Chapter 33
Mal stood in all black, funeral black, at the center of the largest hall in the Celestian Palace. With one long wall completely open to the west, it allowed a breeze from the Black Deep to glide across the hall through its pale crystal pillars.
He stood alone, save for the white wolf Mordred, who traced the perimeter of the hall.
Somehow, in the months since she had last seen Mal, his face had changed even more.
And gods be damned, he was intoxicatingly vicious.
A perfect feline smile curved up between the shadowed bones of his cheeks and jawline as their eyes met.
His raven hair sat in elegant ease, making him look approachable in a brilliant predator’s trap.
But his eyes were more dead than they were that night in the Throne Room. Merlin, Primus, and all the seven fucking realms. She didn’t know eyes could be so. . .void. So nothing.
So lost.
But the way his eyes tracked her every step across the hall.
. .the way they narrowed in on Reeve’s fingers pressed around her waist. .
. the way his head tilted to the side as if he was ready to strike, all told her she hadn’t truly considered the stakes of the game she agreed to play to send Mal over the edge.
Because Maeve was terrified of that edge. What if it didn’t look like sweet hazel eyes, and instead it looked like shattered bones and blood pooling across crystal tiles?
She halted when Reeve did, a lengthy distance from Mal. His hand dropped from around her waist, and together they bowed before their King.
“What a welcome.”
Mal’s smooth voice sounded out, not in a call or in an exclamation, but in a pointed tone that felt like it was just for her. She lifted her gaze to him.
Reeve stood as Mal crossed the hall towards them.
“My King,” said Reeve, reverence in his tone, as he gestured towards the table set with goblets and trays of food.
The intimate table near the open-air wall, or lack thereof, was set for four, but one guest, who had been presented as attending, was not present.
“Where’s Abraxas?” Maeve asked, daring to speak to him at last.
Mal looked her up and down, slowly, soaking up every inch of her gown. And his lip curled. “Where is the gown I sent you?”
“Emerald is not my color anymore,” replied Maeve, surprised at the steadiness of her voice. “You sold me to one who prefers shades of violet.”
“Green is still your color,” argued Mal, his tone dripping with boredom. “Just as I am still your King.”
Maeve hummed in agreement. “Then my apologies are in order.”
Mal’s eyes shifted to Reeve, then he turned, crossing towards the table and placing himself at one of the four seats.
He sat without waiting for any formalities or instructions.
Maeve and Reeve followed suit. She looked to her right as Mal surveyed Reeve across the table.
Reeve, also to her right, poured himself a shot of amber-brown liquid.
“I suppose with Abraxas not attending, I’ll be drinking alone,” he said, downing the shot in one go. When he set the glass back on the table, he looked up at Mal and spoke casually, as though the apex predator wasn’t sitting six feet from him, tense and on edge. “How can I be of service?”
Mal’s eyes moved from the empty shot glass up to Reeve. “Heims has become troublesome.”
“Are the Senshi not able to get it under control?”
“I haven’t sent them in.”
Reeve hummed. Maeve wondered if anyone was actually going to eat. Food seemed frivolous, but as Reeve grabbed a bite, she couldn’t help but wonder how he was so at ease.
Reeve looked away in thought. “You want the rebellion to die quietly.”
Maeve’s mind snapped up to speed as she looked away from both of them. Why was Mal being so transparent? Her eyes slid back to him, but he watched Reeve and merely nodded in reply.
“There is a variety of life on Hiems,” said Mal, crossing one leg over the other, “though it remains small in comparison to us. Many creatures, some that possess Magic and some that don’t, humans, Magicals, Elves, and even ones like your second. Half breeds.”
Mordred continued pacing the large hall, his gleaming red eyes on the three of them as Mal continued.
“I don’t intend to rule ashes.”
Reeve nodded slowly. “Do you know where the wolves in question are?”
Maeve’s brows pulled together softly. Mal was practically leading Reeve straight to the very rebellion he sought to light a fire under.
“Mordred will accompany you on Heims,” answered Mal, swiftly dampening any upper hand Reeve might have had.
Reeve hardly reacted. “Dead or imprisoned?”
“Dead,” answered Mal swiftly. “Save for the alpha. I have promised him to Mordred.”
“How many?”
“The pack is twenty-two strong,” said Mal.
Reeve looked over at Mordred, where he paced. “His company will pose an issue.”
Mordred growled, baring his teeth at Reeve.
“I’m aware,” said Mal. “Which is why he will be hidden during your journey.”
“They’ll still smell him,” said Reeve. “I can smell him.”
It wasn’t an insult. It was stated factually, a byproduct of Reeve’s heightened Immortal senses.
Mal paused, contemplating. Mordred spoke at last, his grovelly voice sounding across the hall. “They shouldn’t go alone, my King.”
The corner of Mal’s mouth pulled up ever so slightly. “Mordred doesn’t trust you.”
Reeve looked at the wolf, matching Mal’s smile. “Was it the comment about the smell?”
Mordred growled, widening Reeve’s smile. He looked back at Mal.
“I’ll do whatever you command,” he said, his smile fading, “but, if I am to assume Mordred himself has not found them yet, but I am expected to. . . perhaps that won’t happen if he is present.”
Mordred made a noise like he was about to argue once more. Mal clicked his tongue, and the wolf fell silent and resumed his pacing. Mal’s eyes remained on Reeve, narrowed slightly.
“Just get it done silently and swiftly,” voiced Mal at last.
“Why aren’t you doing it?” Maeve asked, her eyes on Mal.
Mal didn’t look at her. “Does spending endless time on a freezing planet looking for a bunch of dogs sound like something a King should spend his time doing?” His attention landed on her at last, unwelcome and distant. “Have you ever jumped into the mind of something that wasn’t human?”
Her stomach plummeted.
“You can still jump, can’t you?” he asked.
The debate of whether or not to lie battled silently in her mind. That is, until Mal sighed and looked back at Reeve. “Have her jump once you are on Heims, until you pick up something useful.”
Mal’s slender finger traced the rim of his empty goblet.
“Since I’m denying Mordred the hunt, I’ll be careful not to kill your alpha,” said Reeve. “How will I know which one it is?”
“He wears a chain around his neck, with a ring on it.” He looked to Maeve, his eyes on her new ring yet again. “A stone more substantial than that gaudy thing sitting on your finger.”
“I am quite taken with it,” she replied smoothly.
“Your vanity prevails,” he sneered. “Though,” he continued, his expression becoming cold as his finger continued running circles across the glass’ rim. “There isn’t a trace of him on you, despite that ring on your finger.”
“You almost sound jealous,” she stated boldly.
Too boldly, and with too much hope in her voice.
Mal’s finger stilled, and his eyes set on her, plunging them into silence as he forced her to look into his all-too-green eyes.
He studied her with such intensity, with Magic creeping between them, casing her in thorny vines, that she thought if he blinked, she’d simply cease to exist under his will.
“I come here graciously,” he said lowly, “just for you to think the nostalgia of you means something to me?”
“Doesn’t it?” she challenged, the game and her prize long forgotten. Her words were her own, desperate and weak.
Mal smiled without teeth, an image of pure and malevolent chaos as he enunciated each word like she was the dumbest prey ever caught. “Oh, Sinclair.” Her stomach rolled at the implications of him using her last name. “Let me show you just how nostalgic I am.”
With a lift of his hand, his previously empty goblet filled with wine. He lifted it from the table.
“A toast is in order,” said Mal, the corners of his mouth turned down. “To my former Dread Viper and the former High Lord of Aterna.”
Maeve didn’t reach for her glass, not that Mal noticed or cared, seeing as his toast was far from genuine. He paused, faking confusion with his eyes still on Maeve.
“Strange. It seems I’m remembering another time when a toast was made and you lost something very special. I can’t quite place it, though.” He turned to Reeve. “You were there, do you recall?”
Maeve swallowed, aware of the scowl plastered on her face.
“Ambrose’s death,” said Reeve softly.
Mal snapped his fingers, raising his goblet slightly.
“That was it.” He looked back at Maeve. “Oh, I have an even better one. This one, too terribly sinful not to commemorate. Your aunt’s birthday dinner, before I was crowned.
You remember that toast Leslie Loxerman made?
That was before you shattered her mind, of course.
I remember it. I remember that it was so boring and exaggerated that you couldn’t keep your hands off me under the table.
Or perhaps when I returned to Castle Morana after fighting to secure the Elven Lands for months on end, only to find the most traitorous thing of all with her eyes on me during my Hand’s toast of my return, as if she wasn’t responsible for manipulating and erasing my memories all along. ”
Mal set his goblet down, and his hands returned to his lap. “Was that enough nostalgia for you?”
“Why are you here?” she seethed, cutting off his words.
Easy, do not let that lightning surface, Reeve’s voice warned across her mind. Keep that trick up your sleeve.
“I’m here, because that,” Mal pointed a single finger at Reeve, “is a valuable weapon. One that is now mine, thanks to whatever he seems to value in you. Personally, the thought is unfathomable.”