Chapter 24
Ramiel’s chest scarcely heaves a noticeable breath. With his mouth slightly parted and his eyes closed, he looks as good as dead.
I often try not to remember how my parents left this world, but focusing on the prince’s slow and calculated breaths makes it difficult to keep the memories from flooding in.
Love. Beyond their connection as mates, my parents loved one another.
And that is what killed them. Fairies slew them in the night.
After forcing fairy magic down their throats to end them quickly, they carved the couple’s eyes from their skulls.
Fairies have this disturbing obsession with skewering the eyes of their victims on pikes, letting the bulbous organs wrinkle and dehydrate and lose their color.
I think it’s their way of mocking our curse—the ever-changing shades of our transparent emotions.
My parents hadn’t been the only victims. Other adults perished too. It seems like the fairies always targeted parents, leaving the children behind to scramble for new families.
They clearly meant to orphan as many of us as possible.
And they’ve always been successful, no matter what precautions we take.
My teeth grind together as I usher away the thoughts of my parents’ soul-stricken faces, mouths agape and without the brilliance of life. I’d discovered them in the morning, hours after they’d been murdered.
I was a child the night before. I’ve been an adult since.
And I will always fight for those I love.
Ramiel’s body stretches long across a marble table in a narrow room with no windows.
Thick candles flicker along the walls on floating wooden shelves, dripping wax onto the floor.
The room glows yellow from their dancing flames.
Incense smoke rises from a long, red-tinted stick, filling the air with a singed floral aromatic.
It reminds me of a tall purple flower that grows wild in Aldorin.
The smell reminds me of home, but instead of bringing me the calm it usually does, I am restless.
Ronan shifts his feet at the other end of the room, the swishing of his trousers disrupting the silence.
We await the castle herbalists and physicians, who will be able to treat the prince with their human remedies and concoctions, though I’m beginning to doubt anything non-magical will work. If the medicine Ronan gave him doesn’t work, what will?
The best cure for him is me .
But the fairy wouldn’t understand, nor would any of the humans who will try (and fail) to heal him.
The fairy’s gaze centers on me, his eyebrows slanting suspiciously.
He runs stained fingers through his short, uneven bone-silver hair and hardens his square jaw.
Muddy brown eyes swirl with disgust, his body hunched over so he can see me through silken lashes.
He’s created the perfect disguise for a fairy who doesn’t wish to be detected.
Everyone knows fairies have hideous, disfigured forms—I’d witnessed their vulgarity each time I entered their camps.
And yet, here he is, portraying himself as an eye-catching noble. The humor of it…
Now is not the time to find things funny, Ether .
“If he’s been permanently hurt,” the fairy’s voice cuts through my thoughts. I stiffen. But he doesn’t finish his threat. Instead, the unspoken words hang in the air, palpable.
“He isn’t,” I say, but I’m unsure whether this is true or not.
I open my mouth, hoping to turn my statement into doubt, into some form of genuine confidence, but it’s too late.
My tongue stiffens and cracks, and my lips chap and rub against one another like sandpaper.
Air screeches down my throat, but my muscles flare, making breathing laborious.
Sour tears spill from my eyes. An invisible hand digs into my neck, affecting my ability to speak.
The curse. I’d not yet experienced it this horribly, but now that I’ve professed too many lies, I’m paying the price.
Perfect .
The fairy snickers, a hideous grin revealing off-white teeth. His face is all hostility and disbelief. “Would you mind saying that again? Or perhaps you’ll tell me the truth this time, you lying skunk.”
I blink fiercely at him, moving my lips and nose as if he’ll understand the words I don’t say. My neck strains upward, attempting to free itself from the invisible clutches of the curse, but to no avail. If I try any harder, I’ll be mute for longer than desirable.
Out of the corner of my eye, Ronan reclines in his chair. He seems to have a habit of switching his emotions off, appearing bored compared to the dramatics from minutes prior.
“If your kind weren’t compulsive liars,” he drawls, “you wouldn’t have to deal with that nonsense.”
He’s wrong about that. My people never did anything wrong. They were misunderstood. And now we’re doomed to reveal our darkest secrets. None of us are safe. Many of us have died thanks to this curse.
I raise a fist, but the heavy oak door scrapes open, and I snap my arm to my side. With a barely restrained wrath, I turn away from the fairy. Now isn’t the time to let my anger control me. Later. I’ll save that for later, when I get a clear shot at his neck and there are no witnesses.
Ramiel makes a noise, and both of us go rigid as mages —not doctors or apothecaries—flood into the room and crowd the table, their cloaks blacker than night. The tense whips of black and blue light bend and slice the air around them.
I won’t be able to do or say anything that doesn’t put all three of us at risk, so I remain silent despite the fear echoing in my eluviam and the worry pulsing thickly through me.
Ronan is concentrated on the mages, keeping his expression disinterested, but I can sense the hostility rising off him like the sweaty steam of an Aldorin hot spring.
A hollowness settles in my stomach as I watch the mages, unable to unfreeze myself.
The inhuman beings circle the table once, then lift stark white hands into the air, fingers splayed like spiny stars. A low incantation spreads among them, and a muted glow of red buzzes around the prince’s body.
I crane my neck upward for a better view of their work. One mage flicks a hand out, fingernails rotting with black and gray. Its twiggy fingers move over Ramiel’s arm, and as the group continues to mumble strange spells, the wound begins to fester worse than it had during the affliction.
A mage makes a gasp-like noise, and the chanting ceases.
Then, there’s a flash.
Whiteness. Brighter than staring directly into the sun.
My eyes are on fire. I yelp, rubbing the heels of my hands vigorously at them to rid the acidic burning sending liquid down my cheeks. My vision warps momentarily before everything is clear again, but the simmering heat at the back of my head remains.
If my previous experience with our bond is any indicator, the pain I experience when he gets hurt is not fatal. Even so, something is terribly wrong.
What have they done to him?
The mages mumble now, all whispering different words, but I comprehend none of them. They speak in an ancient tongue only their group can understand.
My throat remains dry as it heaves slow breaths, but the sight of Ramiel makes my lungs deflate completely. I move my hands shakily to my mouth, and tears blur my vision.
Soon, my entire body is trembling with shock. I have no thoughts, not when the plain truth is lying, motionless, on the table.
No, no, no, no, no.
My insides twist and curl in on themselves as the numbness settles in. The vast emptiness overwhelms me. Bile rises in my throat.
“That’s our cue to leave,” Ronan hisses, gripping me harshly at the elbow.
“No,” I mouth. No sound comes out.
“Move. Now, ” he snarls.
How can he not tell something is wrong ? If Ramiel’s personal servant won’t even stand beside him, who will? The thought enrages me. Devastation turns my blood cold.
If the prince dies, what will happen to my people?
What will happen to…our bond? I’ve never stopped to consider what the effects might be on a mated pair if one dies and the other lives. What might the consequences be?
I start toward the mages. I don’t care which one gets in the way of my knife—they’re not allowed to take the prince’s life. My hand lifts to my thigh, but before I can find my dagger, Ronan pulls me from the room. I’d forgotten his hand was clasped to my arm, and I gnash my teeth at him.
He merely sighs, disappointed. And annoyed.
The door slams behind us. My ears ring as the fairy leads me away from the mages and Ramiel’s helpless body. He tugs me along for a few minutes until we reach another room. He closes the door behind us.
“He isn’t dead,” Ronan growls as he drops my arm. He sits in a woven chair, sinking into it as though ready for a nap. He even yawns.
“How would someone like you know such a?—”
“Calm down, now,” another voice cuts in. Familiar. Baritone.
Marchus .
He steps in next to Ronan, an amused smirk drifting over his features.
“Long time no see, little mouse,” the soldier says, his tone nearly as frustrating as Ronan’s monotone. His grayish hair is disheveled, as though he’d taken a bath and forgotten to properly style his hair.
Why is he here?
“Do either of you understand what’s happening right now?
” I screech, throwing my hands into the air.
“Ramiel is alone with those mages. He’s not cured.
He could be killed any second, and I…” I close my eyes and shake my head.
Now is not the time to go into detail about our complicated and nuanced status as mates, though it would explain a lot.
After a pause, I sigh. “Did you see what they did to him before we left?”
I motion to my face with widespread fingers, mimicking the terrible damage done to Ramiel’s features. My fingers draw shapes over my forehead, eyes, and cheeks to resemble the scars that gash across his face like some unseen beast had mauled him.
The fairy sighs. “Unfortunately, that’s normal. When humans are directly exposed to dark magic, they?—”