Chapter 20 Death’s Hearth #2
“Is that a crime now?” Kasper’s cheeks have reddened, and he takes a step back, the room quieting a bit around us, others drawn to Draven and recognizing how degrading his tone has become. Like vipers they hiss among themselves around our little circle.
“It is when her mate sets the laws,” Draven growls, glowering as if Kasper is an unfortunate slug on the bottom of his shoe. “Apologize to Rune, and I’ll consider forgiving you.”
Kasper looks us both over hatefully, but he manages, “I’m sorry.”
Draven looks down on him as if he’s still considering further punishment.
He leans into the space between my neck and ear, his breaths sending goose bumps across my flesh, and he whispers, “Friend or foe, if someone hurts you, they are my enemy.” He leaves a kiss against the tender space of my throat and apologizes, “I will try to behave myself better. But I cannot help it when someone is cruel to you.” He meets my eye, awaiting my decision.
But I don’t want Draven’s first interaction with my friends to include punishing one of them, especially considering Ember’s feelings for Kasper. I turn to Draven, our lips barely inches apart. “It’s okay. Let’s just move on.”
A few guards push through the crowd, one leaning into Draven’s space, whispering to him. I’m caught between my friends, who are watching Draven like some avenging angel, and half listening to the guard explaining there’s been some threat apprehended outside the party.
Kasper takes the opportunity to squirm from our presence, moving over to the bar to drink alone.
Draven soon whispers in my ear. “I need to deal with something. But then I’m happy to make up for my outburst with you and your friends. Unless you’d prefer a private apology?” His eyes glow that bright violet that says he’s enjoying whatever game we’re playing.
“Depending on how quickly you’re back, we’ll see what we have time for.” My teasing lures out a rogue smile.
“In that case, I’ll make it very fast.” He retreats with his guards, leaving me with my friends.
“Sorry,” I announce to them, rubbing one arm with the other, fidgeting a bit. I haven’t wanted to talk about Morgan, and seeing Kasper dressed down may have riled me, but I’m not sure if it went too far with them.
But Felix moves to my side, a gentle hand on my shoulder. “There’s nothing for you to apologize for. I’m sorry I didn’t know about Morgan. I’d heard rumors he’d upset Draven, but nothing about you—”
“It’s okay, Felix.” He’s so sweet, mouth twisted to one side, eyes searching as if replaying that night over. “I’m fine. We handled it.”
“Okay.” He nods, still worried, but then he looks at Draven’s retreating back. “I like him, by the way. I like how he stuck up for you. And to Kasper and Morgan. They’re both kind of assholes …” Felix trails off, and I’ve never heard him say a word against anyone before.
“I don’t usually like males in general,” Amaya adds, watching Draven retreat through the crowd. Cleona looks at her a little sharply as her girlfriend grins at all his assets. “But he might be a good one.”
“I’m sorry Kasper acted like that. I don’t know what’s gotten into him.” Ember frets and I shake my head. She doesn’t need to be apologizing for him, whatever the two of them are becoming. “He’s … not like that with me. He usually always knows the right thing to say. I wonder what’s going on …”
“Don’t worry about it.” Emphatically I add, “Seriously. It’s fine.”
She leans close. “How’s it going with Draven?”
“I … like him. A lot.” My face heats enough I’m sure they see the blush.
“How’s the … fated mating going?” Amaya asks in a loud conspiratorial whisper. Cleona shushes her, and Felix and Wynter suddenly find themselves in their own conversation.
“Hopefully we can start on that tonight.” I rub my claim mark and the girls all giggle with each other.
I’m not used to this, a group of women who both support and encourage, where they ask because they want whatever I may want for myself, not for idle gossip or blackmail.
My eyes dart and Amaya puts a drunken hand on my arm.
“Hey, if you want, you can use my room. You remember where it is, right?” Amaya’s offer is nearly drowned under the swelling music, and I lean in to hear her.
I laugh, nodding, and she gives me a little thumbs-up.
She nods her head at Cleona, who bites her lips.
“Don’t stay too late though. We are gonna need it later. ”
I grin and Amaya leans into Cleona, whispering mischievous words in her ear.
Wynter broods over his drink, and some pretty second-year starts chatting him up.
I ignore the tinge of jealousy that sparks at that, throwing my focus back onto Draven, a bit worried at whatever drew him away.
It’s taking a while and I fidget on the spot.
Felix leans over to Ember, clearing his throat, and asks, “Do you want to dance?”
“Me?” She tries a small smile, but the corners of her lips seem unconvinced as her attention darts toward Kasper, still moodily drinking alone.
What she sees in Kasper is beyond me. I wish she’d forget him.
A splinter wedges into my chest over the fact she’d still like him after all that, and I nudge her forward, encouraging her to instead take a chance on someone more worthy.
Felix grins and she takes his hand, but she keeps glancing at Kasper even as Felix holds her in his arms.
Before I know it, Draven is back. He gives the others a small nod of his head, slipping his hand into mine, and drags me away. He’s moving too quickly through the crowd, druids and changelings stagger back from his path.
“Slow down,” I hiss at his back.
He doesn’t seem to hear, tracking to the stairs, and then leads me up them.
I take one more look at my friends. Wynter determinedly ignores us as he is joined by a second pretty girl.
Cleona and Amaya lift a glass to me, the latter catcalling us.
Felix dances with Ember, his eyes glued to her, and she laughs at something he said.
Kasper shifts from watching her, to me, with something strange in his expression, as if he wants to warn me to stop.
Well, fuck him, it’s not his business.
Draven hurries up the stairs, and before I can point him to Amaya’s room, he’s leading me into a different one next to hers. It’s blessedly empty.
When I turn to him, he’s already on top of me. I back into the wall, my chest tight from the thrill of what comes next, and then his hands cage me against it, his mouth crashing against my neck and I arch my chest into his.
His lips move sloppier now. I blame the drinks for his teeth-dragging scratches. Unlike the claim, it hurts, as if it’s unintentional. I lace my hand through his hair, gripping it like before, but he doesn’t stop, as if between whatever happened then and now he’s forgotten our silent language.
“What did the guards want you for?” My nerves spike, demanding we slow down.
“What’s it matter?” His voice is rough, throaty.
Is he upset? Did something happen? His hips pin against mine, but it doesn’t drag out the warmth it did before. The fabric only scratches now, not as soft as I remember. I shift under him.
“Talk to me.” My hands move to either side of his face, but his grip only pins them back behind my head. The other braces against the wall, nails extending until he’s slicing holes into the wallpaper.
“What do you want to hear, little pet?” His hips slam into mine again, and this time it really hurts.
My head clacks against the wall and then his lips crash against mine and he tastes …
like sea salt and vanilla. But not the food, more like I’ve bitten into a candle.
There’s something false there. I pull away and his hand grasps my throat, the kiss lengthening, and his hair smells wrong.
Hot sand, seaweed, and a sweat that’s not his.
I know what Prince Draven smells like.
I know what he fucking tastes like.
This is not him.
I buck, kneeing the impostor in the groin, and he drops, but he grabs my tarot pack off the belt at my hip as he does. I wipe his spit from my mouth, my anger roiling in my gut as I glare down at him. Whoever he is, he’s so fucking dead.
His skin morphs, rippling until Morgan kneels in front of me. Gaunter and angrier.
What is this? How did he get out?
I go to drop my mental shield, ready to create a little opening to blast my scream of danger down to Draven. He’ll tear this piece of garbage apart in an instant, though there might be nothing left of him by the time I am done with him.
But then changelings are closing in—from the bathroom that links to Amaya’s room, others coming out of the closet. They’re all masked, and since it’s a masquerade I’m sure no one even questioned it. The door snaps shut.
I hesitate, heart racing as I scrutinize my attackers. My hands curl to fists. I may not have my cards, but I am going to beat the ever-loving shit out of them.
“Don’t even think about it, Rune,” Morgan sneers. “We’ve infiltrated every inch of this party. Ember? Felix? Wynter? They’re the first to fall.”
“I know about your shields and I’ll know if you try to warn the prince.” One of the girls taps her temple, slowly, raw anger in her eyes. “If you so much as holler for Draven mentally or verbally, then our people will kill your friends.”
“What shields, Fallon?” one of the strangers demands, and my eyes go wide. He’s talking to the girl whose boyfriend was killed in sparring. My gaze snaps to her. She’s a hollow thin thing now, and with the full mask I didn’t recognize her.
“No names, you idiot!”
I think of those girls sidling up to Wynter below and glance to her hand where the High Priestess card glimmers. The pressure of her power crashes against my mental shields, encircling them. Thankfully holding this mental barrier is something I can continue even without my cards.
Morgan gets to his feet now, walking off the limp I put in his step.
“Rune, you’re going to stay here, silently, while my friends take care of your little boyfriend next door.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
I notice a little patch along the back of the fingerless glove, a red fist. Draven and I knew that the Ten Spires Clan that Morgan belonged to had links to the uprising, but I didn’t think that Morgan of all people was capable of an actual plot.
With him in the Boiler, we’d put discussion of him to rest, free to focus on the Artifacts and training, but now …
“Arcadia isn’t as guarded as they thought.
” Morgan rolls his neck, and I notice how much thinner he is from the last time I saw him.
His face more hollowed, burn marks trailing the backs of his arms. He’s spent over a month in the Boiler.
“The Ten Spires is working with the descendants of the uprising.” He flexes that glove for me to see.
“And the Ascension has risen right on their doorstep.”
“Fifteen years to come up with a better name and they circled back to the Ascension?” Rolling my eyes, I glance to the other room.
Draven’s not there yet, though I’m betting they’re about to lure him in.
“What exactly is your plan here? You going to prance in there as me, Morgan? Give him a lap dance and then assassinate him?”
“I won’t be doing it, but yes.” Morgan nods to a changeling girl with dark hair and pale skin. She summons the Moon Arcana, transforming into—
“That’s the best me you have?” I laugh. Her hair is too silver, she’s too damn tall, and her legs are sticklike compared to mine.
“You didn’t fool me. She certainly won’t fool him.” It’s the truth. “You saw his hands on me. You think he’ll suddenly forget what I feel like? Smell like? Taste like? This is the best plan you can come up with? Walk away.”
Everyone’s silent, and I take in the other changelings, and to my surprise a few are full druids. One draws his Devil Arcana. “We can go my way, lure him in with a figment.”
His illusion casting is pretty solid, his version of me far more believable than the blood-and-bone replica. But it’s not quite right either, and Morgan curses before turning to me, disgust written all over him. The feeling’s more than mutual.
“Then I guess you’re going in there.” He steps so close he’s nearly standing on my toes. “You bind him up with your magic that is now linked to mine.” He runs his finger along every card in my deck before sticking them back in my holster. They’re thoroughly tainted now.
“What are you even thinking? You’ll get everyone here killed, and yourself,” I hiss, trying to make him see sense. If not for his sake, then for the rest of the changelings here.
They don’t want justice. They want punishment.
I can’t tell these idiots what Draven and I are planning, or his vision for both Arcadia and the mortal realms—not only would it break my pact, but they wouldn’t believe me.
I try to appeal to their fury, recognizing it as my own when I first arrived.
“I get it. I understand what the immortals have done to us. But this isn’t the way to fix things.
This is going to make things a thousand times worse for mortals and changelings.
You kill one of their royals? They will come down on your quaint rebellion like a boot on an anthill. ”
“The Ascension is bigger than you realize. Overthrowing the immortal royals will create chaos and allow us a chance at ending their reign over us.” His breath is rancid against my face.
“And we have a place to fall back to. One that will let us bring these changeling powers back over the Wall to help our families!”
I let loose a dark laugh.
“Then they’re a bunch of liars, as are you. Druids don’t Select anyone with someone to return to.” I scoff, grinning with as much spite as I can muster.
Morgan slaps me hard, staggering me into the wall.
I’m barely able to hold myself up, and he reaches for my throat, but I claw his hand away, scratching a gouge across his face. “You touch me again, and I’ll tear your gods damned eyes out.”
“You go in there and tie him down, or we kill all your little friends,” Morgan growls.
“You wouldn’t. They’re your friends, too.” But I don’t like the darkness in his eyes, the way he doesn’t even blink at the thought.
“No, they’re not. They’re just tools. Like you are. The Ascension came to free me. And we need a weapon of vengeance, and tonight it’s going to be you.”