Chapter 25 #3
They said he kidnapped mortal girls, mortal girls
Who lived by the sea
A charming guy
Who loved to lie
So very vile was he…”
“Your Majesty? Will you kindly shut the fuck up before a horde of mosquito fairies descends on us?” I whisper-yell at him.
“Those were blood nymphs,” Tamarind corrects.
“No shit.”
“Right. I forgot you were a fae expert.” His voice comes out dry.
Seems he still doesn’t trust me. Shocking. Truly shocking.
“What can I say? I just know lots of things about lots of things.”
“Conveniently enough.”
A wood sprite scurries along the railing beside me, and I nearly drop the drunken king, thinking it’s another blood nymph sweeping in to finish me off.
Castor starts up a third round of his new favorite song, and I dig my elbow into his side. “Honestly, what is in that tieg wine?”
“You mean you don’t know?” Tamarind retorts with feigned shock. “Guess that is one of the exceptions to the ‘lots of things,‘ then?”
“Is there something you’d like to get off your chest, Tam?” I hiss, my feet dragging under Castor’s weight.
“Nothing at all, Mads.” My father’s nickname for me hits like a shock of ice water on the hottest day of summer. I abruptly stop, and Tamarind stumbles, struggling to keep Castor standing. “What are you—”
“Do not ever call me that name.”
The king’s guard opens his mouth to respond, but then our eyes connect, silver and copper locking like two pieces of metal moved too close to a magnet.
I see something register in the depths of his.
An understanding of some sort. I realize my usual featureless mask isn’t in place, and every devastating emotion is painted across my face for him to perceive.
“All right,” he says with a shallow nod.
I break our shared gaze. “Let’s just get this asshole to a bed before I give up dragging him and push him over the edge of this walkway.”
Castor stops singing. “You are a very, very mean mortal, you know.”
“Not mean enough,” I mutter.
We don’t stop until we make it to Castor’s home at the end of an abandoned pathway. My head tilts back as I take in the gothic mansion made of dark stone. Vines of black roses and ivy vein across the stone front. Emerald stained-glass windows make it look like Magesté’s distant cousin.
And not a trace of gold to be seen.
Tamarind opens the iron door with a key kept in his weapons belt, and we drag the king’s drunken ass inside, blinking in the lack of light.
As if in response, all the candles bloom with lambent flames.
The architecture is very nearly the opposite of that in the citadel.
Swathed in muted shades of gray, black, deep brown, and ivory, the entrance is highly decorative and theatrical.
Like an opera set with twisted columns and a sweeping staircase, candelabras affixed to the top of each railing.
Two open rooms branch off in opposing directions.
To the right I spot a massive onyx island in the center of a sizable kitchen with three decanters of liquid set atop it.
Walls of cloudy green-and-ivory stained-glass windows allow a conservative amount of light in.
To the left is a room filled with armchairs, couches, and a sweeping vanity covered in an organized array of substances.
And, if it’s possible, the air here smells more of nepenthe than Magesté.
Everything appears to be made of stone or iron or glass. Can’t have the king getting moody and rotting his wooden home to the ground, I suppose.
In the span of a handful of seconds, I take all of this in before turning back to Tamarind, who is now dragging the king into the sitting room and dumping him on the wine-colored chaise longue.
Grabbing hold of my hand, Castor looks up at me with angst-filled eyes. “Stay with me, Maddox. Don’t go back to Magesté tonight. Just stay with me.”
“I am staying,” I tell him.
He presses my hand to his forehead. “Only if you want to.”
“I want to.” Despite the crushing exhaustion and lingering pain, I realize I’m not lying. I do want to stay. For some fucking reason.
He nods and turns onto his side, eyes falling shut.
I glance at the vanity covered in narcotic substances, a plate of cheese and fruit, and a tiny wood sprite sleeping in a tin of purple leaves. “He sure loves his vices,” I mutter.
Tamarind heaves a deep sigh. “Indeed.”
The two of us stand in silence, watching Castor sleep. My focus breaks first, moving to Tamarind. He looks exhausted. Perhaps even more than me. But I’ve seen that expression—the way his copper eyes soften when he looks at the king—a time or two before.
“You genuinely care about him, don’t you?”
“It’s my duty as his guard to protect him,” he says in a low voice. “That is all.”
“Mmm.” I consider him a moment. “I don’t believe you.”
I move to swipe a lock of hair off my forehead and wince at the sharp pain in my wrist.
Tamarind zeroes in on it. “You were injured by that blood nymph,” he notes. “I have some tinctures in the kitchen that will reduce the swelling.”
He’s avoiding the conversation about Castor. That, or planning to murder me while Castor is incapacitated. Either way, I follow him. If I’m murdered, then I don’t have to murder the king. Not the brightest silver lining, but it’s starting to sound better and better lately.
I perch on the inky marble island, watching in tense silence as Tamarind opens a cabinet filled with different-sized bottles. He snatches one from the topmost shelf—a squat, pear-shaped one full of scarlet liquid—and brings it to me.
“Poison?” I ask, mimicking what Castor said to me when I first offered him wine.
Tam’s face deadpans. “You don’t have to take it. I thought you would like to reduce the swelling in your wrist, but if you think I’m trying to poison you, then I’ll just—”
He starts to turn away, but I swipe the bottle from his hand, draining it in two gulps. I smack my lips. “Oh, that’s actually not bad. I was expecting something revolting, like cherry cough syrup or—”
“What happened in that brandy room?” he interrupts, a deep frown line forming between his brows.
My muscles go completely still. Does he somehow know what I was planning? Did I give something away? “What do you mean?”
“What did you say to make Castor behave this way? I don’t think I have ever seen him this upset.”
I don’t respond immediately because I’m stunned that this is what he’s worried about. “Um, I’m sorry, but did you see what he just did to Magesté?”
“Yes, I did. I did see that, Maddox. That is what tieg wine does to him. That’s why he hasn’t consumed it since—” He breaks off, pain arcing across his features before he begins pacing around the kitchen island.
I lean back on the heels of my palms, the swelling in my wrist already greatly diminished.
“Why do you care so much?” I ask. “Why are you so passionate about what affects the king’s delicate feelings?”
“I told you. I’m just his—”
“Bullshit. You are not just his guard. You care about him. More than care, even.”
His dark face turns ashen. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it? Or does this explain why you are oh-so-overprotective of him when I’m around? Perhaps it has nothing to do with you being worried about his safety.”
“What else would—”
“Perhaps you are jealous of the fact that your precious boy king is spending all his time with a stupid mortal woman instead of you.”
He does an exceptionally good impression of me by rolling his eyes to the ceiling, but the set of his brow is somewhat unconvincing. A mix of fear and agony. “What is it with you mortals and your belief that everyone is besotted with you?”