11. Chapter 11
11
Casimiro
S he whirled toward me with a wide-eyed scowl, but her ruffled dress, still wet from her encounter with the lake, stuck to the floor, temporarily tangling around her legs. Her brown eyes flashed up to my crown then down to my open shirt collar.
“My face is up here, Valencia.”
She let out an angry huff of air, and I couldn’t keep the smirk from twisting one side of my mouth.
“Shall we, then?” I asked, offering her my elbow. She did not move to accept it.
This woman had discovered how to finish her performance in the center of the tilting floor, where it was safe, moving with all the passion she’d shown me in the dance in Leor. I’d been impressed then.
But she hadn’t stayed in the center.
She’d run for the edge, forced the dance floor to tilt once more. Most mortals feared death, though I’d encountered a few over the years who had a reckless death wish. But as she’d pulled herself from the waters, dripping and heaving, only to drop to her knees at the final note of the song, I’d known then she was not like the others.
“I do so desperately hate to wait,” I drawled, elbow still lifted toward her.
This woman perplexed me. She seemed eager to survive and yet eager to anger me. If I was to craft a trial that would kill her, I needed to know who she was, what she was likely to do or not do.
“I do so desperately hate to be taken captive and forced to act against my will,” she spat back. Two people at the table gasped. At least one tried to hide a snicker.
I stepped toward her, pausing when I was close enough that she had to tilt her chin up to meet my eyes. She hmphed , a sound I found most amusing. The gazes of the other entertainers fixed on me, but I didn’t spare them a glance.
“You chose to entertain, did you not? I did not force that on you.”
A loud breath hissed from her nose as she held my gaze. “And were you entertained?”
A full two seconds passed as I stared down at her, waiting for her to flinch, to see if she would look at me differently now that she’d survived a task intended to kill her, a task I’d designed in a matter of minutes upon her arrival. Over half the mortals collected by my father died the night they arrived. Those who did survive their first trial all perished within the year, most within the first six months. I’d brought home only two mortals since my father had left.
And she was the first to survive.
“Yes,” I replied.
She held my gaze with piercing intensity, perhaps waiting for me to look away first. I did not. Finally, she lifted her hand and placed it in the crook of my elbow, her fingers brushing my skin where my sleeve was rolled up. The featherlight touch contrasted so vividly with the fierce pressure of her hands when we’d danced only an hour ago. Oddly, I wanted to feel that same purposeful grip in her tiny hands again rather than this polite, delicate touch.
“You will sit with me tonight,” I said, remembering why I’d walked to her table. She didn’t want to die, but she didn’t want to play it safe either—and I needed to discover what motivation she had to survive. All mortals had their reasons—a lover, a family member, a dream, sometimes a religion—but those never seemed strong enough to push them through the hardest nights. This woman would be dead in a matter of months at most.
Every pair of eyes at the mortals’ table bored into my back as I walked away leading the woman on my arm. I strolled slowly, casually, through the tables, nodding and smiling at those who greeted me. Their gazes flashed suspiciously to the mortal on my arm. Father had many loyal to him here, and I couldn’t risk one of the courtiers relaying information about me that might anger him. I tossed a wink over my shoulder to the nearest table, and a few of the seated nobles chuckled in response. But a woman with a tall hat meant to mimic our mountain shot me a brief, disapproving scowl.
It wasn’t against my father’s rules to enjoy the mortals who came through our doors, only to value them. Mortals are poorly made toys. Enjoy them, but know they will break , he’d told me.
The woman holding my arm was pressing down so forcefully, attempting to make my arm buckle, that I didn’t think she was the type to break easily. Despite her effort straining her muscles, she maintained a dignified posture.
I led her to a table at the center of the cavern. From her seat down on the stone bench before us, Alba looked up, a bright smile breaking across her glittering face. She’d styled her hair with little white mushrooms poking up from the crown of braids that encircled her head.
“Sit,” I offered as I slid down onto the bench across from my sister.
“Oh!” Alba said, her eyes flicking between me and the mortal woman. “Oh,” she said again, leaning forward, a conspiratorial gleam in her eye.
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes in return. Alba, more than anyone, knew the importance of the mortal games—the importance of my success in continuing my father’s wishes while he was away. But the idea of Alba making a wrong assumption about my intention for this woman brought a sour feeling to my stomach.
Zara stared down at the stone bench for a moment, clearly uncomfortable. As I waited for her to sit, I snatched a strawberry, bit off the red part, then tossed the leafy stem toward the cage above our table. A long, furry arm reached down and snatched the tuft of leaves. Zara gasped at the sudden motion.
“This is a mandrill,” I explained dully. Mortals saw so little of their world, let alone all the worlds, that there were entire species they’d never heard of.
“It makes a terrible sound,” Alba added, “but fortunately, the cage keeps that sound from bothering us.”
“Do sit,” I said, shooting my sister a glare I hoped warned her not to be too friendly. It was my job to kill this woman, not befriend her.
Finally, Zara stepped down and sat at the table halfway between me and my sister.
“You dance like a flame,” Alba gushed, utterly ignoring my silent warning. Her freckled cheeks sparkled with iridescent powder tonight. “Well done. And”—she leaned toward Zara—“my brother never invites mortals to our table. You must have truly impressed him.”
I nearly choked on the bite of cheese I’d just popped in my mouth. I swallowed quickly and clarified. “I invited her before I brought her here. I didn’t assume she would live long enough to accept the invitation.”
Zara’s eyes flicked up to meet mine. Her breaths quickened as she stared daggers at me. “Tell me, do you always try to kill us mortals through what we love most?”
The memory of last night’s death prickled in my mind as I leaned over my elbow that rested on the table. “It is my duty to ensure my courtiers are entertained, se?orita Valencia.” I forced a half-hearted smile. “Mortals die with such flare.” Last night, the man’s drowning gurgles had brought the courtiers to their feet—and the news of it had reached my father almost instantly. My sister’s comment about birds nicked at my mind—the fae still valued their songs while we had been taught to place no value on the lives of mortals. “We find it increases the intrigue when you must die doing something you love. It proves all that passion you fleeting creatures claim to have is nothing more than a passing breeze.”
“Cas, that’s not very nice,” my sister said teasingly. But her restrained smile said she was enjoying this.
Zara’s brows lifted and a small chuckle sounded in her throat. She leaned back and took a slice of bread from a cutting board strewn with grapes, cheeses, and dried dates.
Needing a distraction from the way her every sound and every glance felt like they were mocking me, I twirled my fingers. The apples began to shift and restack themselves. Zara stared dumbly, bread still in hand.
“Why do you wear white?” she asked. “I thought it was a servant’s color.”
The apples kept spinning but my attention shot to Zara.
“It is,” Alba agreed. “That’s why he wears it. It annoys our father to no end.”
Zara’s eyes went wide.
“Our father dresses in all navy or gray. It’s terribly boring,” Alba droned on.
“Where is your father?” Zara asked, looking between my sister and me.
“He’s—”
“How are your knees?” I snapped, interrupting my sister and flashing Zara a quick smirk.
“Still there,” she quipped. “I thwarted your little game, and now you’re mad. How old did you say you were?”
Here she was, antagonizing the man with the power to kill her. Prickly little thing.
The apples crashed to the table, then rolled onto the floor. A few faces turned toward us. Zara stiffened, finally showing a hint of fear.
After an uncomfortable silence, Alba whispered loud enough for all of us to hear, “He’s a hundred and fifty-seven years old.”
Zara’s brows lifted almost to her hairline.
“Thank you, Alba,” I droned.
“And how old are you?” Zara asked my sister.
Alba’s face fell. “I’m only eighty-one. I can’t even cast a shadow form yet.”
“Alba,” I chided. At this rate, she’d be making friends with this mortal.
She shrugged dramatically at me. “He doesn’t think it’s fun to talk to mortals. We can usually cast a shadow form around one hundred years old, when we reach adulthood. But Cas was able to cast his first one at seventy-two. He’s a bit of a prodig—”
“Stop.”
Zara jumped at my abrupt word. Alba’s lips pinched and she stared down at her plate.
“My sister has not yet learned all the ways of our court.” I shot her one more loaded stare, hopefully reminding her what was at stake. She hadn’t lived long enough to see it, but she knew , as we all did, what would happen when our father returned. If he found anything not to his liking, we would be the ones to pay the price, and I couldn’t afford to let Alba pay for my mistakes.
“I love learning about new people and places,” Zara said, surprising me with her candor and upbeat tone. How under the heavens above could she be so chipper after what she’d just endured? It annoyed me. “I’d love to learn more about this place,” she added quickly, shooting me a quick glance. Underneath her forced smile, I detected a sliver of fear. She had her own motivations buried as deep as my own, and it occurred to me that she might be attempting to uncover secrets about me just as I was about her.
Smart, prickly, little thing.
“See?” Alba said, tilting her head sideways.
I sighed and rolled my eyes at Alba, only to realize Zara was watching me with a slight tilt to her head that suggested she found my interaction with my sister fascinating, almost puzzling.
Zara might be digging for information about me, but I knew mortals well enough to know there were many ways to wound them—and wounded humans often revealed more than composed humans. As I looked again at Zara, my expression hardened. “I do not speak to mortals because there is little point. All mortals are like flowers. They bloom, they get scorched by the sun or trampled by the foot of a passing giant, and then they die.” I parroted words I’d heard my father speak countless times.
A scoff rushed from Zara’s lips. Alba’s face drooped and she looked away.
“You are insulted,” I muttered, tasting victory. “But it is only the truth.”
Zara spluttered a little before finding her words. “You are…you think you’re better just because your lives are longer?”
“And we have magic,” I added with a flick of my hand. An apple leaped and spun in the air.
She snorted. “Right. And that. Well, one look at the fae in this cavern, and I can tell you’re all miserable. You laugh at death because you hate life, you twist your features because you can’t stand your reality, you hide in caves and torture those less powerful than you. I pity you.”
I blinked at her, temporarily stupefied. Alba’s mouth hung open, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
“Cas,” Alba whispered, but I silenced her with a glare sharp enough to cut stone.
“Think what you want about us,” I said to Zara, lazily spooning rice with raisins onto my plate. “Insult us if you must, but you do not know what the next game will be, and I do.”
She pinned me with a sour frown. “You want me to ask what it is—to ask for your help.” A disgusted scoff burst from her lips.
I clicked my tongue. “I think you want my help, yes.”
“I do not want to be here,” she retorted. “I do not want to be talking to the prince who told me I’m nothing more than a wilting flower who can die for sport. What I want , Your Wickedness, is to get home. So, no, I do not want your help. I simply want to survive long enough to leave this wretched place.”
“You will beg for my help one day,” I said.
“Never.”
She stood from the table and, without waiting for a dismissal, stormed back toward the table for the entertainers.
I watched her go, unable to deny the fact that I wanted nothing more than to make her that angry again.
“Cas,” Alba whispered, drawing my eyes away from Zara. “Are you going to let her speak to you like that?”
My lips curled. “Let her taste a little victory. Her guard will lower. You’ll see. She might be different from the other mortals who’ve come through here in my lifetime, but they all have a breaking point.”
Alba rested her chin on upraised fists, fighting a smile. “So, you let her go because she’ll think you’re weaker that way? And that helps us?”
I frowned. “I let her go so she could do exactly what she’s doing right now. Watch. She’ll go to the mortals. They’ll beg to know what we talked about. She’s beautiful and bold, and she just spent half the meal talking to us—something none of the other mortals have ever done. They’ll hate her.”
Alba sucked in a breath. “You’re trying to isolate her. I wouldn’t have thought of that. I should write down all your ideas.”
My attention severed from Zara’s retreating form and settled on my sister. “Alba, don’t talk like that.”
Her eyes avoided mine. “I know. It’s just…what if…”
Those two words stung more than iron on my bare skin. Too much rode on those words.
I rested my head in my hands a moment before I met my sister’s gaze. “Don’t worry. Everything will fall together as planned. I promise. All the humans will die, Alba. Father won’t return early.”
Alba pinched her lips in a display of emotion most fae would have kept hidden. She was afraid. “And we’ll be ready when he does?” she asked.
“We’ll be ready.”