment I think there’s a very real possibility that I might be sick.
It’s been ages since I’ve been this affected by the memory of my father’s death, but what they’re saying…
Fae magic was what left bodies like that, drained of life and energy.
I know that because Fae magic like that is what killed my father.
The sound of a plate dropping heavily onto the table before me snaps me out of the memory, and my hand flies to my blade instantly, before fingers land down atop mine, squeezing gently.
“It’s only me,” Derian says.
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” I snarl.
It sounds breathless though.
I’ve never seen another body like my father’s.
Did all Fae kill like that or was this magic specific?
Was my father’s exact murderer just walking around? Were they in this very tavern right now?
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you caught off guard,” Derian tells me, sliding into the booth across from me with an evident air of concern. “What’s wrong?”
My stomach is in knots as I stare at the plate of broiled vegetables and overcooked chicken. A single plate. Just food for me, not him.
“I’ve already eaten,” he tells me, as if sensing my thoughts. “You’re pale. Tell me what’s wrong, Huntyr.”
Not a question. A command.
His voice is apprehensive, and when I look up at him, there’s suddenly no teasing in his gaze. His shoulders are tense, his fingers sprawled on the table, tapping against the wood.
“What are Velkai?” I blurt out, ignoring every bit of careful training that Kristona drilled into my mind.
Don’t let your enemy know what you’re thinking.
Wait until you have all the information before you reveal your intentions.
Never let your opponent know if something is important to you.
Derian sighs heavily, glancing quickly over his shoulder to the two men still engaged in their discussion.
“I knew you were an eavesdropper,” he quips, an odd mixture of both relief and trepidation on his face as he points to the plate in front of me, a silent order to eat.
“Food first.” He pushes the plate to me before reaching down to unwrap my fork and knife from the napkin and passing them to me as well.
A second command.
He’s used to people doing exactly what he tells them to, used to everyone around him following his orders. I stare at the cutlery that he presses into my hands. I don’t want to eat.
I want answers.
“Velkai?” I insist.
His expression is stern, unwavering, and he glances pointedly at the plate once more. The bastard isn’t going to say a damn thing until I have food in my stomach. I bite into a piece of broccoli, not bothering to hide my irritation.
“What do you know about the Wastelands?” he asks me, carefully watching my expression.
“They were created during the war between the Fae and the Mortals.”
He rolls his eyes. “They were created during a war, yes, but the Fae weren’t fighting the Mortals. You were fighting us.”
I curl my lip back over my teeth. “Semantics.”
“It’s not, actually.” The seriousness in his voice gives me pause. “Your people blamed us for creating the Wastelands when we had nothing to do with it. The Velkai created them.”
He keeps his voice low, and I watch as his eyes dart from me to the room and back, as if he’s overly mindful of who may or may not be listening to our conversation.
“What are Velkai?” I repeat, the word feeling unnatural on my tongue.
“They’re an ancient breed of creature, older than both Fae and Mortal alike, and most certainly not from this realm.
No one is quite sure where they came from, actually.
For centuries, they were largely a solitary species, until they suddenly organized under the rule of a queen.
Shortly afterwards, the Wastelands were created, and the Fae began fighting back against them. ”
I listen to him quietly.
“I’ve never heard of these creatures.”
How could there be an entirely separate species from the Fae and Mortals that we Mortals knew nothing about? No secret could be that well-kept.
He nods, unsurprised. “And yet, in order for stretches of Wasteland to exist in the Mortal Kingdom, your Kings had to be well aware the creatures were there.”
His implication, that the Mortal Kings kept this a secret on purpose, is clear. But if it were true, they would have had to have fabricated the entire propaganda against the Fae people. Lied to us all and made us view the Fae as enemies even though they aren’t.
And, according to Derian, we fell for it.
“And why would they have wanted us to fight the Fae?”
Derian watches me, brow lifted in a challenge. “You’re smart enough to know the answer to that, Huntyr. To the victor go the spoils.”
The land.
The Mortal Kings wanted to take advantage of the fact that the Fae were already fighting another war in order to take their land.
That’s a big accusation to make.
“And where is this Velkai queen now?” I ask, unable to relinquish my doubt.
“The Vaereth killed her.” He shrugs, as if this were common knowledge.
“Why should I believe you?”
“Because I have no reason to lie. Now, eat.”
Derian leans back, throwing an arm over the back of his chair and scanning over the crowd of people. He takes a slow sip of his ale before turning back to me, looking first at the plate and then at me.
“Why are you always so concerned with whether or not I’ve eaten?” I grumble, spearing a carrot and pulling it into my mouth, still tossing over the idea of Velkai in my head.
Someone is lying.
Either the Mortal Kings lied to their people in an attempt to steal Fae lands, or the Fae were lying about monsters in the Wastelands to try and avoid blame for their own mistakes.
I know which one I believe to be more likely.
Mortals didn’t kill my father.
Derian watches unabashedly as my lips wrap around the fork and pull. Noticing his attention, I run my tongue over my lower lip and bite down gently.
The chastising look he gives me sends a wave of warmth through my body.
“Food is a privilege not everyone has access to. I won’t allow you to go hungry.”
I snort, washing down the food with another sip of ale. “What would you know about being hungry, prince?”
“More than you do, lady.” His eyes glaze over slightly, as if he’s not quite present at this table. Absently, I notice the sound of thunder rolling in the distance, and I wonder if it’s him causing it. “I didn’t grow up in the castle.”
I lift a brow. “So you do remember your childhood.”
He smiles, the expression oddly genuine. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but I can’t help the rush of energy that flows through me when I earn that quick quirk of his lip.
“As well as you remember yours. If you want to hear about it, you’ll finish what’s on that plate.”
I bite the retort that bubbles up my throat and continue eating.
“I’m the most powerful Fae in centuries.”
Unable to stop myself, I snort, the sound far too loud to be considered ladylike. “Humble, too.”
He lifts a single shoulder in a shrug. “It’s simply a fact. Storm-wielding is a rare power, and my magic is stronger than most. When I was six, I got into a fight with Luceron, and a tornado tore through a wing of the castle.”
I narrow my eyes at him. Since I’ve arrived here, Derian has made no secret about how far the lengths of his power go. Even in the Mortal lands, he’s more legend than man. The cruel and powerful Fae prince is a story told to misbehaving children.
I suppose, though, that I hadn’t ever stopped to think about the fact that he was once just a child with far too much capability for destruction.
Derian pauses, refusing to say more until I resume eating. I do so with an irritated huff and a wave of my hand.
“My parents sent me to Amberhull. At the time, it was a mostly abandoned forest region. For a hundred years I lived with a distant uncle, another storm-wielder. He taught me to control my magic through any means necessary.”
“Meaning?”
“Starvation,” he confirmed, heaviness in his voice as his gaze drops to his folded hands atop the table. “Beatings. Humiliation. You name it.”
The thunder rolls again outside, and this time I know he’s controlling it. I’m just not sure if he’s even aware that it’s happening.
I try to picture him as a child. Try to picture that sharp jawline with the roundness of youth. That head of silken dark hair, shorter and curlier.
“It’s not something you forget,” he continues, still staring at his nail beds.
“It doesn’t matter how many years pass or how many hot meals you have, that feeling of hollowness, of your entire body caving, it doesn’t go away.
You can’t understand it unless you’ve experienced it.
In the worst of it, you don’t even feel hungry anymore.
You just can’t think clearly, and all you want is to sleep, but you know if you do that you won’t wake up again. ”
What he doesn’t know though, is that I have experienced that. If I hadn’t picked the pocket of Kristona Roschoff, I would have gone to sleep, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.
No. That feeling isn’t something you ever forget.
“I’m sorry.” Before I know it, I’m reaching out, resting my hand atop his.
His attention jerks to mine, a frown of confusion painting over his features even as his fingers wrap around mine.
I jerk my hand back.
“Plenty of people have worse upbringings.” He stares into my eyes, and for a split second it's as if he sees right through me, as if he knows my childhood was just as unspeakable.
And it was.
My childhood was filled with more horrors and pain than I can ever begin to articulate. It was filled with moments that stained my soul so black that I’ll never be able to wash it clean. And his people were the reason why.
Not some mythical creatures that no one has ever heard of.
It doesn’t matter if the prince had a tortured childhood not unlike my own. It doesn’t matter if his presence is intoxicating. It doesn’t matter if the touch of his hand in mine sends shivers down my spine.
Derian’s story about the Velkai only served as a reminder of what the Fae are. Liars and murderers.
The Velkai are just another lie.
He is the enemy.
He is my enemy.