Chapter 6 Locke #2
“About damn time,” he says, rising to his full, lean height with the kind of fluid grace that comes from years of court training.
His grin flashes white against his golden skin, all teeth and mischief.
“I was told to wait here for your return, and you know how I feel about waiting, Locke. Waiting is for people with nothing better to do, and I always have something better to do. I don’t know how much longer I would have been forced to endure this tedium, but dear old Papa Sylviane demanded my presence here until you returned with your precious cargo.
” He gestures dramatically at his perfectly coiffed appearance.
“I’ve been exposed to weather. Weather, darling.
This skin doesn’t repair itself, and I refuse to develop freckles at my age. ”
“You’re fine,” I grunt, because Rue’s dramatics are as predictable as sunrise and twice as tiresome.
Rue flounces toward Esme with the kind of theatrical swagger that makes him either beloved or despised, depending on the audience.
His eyes sweep over her and then Cashira with the calculating assessment of someone who trades in secrets and scandal.
“Well, well. Aren’t you three just the beginning of a delicious scandal.
I can practically hear the whispers starting already. ”
I shoot him a look that promises violence if he doesn’t behave. “Escort. Now.”
Rue winks at me, spins on his heel with a flourish that makes his cloak billow dramatically, and gestures grandly toward the castle.
“This way, my darlings. Let’s not dawdle.
The King hates dawdling almost as much as he hates being kept waiting, and trust me, you don’t want to test his patience today. ”
Instead of the grand front steps that most visitors use, we’re led along a side path that coils around the gardens like a serpent.
The foliage here is aggressively curated, every plant chosen for maximum impact and barely contained menace.
Black roses the size of fists release perfume that’s equal parts intoxicating and warning, their thorns gleaming like obsidian needles.
Silver tulips with thorns as long as daggers sway without any wind to move them, their petals catching light and throwing it back in patterns that hurt to follow.
Bushes shaped like serpents wind around sculptures of wolves, harts, and stars, their forms so lifelike they seem ready to step off their pedestals and hunt.
Everything here is beauty twisted sharp, elegance with an edge that cuts.
“Queen Lucelle’s touch,” I mutter to no one, though I catch Esme’s quick glance in my direction. “Wouldn’t be surprised if the hedges were listening. Half of them probably are.”
Esme glances sideways but says nothing, though I catch the way her fingers tighten on her reins. She hasn’t said a word since we discussed the horses, and her silence feels deliberate now, like she’s retreating into herself as we approach whatever waits inside.
She doesn’t need to speak. Her silence is loud enough, screaming caution and wariness that I feel in my bones.
Once we leave the horses in the care of stable hands who bow low and avoid eye contact, we follow Rue inside through a side entrance that servants and lesser nobles use.
The castle swallows us whole, its corridors stretching high and arched above our heads like the ribs of some massive beast. Floating globes of faelight drift overhead, their glow shifting from warm gold to cool silver as we pass beneath them.
Floors inlaid with onyx and veined with precious metals gleam beneath our boots, polished to a mirror shine that reflects our passage in distorted fragments.
Tapestries line the walls, their subjects shifting and changing when no one looks directly at them, telling stories that morph based on the viewer’s fears or desires.
We wind down into one of the side wings, toward the royal quarters where power lives and breathes in every stone. The very air feels different here, charged with magic and authority that makes my teeth ache.
That’s where we run into my father, because of course we do. As if he’s been warned of our arrival by the castle’s own stones, General Erron waits with a scowl carved into his weathered features like it was put there by a master sculptor.
He walks down the hall towards us like he owns it, his cloak flaring behind him with each measured step, silver armor gleaming beneath the dark fabric.
Authority radiates from him in waves that make lesser fae step aside without conscious thought.
He sees me and stops short, eyes flicking to the group behind me with the kind of assessment that catalogs threats and weaknesses in seconds.
“Finally,” he says, his voice carrying the particular brand of disappointment that’s been my constant companion since childhood. “You took your time.”
“I left the moment she stirred,” I snap, matching his tone with one that’s equally sharp. “Per the king’s direct command.”
His eyes narrow, the gray-green so similar to mine but colder, more calculating. “I suppose even you can follow an order when it’s spelled out in small enough words.”
We face off in silence for a beat, the tension crackling between us like lightning before a storm, before his attention moves to Cashira.
His expression sours immediately, lips pinching in disgust like he’s tasted something rotten.
The gesture makes me bite back a retort that would probably get me disciplined later, because whatever his feelings about Blue Mountain witches, now isn’t the time or place to air them.
“I remember you,” he says, his voice dropping to a register that makes nearby servants scurry away. “Though I’d hoped your kind wouldn’t darken these halls again.”
Sam steps in front of Esme without a word, his massive frame blocking her from my father’s view with the kind of protective instinct that’s probably encoded in his DNA.
The General’s gaze lingers on him, taking in the size and obvious strength, but his expression remains unimpressed.
To him, Sam is just another mortal who doesn’t belong.
“If it were up to me,” my father adds, his voice low and carrying just enough to make sure we all hear, “the gateway would’ve been sealed the moment the king returned from the Mortal Realm. Leaving that thing open was a mistake that we’ll all regret.”
I grind my teeth hard enough to make my jaw ache. “Our king disagrees.”
“For now,” he says with the kind of casual certainty that makes my blood run cold, as if he knows something I don’t about the king’s plans or patience.
Knowing my father, he’s always got some scheme or another brewing under his practiced smile, some angle he’s working that the rest of us won’t see until it’s too late.
He gives me a tight nod that’s barely civil. “He’s expecting you. Don’t keep him waiting longer than you already have.”
We move on, leaving him standing in the corridor like a storm cloud that’s decided to take physical form, but I have a sickening feeling about leaving my father behind us.
The encounter felt too easy, too controlled, like he was playing a part rather than simply expressing his opinions.
With Sylviane Erron, nothing is ever as simple as it appears.
Rue hums softly under his breath, some court song about betrayal and revenge, pretending like the tension didn’t just choke the entire hallway and leave us all struggling to breathe normally.
Sam is stiff as a board, ready to pounce at the first sign of threat, his eyes scanning every shadow for potential danger.
Esme’s shoulders are drawn tight with stress, but her head stays high and her spine straight, refusing to show weakness even here in the heart of enemy territory.
She hasn’t flinched once. Not when my father insulted her heritage, not when the implications of his words settled like stones in our stomachs. Not even here, surrounded by power that could crush her without a second thought.
As we reach the final set of double doors that lead to the throne room, each one carved from a single piece of midnight-black wood and inlaid with silver that forms protective runes, I glance sideways at her.
At the woman who slipped into my realm like a ghost, into my forest like she belonged there, and now into the palace like she has every right to be here.
The vipers’ den that’s devoured stronger people than her.
I stare, transfixed, because she’s given nothing away despite everything we’ve thrown at her.
Her calm is intoxicating, addictive, the kind of serenity that comes from facing death and deciding you’re not impressed.
I wonder, not for the first time and probably not for the last, if this will be the final time I get to walk beside her like this. If by tomorrow she’ll be gone, the king sending her and the wolf back to the Mortal Realm with a dismissive wave and a warning never to return.
Whatever this is, whatever she is, whatever brought her here and bound her to me in ways I don’t understand.
She doesn’t belong here.
Eidryn help me, do I want her to, because now, without a shadow of doubt, she feels like mine.
I don’t part with things I deem are mine easily. Not without a fight and I don’t fight to lose. I fight to maim, to kill, to fucking win.