Chapter 10 Rhianelle
Iwake to the slow beat of Arescaine’s wings and the warmth of his arms around me. For several disoriented seconds, I do not know where I am. My cheek rests against his chest, and one of my hands is curled loosely in the fabric of his coat.
I fell asleep.
Not merely while flying, but while being carried by a vampire. I am hundreds of feet above the ground, with nothing between me and death except his grip. Yet I allowed myself to become completely defenseless in the arms of a creature I had once believed wanted me dead.
I straighten as much as I can without disturbing his flight. The ease with which I trusted him unsettles me more than the ground far below. Exhaustion is no excuse for recklessness. Whatever strange comfort I feel around him, I cannot forget what he is or how little I truly know about him.
I will be more careful from now on.
Arescaine glances down when I stir. “We’re nearly there.”
We descend toward it through a narrow mountain pass, the path winding down through scrub pine and loose shale.
Below, the village glimmers in the darkness, torches burning along the narrow streets.
From this height, Greenvale appears peaceful, almost safe, but I know better than to trust appearances.
“The Painted Moth is in the center of town. We’ll need to be careful. Greenvale is crawling with fae, and some of them will recognize you.”
“I’ve been here before,” I say.
Arescaine looks at me sharply.
I frown, trying to grasp at the memory. “I’ve been to the Painted Moth. I know I have.”
The memory is there but frustratingly vague. I try to see through the fog but it’s impossible.
“I remember why I was there and how I got the Fae King’s ball invitation. But I don’t remember how I got out.” The harder I reach for the memory, the farther it seems to retreat.
Something flickers across Arescaine’s face.
“Memory can be unreliable,” he says carefully. “Especially in places like that. The pleasure houses use enchantments and glamours. They can affect how you remember things.”
That makes sense. But it doesn’t explain the strange gaps, the feeling that something important is missing.
“Stay close to me,” Arescaine says. “Keep your hood up. We don’t need anyone recognizing the elven queen.”
I glance at the enormous wings carrying us toward the ground. “Aren’t you going to hide those?”
“No.”
“You are not exactly inconspicuous,” I say.
“Neither would a Nightwalker be.” His gaze remains fixed on the approaching village. “The fae already know a vampire is working for the Queen of Aelfheim. If I enter Greenvale without my wings, anyone who recognizes what I am may connect me to you.”
“But with them?” I ask.
“They may assume I am a demon from Hel,” he answers.
Clever.
Demons are hardly unusual in places such as the Painted Moth, and it is not difficult to imagine Balthazar frequenting an establishment like this.
I remember visiting Kheirall’s home in the human world, but when I try to recall parts of that journey, I encounter the same murky gaps.
Roads vanish from my mind. Conversations begin without any memory of what came before them.
I shake my head, refusing to lose myself in the confusion again. Kharlis is here. That is what matters.
Arescaine angles his wings and descends toward a narrow road at the edge of the village. His boots touch the ground lightly, and he lowers me to my feet before folding his wings against his back.
I pull my hood forward, shadowing my face.
We enter Greenvale under the cover of night, joining streets far busier than I expected. Fae in elaborate clothing drift between crowded taverns. Laughter and drunken shouting spill from the surrounding buildings.
The Painted Moth rises from the center of it all, a vast structure painted in deep purple and midnight blue.
Enormous moth wings carved across its facade seem to enfold the glowing windows, where soft golden light spills onto the street.
A low, hypnotic melody reaches us even through the walls, as though the building itself is calling people inside.
I stop and stare. I know this place. I have walked through those doors before.
“Are you all right?” Arescaine asks quietly, watching my face.
“I’m fine.” I force my attention away from the building’s familiar facade. “Let’s go.”
He watches me for another moment before turning back toward the entrance.
Arescaine studies the building. “Kharlis will be in a private room. Somewhere secure where he can meet with the fae commanders without being interrupted.”
“How do we get in?” I ask.
“Front door. We’re customers like anyone else.” He looks at me. “But you let me do the talking. Your accent will give you away. I will compel them.”
I nod.
We approach the entrance. Two guards flank the door. Both are High Fae, dressed in fitted black coats embroidered with silver moths. One raises a hand before we can pass.
“Names and purpose.”
Arescaine looks directly into his eyes. Something dark passes through his gaze, subtle as a shadow moving beneath water.
“We are important guests. You have already admitted us,” he says.
The guard’s raised hand slowly lowers. His expression goes slack. “I have already admitted you.”
The second guard blinks, then steps aside as if nothing is amiss. “Enjoy your evening.”
Arescaine walks through without looking back. I follow before the compulsion can fade.
Inside, the Painted Moth is overwhelming.
The main room is cavernous, filled with cushioned seating areas and low tables. Beautiful servers move between them gracefully. Glamour and magic make everything feel slightly unreal. A haunting, seductive melody floats through the room.
I remember this. The music, the scene, and the way my heart had pounded as I’d stood in almost this exact spot.
“This way,” Arescaine murmurs.
He moves through the room with confidence. I follow, keeping my head down.
We pass through several corridors. The Painted Moth is larger than it looks from outside. It’s a maze of rooms and hallways that twist back on themselves. Arescaine stops at a corner, pressing himself against the wall. I copy him.
Voices ahead.
One of them is Lord Kharlis.
“—assured me the information was worth the price,” Kharlis is saying.
“We’ll determine that.” Another voice, male. It carries the effortless authority of someone accustomed to obedience. “You’ve been useful, Lord Kharlis. But usefulness can expire.”
“I’ve given you everything you asked for.” Kharlis’s voice tightens. “Troop movements, supply routes, every defensive position along the northern border.”
“And you’ll continue to do so. After all, you have so much to gain when we win.” The fae commander sounds amused.
Footsteps approach from the adjoining passage. Arescaine catches my wrist and draws me backward just before Kharlis and the others round the corner. A door opens across from us, spilling golden light into the corridor, and four figures enter the private room.
Arescaine moves before the door can swing closed.
He pulls me into a narrow alcove concealed behind a carved panel.
It is barely large enough for one person, much less two, and appears to be used for storing linens and bottles of wine.
The warped door doesn’t latch properly behind us, leaving a thin crack of light and a sliver of view into the corridor beyond.
I am pressed against Arescaine in the cramped darkness. The solid warmth of his body surrounds me, along with the faint scent of smoke and winter air clinging to his clothes. His wings curve tightly around us, their folded edges brushing my shoulders whenever he breathes.
Focus. Focus on Kharlis.
Through the crack, I can see into the private room. Deep carpets cover the floor, and ornate chairs surround a polished table laden with wine, jeweled goblets and untouched platters of food.
Lord Kharlis stands beside the table. Across from him wait three fae commanders, each wearing the crimson-and-black insignia of Avalon.
My blood runs cold.
This is more than a traitor selling scraps of information. Kharlis has formed a military alliance with our enemy.
“Sit,” one of the commanders says. “We have much to discuss.”
Kharlis takes the nearest chair. The commanders sit opposite him, placing themselves between him and the door.
“The elven queen is weak,” Kharlis begins. “She revealed Sanguisyl to the entire war council.”
The commanders exchange startled looks.
“She knows about the Red Rain?” the youngest demands.
“Landon,” the dark-haired commander says with a sneer. “The traitor must have told her.”
“He knows what Sanguisyl can do,” another mutters. “He should have kept his mouth shut.”
“And her response?” one asks.
“Evacuation plans. She’s spreading the population thin to minimize casualties.” Kharlis laughs. “As if scattering people across the countryside would do anything against Sanguisyl’s power.”
Rage builds in my chest. This traitor.
“Excellent,” the commander says. “And the troop positions you mentioned?”
Kharlis pulls out a map and begins pointing to locations.
I watch him expose every weakness we discussed in the council chamber. Defensive lines and regions filled with civilians become marks beneath his pointing finger.
The fae commanders lean forward, studying the map with interest.
“The eastern border here.” Kharlis points and taps with his finger. “There are only about three hundred soldiers. They’re expecting reinforcements next week, but if you strike before then—”
“We’ll slaughter them,” the dark-haired commander finishes.
I stare at Kharlis, waiting for some sign that the deaths of three hundred Aelfheim soldiers trouble him. He does not flinch. They are not his people in his mind, merely pieces he is willing to sacrifice for whatever they are promising him.
“In return you remember our agreement,” Kharlis reminds them. “When Aelfheim falls, I rule in your name as the sole monarch of the thirty-three regions. No Aldarelfs questioning my authority.”
“Of course.” The commander’s smile is sharp. “You’ll be king, Lord Kharlis. Enjoy it.”
They laugh. All of them.