Chapter 4
As I stare down at her body, her words reverberate in my thoughts like a ringing bell.
Cursed is the hour you were born…
I listen for the sound of footfalls, fighting a rising sense of panic at the dead baroness bleeding all over the pavement. Now it won’t be only the Iron Legion after me—I’ll also be running from the London police, and the Fey government on top of that.
Fuck.
In the distance, police sirens wail, and my stomach twists.
My blood pounds hard in my ears, a steady drumbeat. This night was supposed to be a sweet homecoming, and it’s all gone so terribly wrong.
Breathing hard, I scan the street to see if anyone is around. Mercifully, it’s empty.
I crouch and hook my hands under the dead woman’s shoulders, then drag her through the shadows to an abandoned railway line. Her body leaves a crimson trail on the pavement. The scent of blood envelops me, sweet and metallic at the same time.
Dread coils through my chest.
Her limbs flop limply, and her jaw hangs open. Quick as I can, I pull her behind a rubbish tip.
Guilt twines around my ribs.
I’m just dumping her here like rotten trash.
Distantly, the sound of sirens grows louder. A sharp tendril of fear twists around my heart.
I can see my cozy, safe future in Brocéliande dissolving before my eyes.
When I step out into the light of a streetlamp, I see the blood on my wrists and hands, and my heart plummets.
I hurry back into the alley and wipe the blood on the woman’s soft cloak. I’m sure I’m leaving fingerprints all over everything, but I don’t know what else to do.
I take a few steps toward the street, then freeze at the sound of heavy boots on the pavement beneath the bridge.
I slink back into the shadows, watching as a group of drunk mortals totters down the road. Not the Iron Legion, thank the gods, and they’re too wasted to notice me.
What the bloody hell was she talking about? I’m going to destroy the world?
Even for an Auberon-loving monarchist, that was an overreaction.
Once the drunk mortals have moved on, I walk quickly toward the Tower. My body is shaking, my heart pattering like a hunted rabbit’s.
I tuck my chin down as I walk at a steady pace. I’m not running, not trying to draw attention. But if anyone looked at my face closely enough, they would see me losing it.
I jam my hands into my pockets and touch the smooth metal of the magical key.
I’m supposed to meet Tristan by Traitors’ Gate at the Tower of London, right next to the river.
It’s the exact spot where those who offended monarchs saw the sky outside the Tower for the last time, Anne Boleyn and Lady Jane Grey included.
They floated in from the Thames, beneath a stone gate and into the Tower prisons, before executioners cut off their heads.
I suppose that’s an appropriate location for me, a person who fantasizes about crushing kings’ skulls.
As the baroness just pointed out, I am very much a traitor.
As I hurry down toward the river, my mind flashes with images I’d love to bleach from my thoughts for good: Vicky’s pale bum pancaked against the Tudor glass. The baroness’s furious face and her blood on the pavement. The fragments of her skull. Her body limp behind the rubbish, mouth agape.
Nausea turns my stomach.
My senses are hyper-alert now, and I glance at the Tower of London before me, trying to stay calm.
I’m almost at Traitors’ Gate.
I’ve always loved this place, but tonight—perhaps because of what I’ve done—it looks like a grandiose jail more than anything.
It’s not a single tower, but rather a vast stone fortress built around a central keep, with twenty-two towers in total, bound by massive stone walls that loom over the river.
For centuries, this place was both a palace and a dungeon, a site of feasts and executions alike.
Up ahead is the gatehouse—two fat, squat little towers of white stone, joined by an arch above the door. Slowly, the portcullis rises, its groans echoing over the stone courtyard.
That’s…odd. Why would the gate open at this hour?
I narrow my eyes, my gaze sharpening on a pair of Fey stalking gracefully toward the gatehouse.
The man and woman stand out like north stars against the night sky.
They’re a foot taller than most mortals, with the same halo glow that the baroness had.
And as I get closer, I can see the utter luxury threaded through their clothes.
They wear the finest of cloaks trimmed with fur.
This pair seem like they swept in from the Fey realm wrapped in gold and velvet.
The woman’s throat and wrists glitter with jewels, and a jeweled earring hangs from the man’s ear.
Spinning sharply, the woman looks back at me. She’s beautiful, with shimmering cheekbones, pale skin, and eyes like amethysts. She wears a delicate, glittering tiara over her golden hair. Amber light radiates from her head. She looks as though she were dipped in gold.
My heartbeat picks up.
Whatever is going on here, I’m sure it’s why Tristan is stationed at the Tower.
The woman has stopped, blocking my path—which is deeply unfortunate, because the last thing I want to do is talk to another rich Fey.
As I move around her on the cobbles, the Fey woman steps directly into my path, looming over me. She drags her gaze down my body with the repulsed expression you might give to a chunk of rotten meat.
I peer down at myself. I’m dressed in dark jeans and a worn black T-shirt Owain must have bought secondhand.
It reads Have you tried turning it off and on again?
with a faded cartoon computer underneath.
It’s a relic from a world that doesn’t exist anymore.
It must be over fifteen years old, dating from before the Fey arrived and our magic turned digital technology into ash.
I’ve never used a computer. I doubt these two glittering Fey aristocrats even know what one is.
My hands start trembling again, and I clutch them together to still them. Pain from my headache flashes through my skull.
“Are you really joining us?” the woman asks. Even her accent drips wealth—pure old money. “Dressed like that? Is this a joke?”
I want to punch this woman in the throat and move on to Tristan, but I’ve had enough violence for one night.
I flash a fake smile. “Join you? Absolutely not.”
Her gaze flicks down my body again, and her lip curls slightly.
“I thought only the elite were included. And you’re so small.
I heard a rumor someone from the Waste Land was coming.
I’m guessing that’s you? Baroness of the Kingdom of Bones?
You look worse than I thought, frankly. A little runt.
I didn’t believe the rumor until now. Frightful, really. They’re letting anyone in.”
That’s when her companion turns, and my breath leaves my lungs. I’ve dreamt of this man for years.
He meets my gaze, and my heart skips a beat. The beautiful killer from my nightmares.
The gilded warrior—an elegant, gold-painted facade with coiled brutality underneath. Pale light streaks over his sharp cheekbones in strange tattoos, eerie golden lines that trace his features. The amber light emanating from him seems to drip over me.
A chill dances down my spine as realization takes root in my thoughts. How is it that I’ve dreamt of his beautiful face so many times? In my nightmares, he leaves piles of bodies and severed limbs in his wake. And in my fevered dreams…
Best not to think about those now.
I breathe slowly, staring at him. His pale, silver-blue eyes pierce me, and his silver hair drapes over a fur-lined cloak.
He looks half like a warlord and half like a libertine, with that jeweled earring and strings of necklaces.
His jaw is sharp and masculine, but his mouth is soft, almost dangerously sensual.
I can sense the tightly coiled brutality that lies beneath the gilded surface.
But my real question is what the fuck is this knight doing here in the middle of London, dressed like he’s going to the Fey Court?
He takes a step closer, his gaze pinned on me, and lifts my chin with a finger. A wicked, amused glint sparks in his eyes. Magic rolls off him in waves, stroking my skin like it’s hungry for me. He drops his hand.
He laughs softly—a low and seductive sound that makes my breath catch. “Is this what the gods are sending us to decide the fate of the Fey?”
His aristocratic voice is surprisingly sensual, and it sends a strange shudder racing down my spine.
“To decide what?” I hiss.
“Honestly, we don’t need the opinions of every provincial, filthy backwater baroness,” the woman cuts in, her tone brittle. “The council of Fey should be small and elite. Refined. But she’ll be easy to break, I imagine. Nothing functions in the Waste Land, and I’d wager that includes her mind.”
She flashes me a dazzling smile and slips her arm through her companion’s.
A dozen sharp retorts rise to my tongue about aristocrats being parasites, but I swallow them down. I’ve made enough enemies tonight.
“Well, ’bye.” With that farewell, I march around them on the cobbled path toward the riverside.
The woman calls out, “Running from the council, I see, little wastrel. The wisest thing you could choose. You’d do better to take your chances with the Cloaked Ones than with us.”