Chapter 16
Maddox
The Magesté theater fills like sand in a broken hourglass. Only a handful of the dryads and arborfae in line are here for the orchids; the rest have come to see the show.
I sweep the disarray of scribbled-upon papers into a pile and start a new book that doesn’t make my eyes turn dizzying circles around the page. I’m nothing if not painfully organized. Though Javen likes to say it’s not organization, it’s just the manifestation of my childhood trauma.
Fern hovers by my side, whispering suggestions in my ear as visitors point to the orchid they want on my new, neatly printed list.
The show begins with a rolling cymbal crash, and I step through the green-feathered curtain to watch the opening act while there’s a lull in visitors for the orchids.
The theater is packed with an audience of hundreds of dryads and arborfae dressed in gowns, breeches, and doublets.
I feel like I’m attending an odd amalgamation of a Renaissance faire, opera, and Broadway show.
Soon, the music climbs to a climax, and the crowd hushes in anticipation.
Evodia sashays onto the stage dressed in a tight gown sparkling with bottle-green gems. She greets her guests with a dramatic spread of her arms and a sultry voice.
“Welcome, my friends, to Magesté. May you leave your troubles at the door, drink a little more, and go home with lighter pockets than you had when you came.” She winks, and the audience laughs.
“And now, please sit back and enjoy the Magesté Marvels.”
Dancers decked in feathers and glittering costumes stream onto the stage with Cornelia at the center, her rose-colored hair glowing in the red lighting.
The crowd bursts into whistles and applause.
The jazzy music and provocative dancing are a hypnotic mix of cancan and burlesque with a dash of acrobatics and blue fire.
It isn’t difficult to see why people line up for hours just to witness the Magesté dancing troupe.
The arborfae with wings soar over the audience, twisting and twirling and reaching out to graze their fingers along the shoulders of the dazzled crowd.
“They’re something, aren’t they?” a voice says, startling me.
Evodia stands beside me, much taller than she seemed when we first met—now that she’s not sitting behind a desk.
“Yeah, they’re—”
“I’m rather protective of them,” she interrupts. “My dancers, my orchids. They’re my family.”
“I…can see that.”
She fixes me with a penetrating gaze. “If anyone were to hurt them, they would pay most dearly.”
My chin lifts, but it doesn’t make me feel any taller. I don’t know exactly what she is implying—except of course I do. I may have tricked Castor into trusting me, but this woman is not fooled. “I’m not going to hurt anyone, Madam Debray.”
Not here, anyway.
Her eyes scan me up and down, twice. “Good. It was rather gracious what the king did for you. He’s by no means an orchid, obviously.
But he’s something like family here.” She doesn’t elaborate, but her words are clear.
If something were to happen to Castor at her establishment, I would pay most dearly.
I keep my face impassive. “The king is lucky, then,” I say, “to have such a big family.”
“Indeed.” Evodia fixes me with another look that clearly says Watch yourself before she pats me on the arm. “Enjoy your night, Oleander. Do let me know if you need anything.”
Like a mop to clean up all of your king’s blood after I slash his throat? “Will do.”
I spend most of the night in the foyer with Fern, greeting visitors and asking her logical questions like “So…what sort of protection do the orchids use?”
Fern tilts her head. “Like weapons?”
“No. Like. Sex protection.”
She blinks at me. “I don’t understand.”
I gesture awkwardly with my hands. “You know, like, things for the males to wear on their, uh—sticks?—to protect from sexually transmitted diseases and making tree babies or whatever.”
“Ohh.” Then she laughs. “Dryads and arborfae don’t carry human diseases like that, though there is the occasional occurrence of genital mold—all the moisture, you know. Easily dealt with, though. Also, we don’t procreate. Dryads are born from the trees and arborfae from the flora.”
Now it’s my turn to blink. “So you just have…pregnant trees and flowers that spit out tiny saplings every now and then?”
She nods with a pleasant smile. “Yes, precisely.”
My brows couldn’t lift any higher, I don’t think.
“How does that…work exactly?”
Blinking, Fern frowns. “Well. Seedlings are made in the heartwood, develop there for a bit, and then sprout and grow until they are mature enough to detach and live among their siblings, who care for them until they are fully grown. Isn’t that how it is with mortal seedlings?”
“Um. Well—”
I’m saved from analyzing the intricacies of human versus dryad birth and child-rearing when a tall, slender dryad steps inside the front doors.
A cloak of oil-slick feathers hangs from his shoulders.
Atop his head, between curling charcoal horns, sits a black top hat made of velvet with a bloodred silk band that perfectly matches the color of his nails and pointed snakeskin boots.
Upon closer inspection, I note thin ribbons of metal running through his horns. That’s new.
He takes my measure, seemingly unimpressed. Without a word to me, the dryad waits for one of our male orchids to free up, then slips away for a mere fifteen minutes, leaving behind a mound of gold far too valuable for the time spent.
“That’s Mondo. The drug lord of the Nightshade District,” Fern informs me, noting my curious eye as the dryad ducks out the door.
“Does he grow nepenthe or something?”
She barks a laugh and then blushes a deep shade of green. “Nepenthe is a bit tame for him.” Her voice lowers about twelve decibels. “Mondo sells deadly things. He’s one of the only ironfae in the Redwood Kingdom, so he’s rather popular in this district.”
“He’s ironfae?” There are a couple of notes in my dad’s journal about ironfae. Offhanded comments, like he already had knowledge of them. Nothing like the detailed notes on dryads. I always wondered if he’d encountered any when he lived in San Francisco.
“Yes. They typically like to live among mortals, but Mondo is an exception. Rumor has it he was banished by the Iron King.”
I lower my voice, leaning in like a schoolgirl telling secrets over the lunch table. “For doing what?”
“He hasn’t said outright. Of course, some around here claim they know, though, because I heard—”
A swarm of dryads fills the front room, and Fern immediately stops speaking, as if she was telling some forbidden secret.
The visitors before us are all male-presenting dryads with thick horns wearing extravagant, split-cloaked uniforms of gold and scarlet. On each of their left lapels is an emblem of a hawk with open wings. Fern warned me about these people: the Crown courtiers.
“Gentlemen.” I offer a sultry smile. “Welcome to Magesté.”
The man in the front of the group steps forward, smugness oozing from his pores. “Evodia finally got a mortal orchid, huh? About time.” He looks back at the others, offering a wink.
Rather than respond, I offer over the list of orchids’ names. “Who do you desire tonight?”
He ignores the paper, reaching into his pocket and dropping a pouch of coins on the desk. It lands with a heavy thunk. “The best you possess.”
Earlier, Fern informed me the highest-priced orchid is Jade, a rarity even in the arborfae world. She’s a huldra—an arborfae who can induce the most intense of tree-shattering orgasms with just a brush of her fingers. Can’t say I’m not intrigued myself. I could use some unwinding.
Plucking the key to her suite off the wall, I hand it over. “Enjoy your night.”
Each man asks for the “next best” thing. No specifics, just the next most expensive, whoever that may be.
The last dryad steps forward as I’m scanning the list of orchids left. Nearly all the suites are taken. The only vacant room is saved for special requests. “How much for you?” he asks.
My eyes don’t leave the list. “I am not for sale.”
“I am not seeking a sale,” he says. “Rather an investment.”
This time I look up, dark smoke of repugnance filling me like the top floor of a burning house.
A man with pine-green hair and irises the precise color of tree sap stands before me.
Immediately, I recognize him as the dryad who whisked me away onto the dance floor last night.
Archer, the king had called him. Suddenly, I don’t just see a disgusting pig.
I see an opportunity. A potentially dangerous one.
Anytime the king leaves the citadel, he is shadowed by his grim reaper guard, who is highly suspicious of me—rightfully so, but still annoying as fuck.
And if I can’t find a way into the citadel without being spotted, a citadel worker like this man would certainly have one or two secrets to spill, if coerced.
A coy smile curves my lips. “An investment, huh?”
He reaches out a hand, stroking two fingers down my arm. “I have a thing for mortal women,” he murmurs.
My head tilts along with my false grin. I feel like a million insects are crawling over my skin. “Lucky you.”
His bottom lip sucks in, teeth biting down as he looks me over like a wolf about to devour his kill. I think I may vomit. But no, there isn’t time for that.
“Fern, would you mind keeping an eye on the books? Just for a bit? I’m going to join this dashing man in a room.”
Fern gives a startled cough, bewilderment coloring her light green cheeks several shades darker. “Er— Of course…”
Snatching up the key to the last empty suite on the first floor, I lead Archer through the black-feathered curtain into the parlor.
The door to the suite clicks closed behind Archer, and I stroll casually to the red silk bed, sinking onto it and reclining back. I move to unhook the front of my bodice, just a little. “So, I do have a few ground rules—”
“Could we keep our clothes on, actually?” he interrupts.
My hands still. “Oh. Sure?”
Without his friends around, Archer actually looks rather small. “I would just prefer to lie down a while.” He kicks his shoes off and climbs onto the bed. Plopping heavily down, the dryad spreads out like a starfish, his head sinking into the feathered pillows. “My feet are positively aching.”
“Would you like me to…rub them?”
His face brightens as though I’ve just offered to strip for him. Though I suppose I technically did offer that, and he clearly refused. I’m not sure if I should be relieved or offended.
He closes his eyes. “That would be divine.”
As far as feet go, his aren’t that repulsive. They may even be softer than mine. If I didn’t have more pressing matters to attend to, I’d ask about his pedicure routine.
“Must be so tiring,” I say in a soothing voice, moving my thumb in slow circles along the arch of his foot, “working for the Redwood King.”
“It can be,” he admits sleepily. “My job can be.”
“But you aren’t a guard, are you?”
Archer smiles. “How can you tell?”
I stroke a hand up his calf, eliciting a shiver. “You weren’t wearing armor.”
“I am not a guard. You’re right. The king does not allow them many breaks.”
Clearly. Though I’ve only ever seen him accompanied by the one.
“What are you, then?”
His smile vanishes like a candle blown out. “Mostly, I am a delivery person. Of sorts.”
“What do you deliver? Goods from the kingdom?”
“No, that is not the sort of delivery I make.” A deep flush fills his cheeks, running down his neck.
My voice remains low and calm, like I’m trying to coax an animal into a cage. “What sort of things do you deliver, if not goods?”
A crease forms between his brows, and the corners of his lips turn down. “I’m not supposed to…” Distress darkens his voice. “He has ears everywhere.”
“Who does?”
“The king.”
I scan the room around us. The image of tiny ears implanted into the walls sends a shudder across my shoulders. “I don’t think there are any ears in here.”
“You don’t understand.” His breaths come faster, like he’s on the edge of a panic attack.
“It’s all right, Archer.” I squeeze his ankle gently. “You don’t have to say.”
I realize my mistake right after I make it.
His tree-sap eyes snap to me now, scanning my face in a new way. Like he’s just seeing me. “How did you know my…” His expression shifts from searching to discovery.
“You were at the masque.” He sits up abruptly, dark green hair stuck to the sweat on his forehead. “Golden girl. I knew you looked familiar. Your spots. Your red hair. I danced with you before you were swept away by—”
The sound of a knob turning meets my ears.
Seconds later, Archer’s mouth and the door to the room open in unison.
A dryad’s form darkens the threshold, unrecognizable until he steps into the candlelight to reveal twisted black horns, a jaw sharper than my dagger, and brown eyes that look like unlit coals in the shadows.
The king’s mouth curls into a pernicious sneer. “I am not interrupting, am I?”