Chapter 11
The most dangerous things are often the most beautiful.
—GAXIX, DRACU PHILOSOPHER
Damon kept his word. As Thea joined him in several country dances, he did not touch her.
When he was within arm’s reach, however, she could feel his shadows, fleeting caresses like the brush of cold butterfly wings.
She tried not to let it bother her, focusing on her surroundings and what she could learn from observing this strange place.
The black and silver decor of the ballroom faded into the background, making the dancers stand out even more.
Some wore fine clothing and jewels that sparkled under the flickering light from the sconces and chandeliers.
Others wore plain clothing, ripped and specked with dirt, as if they’d stopped work in the fields to join the dance.
Everyone moved in strange harmony, their eyes never meeting hers.
Thea paid special attention to the Skratti, waiting to be noticed and perhaps threatened.
But like all the others, she seemed focused on the dance.
As the steps in a promenade brought Thea close to a Sylvan, she smiled politely. He was unfamiliar, which meant he was probably from one of the outlying villages. “Well met, friend.”
A glassy-eyed stare was his only reply.
Thea’s skin went clammy. None of them were speaking to each other, and their eyes held a sort of dazed joy.
Finally, the music, which was coming from some unseen source, rang out with a few final notes and went silent. Damon smiled and bowed. The dancers bowed to him. Thea grabbed a handful of skirt and inclined her head. Damon motioned her toward a corner of the room.
From there, she cast an eye over the folk once more. They weren’t speaking, nor had they clustered in groups the way everyone naturally did at a revel. They acted like puppets with their strings cut. “They’re enchanted, aren’t they?” she demanded in a low voice.
Damon smiled, but the mirth didn’t reach his eyes. “I prefer to think of it as a pleasant descent into slumber. They dream while they dance.”
Her gut told her this was a more dangerous place than she’d realized. “They’re trapped here, and they don’t seem know it.” It was obvious he knew what was going on, being the only one who didn’t share the others’ stupefaction. “And you’re responsible.”
His eyes met hers more directly than they had before, though he didn’t exactly look angry. His eye color, she noticed, was not as dark as she’d thought—more the indigo of evening than full night. The flames from the sconces reflected in his pupils like early stars.
“You are very blunt,” he said, the only possible sign of annoyance in the precise way he enunciated. “To a fault, I would say.”
She crossed her arms. “There’s no fault in telling the truth, Shadow Stranger. You’d rather I pretend everything is fine here?”
“Shadow Stranger,” he repeated. His smile was almost wistful. “Is that what you call me?”
She shrugged, disliking that he seemed to enjoy the nickname.
“No longer, I would think.” He tilted his head down toward hers. “We’ve exchanged names like two civilized creatures. We enjoyed several dances together. Surely you can call me by my name.”
His voice was like a soft brush in her mind, a gentle bid that she relax. She stiffened against the impulse to lean toward him. “If you say so, Shadow Stranger.”
His eyes were sharp as they looked her over. She had the sense she’d confused him somehow. “There are some who would take offense at your brazen straightforwardness. I recall the pixies were not so enamored with your bluntness.”
“Your speech is very formal,” she said. “I’m guessing whatever your brand of folk happens to be, they are long-lived. Are you very old, then?”
His posture went rigid. “I am twenty.” He paused. “Or thereabouts.”
She lifted a brow. “Thereabouts means you’re not twenty yet, I’d wager.” She glanced around the ballroom, noting its pageantry was as dated as the oldest parts of Scarhamm. “And yet you speak like Tordon, one of the oldest Sylvans alive.”
“No one has ever complained about my speech before,” he said, rather stiffly. “And I’ll be twenty in nine days.” He paused, his eyes searching hers for something before he added, “And yes. We are long-lived.”
She noted he still hadn’t told her what kind of folk he was. “I’m guessing you don’t leave here often.”
He regarded the ballroom coldly. “Not as much as I’d like.”
“You’ve been to the Grotto,” she mused aloud.
“If you go there more often, you can hear how people speak…” Wait.
She did not want him in the Grotto, the place where forest folk shared secrets.
He didn’t belong there. Him or his silver trees.
She frowned, an unpleasant thought occurring.
“Your magic is making me want to share things with you, isn’t it? ”
“You are very clever.” His appreciative glance sent prickles of heat creeping up her neck.
“Cleverness should be rewarded. I suppose it will do no harm if I admit that the more time you spend with me, the more you’ll want to tell me things.
And the more you tell me, the more you’ll want to spend time with me.
” He watched her for a moment, smiling at her glare.
“Your frown is quite severe. You did ask.”
Thea put a hand to her stomach. Fighting his effect on her was taking a physical toll. She measured the distance to her sword. “I see now why you told me not to worry about the Skratti. I think you are more dangerous than any Azpian.”
He laughed. “There is no doubt about that.”
They regarded each other in silence, Thea using her best blank stare that gave nothing away.
Damon’s expression was openly curious. She couldn’t help noticing the jut of his cheekbones.
The way the cut of his jacket emphasized his shoulders.
The night sky of his irises beckoned to her, promising something that made her dizzy.
It felt like the time she had climbed the tallest hill near Scarhamm and looked up at the star-studded expanse with no trees in the way.
The vastness had made her head spin. She pressed her hands together to focus her attention.
“You said you’d tell me about your magic. ”
His smile returned, as warm as a blaze that has been fed fresh, dry logs. “I don’t recall making such a promise.”
“In the tavern,” she clarified. “I asked, ‘What foul magic is this?’ and you said you’d tell me if I wear the dress. Have you used your own forgetting spell on yourself?” She motioned down at herself. “I’m wearing what you sent. Now it’s your turn to keep your side of the bargain.”
“Information isn’t given away here,” he said, his eyes a little cooler. “It must be earned. I’m not sure that putting on the dress was enough to answer a question so personal.”
She gasped, unused to liars and oath-breakers. “When you make a deal with a Sylvan, you have to keep it. Not sure whether you worship the Ancients here, but breaking a Sylvan vow will incite Noctua’s wrath. You’ll pay a price, shadows or no.”
“It wasn’t a vow, but even if it were, what sort of dire consequences should I fear?” His skepticism was obvious.
Thea searched her mind for the stories. “Once,” she said, “a man promised to marry a woman and reneged on his vow, marrying someone else instead. He died of a fever on his wedding night.”
“Coincidence,” Damon said, looking unimpressed.
Thea held up a finger. “A kobold once promised Noctua to give away all his possessions if she would heal his wife, who was ailing. She was healed but he kept a stash of gold tucked away, thinking the Ancient would never know. His wife died that night.”
He shrugged. “Her fever returned. It happens.”
The cold way he said it gave Thea a chill. She chose a recent story she knew was accurate, related directly by her sister Cassia. “The Seer, Selkolla, promised not to harm a Dracu she held captive, but she did. In moments, her own undead creatures consumed her.”
“That one I like,” he said, his head tilting.
“Though I still can’t tell you what you want to know, I did promise information for a dance.
” He reached out to take her hand, stopped—perhaps remembering his promise—and dropped his arm.
Thea’s hand tingled in anticipation of the touch that never came.
“When you were a child,” he said softly, “you climbed a tree in the forest. But it was not your tree to climb.”
She waited for him to continue, but he merely stared at her with a look of anticipation. Could he be referring to the giant walnut whose roots had brought her here? What did that have to do with anything?
“That’s it?” she asked, disappointed. “That’s all you’ll tell me?”
He dipped his chin, looking equally disappointed. “For tonight.”
She exhaled sharply. “It might not have been my tree, but it is a Sylvan tree. All the trees in Thirstwood belong to the Sylvan king.”
Damon shook his head. “What I said is true. If you want more, you’ll have to come back tomorrow night.”
Her hands curled into fists. “But you said the more I see you, the more I’ll want to return here. If I come back, I’ll be in greater danger.”
“I suppose you’re right,” he said, his smile warm again. “If you are afeared of the danger, perhaps you should burn the clothing once more.” He took a few steps to retrieve her sword before handing it to her with a courtly flourish.
She took her sword, roughly pulling the leather around her waist, furious at his vague threats. “No one says afeared anymore,” she told him snidely.
He made a motion in the air and spoke. “Return them home.”
There was a rustling sound that grew louder and louder.
Suddenly, a tree root snaked through the castle doors, coming to a halt amid the dancers.
One by one the dancers stepped onto the root as if this was something they did all the time.
The oval of light appeared, bordered by roots—the same portal that had brought Thea to this place of darkness.
He nodded toward the root. “If you don’t try to hack it to pieces, it’ll go much better this time.”
So he’d seen her use her sword on the tree earlier that night? It hollowed her stomach out knowing he could see what was going on in the forest even when she hadn’t known he was there.
With no other choice, she stepped on the root.
It twitched to life with her feet attached, taking her to the portal.
As she went through, she had the same sense of time shifting.
When she came to a halt, she was back in Thirstwood in the very place the slippers had taken her hours before, next to the walnut tree.
She didn’t know where the other dancers had gone.
Perhaps they’d been taken to their homes as well.
She looked up, surprised to see that it was close to morning. The sky was a shade lighter than Damon’s eyes.
“Are you here somewhere, spying?” she asked aloud, turning in a circle. “Damon?”
Nothing. But a cool breeze brushed the back of her neck, reminding her of Damon’s shadows.
As she made her was back to Scarhamm, her mind reeling with even more questions now than when she’d put the dress on, she told herself to stop thinking about him, that she would never go back to his realm now that she’d satisfied her curiosity.
But as a Sylvan, she knew a lie when she heard it.