Igniting Cinder (The Lost Girls #3)

1. Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Bitch is in Danger

CINDER

T he Fairy Godmother assured me these glass slippers would not shatter and slice my feet off into bloody nubbins.

When I initially asked, her nose and forehead wrinkled, taken aback in open disgust. But if I was going to step into the fairy realm of Midnight, I needed to make sure I could run without becoming an instant amputee.

Though the option of using the jagged edge of a broken glass shoe to stab anyone who dared come at me held a certain appeal. My look has always been on the stabbier side anyway—chains, spikes, dog collars, and fish nets. Nothing says fuck off, don’t touch or talk to me like goth fashion.

Tonight I traded in my six-inch platform combat boots for dainty footwear to get me where I need to go. The Fairy Godmother also forced me to forgo my usual black lipstick, cover up any visible tattoos with makeup, and take out my many facial piercings—the goal being to blend in.

I've penetrated the society ball and now I just need to get what I came for and get out.

As I weave through the throng of fairy aristocrats, a passing elbow jabs into my ribs. I flinch, my breath catching in my throat. The unwelcome contact sends a jolt of panic through me and I quickly sidestep, putting distance between myself and the offending party. My skin crawls, a prickling sensation that lingers long after the touch is gone.

I grab a glass of champagne from a silver tray, not meeting the human server’s gaze.

Their sightless eyes freak me out. The humans in the fairy realm are little more than automatons, running on autopilot to serve their master, the King.

Maybe I should have snuck in disguised as a human servant, but my pride wouldn’t let me pretend to be one of their familiars.

The lace face-covering distorts the upper half of my features. I doubt I’ll be recognized, but capitalizing on the outlandish fashion here only works to my benefit.

In the kingdom of Midnight, most days it is acceptable to dress as if one is attending a gothic masquerade.

My skin, a ghostly shade of pale that's damn near translucent, helps me blend seamlessly into the monochromatic crowd. On my side of the world, Boston doesn’t feature many sunny days and I tend to be a night owl, thanks to my upbringing here in the kingdom. Since the Midnight fairies live in a land of perpetual night, no one around me is sporting a tan either.

Once, years ago, I walked among the Midnight fairies as an equal.

Okay, at the very least as a tolerated presence.

But then my father died, and all protection and pretense of tolerance disappeared before I could say Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Butthurt. I’d been degraded by these fairy fuck faces enough for one lifetime, yet here I am again.

Flickering candelabras and chandeliers cast a warm glow over the ballroom. The attire varies in shades of black, deep blues, and purples—the royal colors of Midnight. The castle is near freezing since the Midnight fairies are not bothered by temperature. Like the Common World, it has slipped into the chill of autumn.

Crossing realms into Midnight is like stepping back into the early nineteenth century. The faint echo of clip-clopping filters in from the courtyard, reminding me horses are still the primary mode of transportation.

After seceding onto their own astral plane from the Common World several hundred years ago, the fairy lands forbade technologies like electricity and tightly controlled their borders to keep out humans, mages, and the more common fae creatures like ogres and shifters.

Fairies are pure-blood bastards with a superiority complex.

Sipping the sharp citrus bubbles that likely came from a priceless vintage, I take a moment to be grateful there are libations available other than the usual.

A couple adorned in matching eggplant colors next to me put their lips to dark, blue glass coupe glasses. Despite their attempts to mask a color the kingdom views as vulgar, I know exactly what thick viscous liquid they drink.

Blood.

The woman laughs at something the man says, throwing her head back with just the right amount of tilt to show off the jewels dripping around her pale throat. Her upper lip curls, showcasing a pair of long, sharp canines that gleam under the candlelight.

I swallow hard.

The Common World has another name for the Midnight fairies.

Vampires.

Fear snakes up my spine and winds around and down to land with an icy drip in my stomach.

You won’t let fear get the best of you, Cinder. You are here for a reason, and this may be your only chance.

Is it idiotic to try and blend in amongst the fanged when I am so painfully human and my veins overrunneth with what they subsist on?

Yes.

Am I going to pick up my skirts and click away in my little glass heels?

Fuck no.

As I make my way through the crowd, I can’t help but overhear the giggles from a group of young ladies.

“Prince Charming looks absolutely delicious tonight,” one of them gushes. “It’s no wonder he’s bedded over half the court already.”

Her companion titters behind her fan. “Well, can you blame them? With that smoldering gaze and wicked smile, I'd let him ravish me whenever he wished.”

I roll my eyes, trying to block out their inane chatter. The last thing I need is to get caught up in the drama of the playboy prince and his gaggle of admirers. I have my own mission to focus on.

A third lady chimes in, her tone conspiratorial. “I heard he once seduced a duchess and her daughter on the same night, convincing them to engage in scandalous play with each other . The man has no shame.”

The first one turns to the second girl. “I heard that rumor too and it was about you, Lady Felicia.”

I freeze mid-step, my ears straining to catch every juicy detail. The temptation to eavesdrop overpowers my urgency to get what I came for.

The second fairy's face contorts, her features twisting into a pinched and stricken expression. She looks as though she sucked down some spoiled blood.

Oh witchtits, it’s true! And that girl was just outed so hard.

Wait, with her own mom?

Yikes.

Okay, maybe I enjoy a little bit of gossip. I blame my bestie Goldie for making me watch so many trashy reality mage shows where a bunch of egotistical, power-hungry hotties have to live in the same house together.

Unable to help myself, I glide closer to the group. “Oh, that’s just a typical Tuesday for us,” I chime in nonchalantly. “We usually have our romps in the stable with a strap-on at his insistence and his exotic pet monkey as an audience.”

I float away, leaving behind the collective gasp of shock and awe.

Okay, so I’m here to steal something but it doesn’t mean I can’t have a little fun. Especially at the expense of Prince Charming.

Walking to the far side of the ballroom, I approach the art expanding across the entirety of the wall in front of me. All amusement drops away as my heart jerks up into my throat.

Nostalgia is quickly followed by a warm prickling sensation attacking my stomach with a painful vengeance. Tears burn at the backs of my eyes. I’m not sentimental or a crier, but this damn near pushes me to the brink.

Strong, wide brush strokes travel along the canvas with iridescent splendor. Its textured colors rise off the canvas, tempting the viewer to run their fingers across the surface and feel the layers of paint. The painting seems to glow with an otherworldly luminescence as if the very essence of the moonlight has been woven into the work.

The landscape of the Midnight Kingdom unfolds before me, captured with an almost ethereal beauty. The misty moors stretch out to the horizon, their edges softened by the gentle caress of starlight. The colors are rich and vivid, yet there's a dreamlike quality to them as if they might shift and dance at any moment.

I’m swept away in an ocean of magic just looking at it.

More than the art itself is the memory of my father once bent over this piece, brush in hand, paint flecked in his dark hair and unkempt goatee. I can almost smell the smoke of the cigarillo that always hung off his lips. I miss him so badly it nearly rocks me off my feet.

It also reminds me of what I came for.

“Do you think it’s in poor taste of our King to use Byung-He’s art as the backdrop for our social season?” a woman asks her partner in a low tone to my left.

It takes all my wherewithal not to stiffen at the mention of my father’s name. Thankfully, the couple doesn’t take any note of my presence as they do the forbidden—question their King.

The man answers. “He may have been human, but it is undeniable his art is transcendent. And seeing as he was the King’s confidant and familiar, I can’t say it’s that surprising to commemorate the day of the man’s death.”

“Yes, well,” she hedges with obvious distaste. “It has been ten years. At least this is his only lapse in judgment when it comes to humans. The idea of them intermingling with us as equals is repulsive.” The tone of her words radiates with contempt, mirroring the disdainful expression on her face.

“This pittance of a rebellion will not take hold, my dear. The Mice shall be exterminated,” the man assures his partner.

“Of course they shall be taken care of,” a new voice joins in, cold as the grave and accented with the tones of Mandarin.

My entire body seizes with fear and I slowly, carefully, tilt away to hide my face, not wanting to catch the attention of King Charming who is flanked by one of his aides.