Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
The entire amphitheater—where the ceremony is being held—is bedecked with blood lilies.
“Interesting choice,” Keir murmurs as he leads me beneath the arch and into the natural stone amphitheater. “Adds a certain… ambiance.”
“For a funeral.” I don’t know if that’s tempting fate or not, or whether Belladonna is making a pointed statement to me.
“The groom looks nervous.”
“I’d be nervous too if I was marrying Belladonna.”
Keir gestures me toward our seats, which are several rows back from the front of the natural grotto. But I can’t stop myself from examining the layout of the terrain.
The amphitheater is a natural limestone grotto carved out of the stone of the keep.
Red leaves rain down softly from the blood oaks that surround the top of the grotto, as if they’re weeping.
The floor is smooth, polished stone, and enormous limestone columns line the amphitheater, ensuring that those cavernous walls stay in place.
“Relax,” Keir tells me, his fingertips resting in the center of my back.
Instantly, I still. My brain is racing at a hundred miles an hour, but I thought I’d managed to keep it off my face. The ability to consume such emotions and choke them down is what saw me through the first nineteen years of my life, until I finally graduated from the training camps.
If it’s showing….
Keir cuts me a sidelong look, and his hand slides over my hip and draws me into the curve of his waist. “That’s not relaxing.”
I force my shoulders to drop and ease out a slow breath as I rest against him. All the better to commune privately. “Forgive me if I’m running to a deadline,” I mutter. “You’re not the one with a curse entwined around your heart.”
“Nothing’s going to go wrong,” he reminds me, his lashes smothering those wicked, dragon eyes. “We have this entirely in hand. We just need to play our cards.”
About this “we” business….
He still thinks we’re going to run with this illusion.
Keir can manipulate reality, and he is the Prince of Dreams. If anyone can make it look like Mistmark is dead….
“Glamor’s tricky,” I whisper into the curve of his neck. “If even a single fae in this room realizes that what is about to happen didn’t actually happen….”
“We only need to fool one of them. As long as the bride believes it—”
“The entire room needs to believe,” I whisper fiercely. “I can’t risk it.”
Keir looks into my eyes. I don’t know what he sees.
A lover. A liar.
A fool.
One who doesn’t dare wear her heart on her sleeve.
“We risk nothing,” he growls. The room goes silent, and I know he’s encased us in one of his little warded bubbles so that no one can hear us.
Indeed, everyone around us seems frozen in some sort of tableaux.
Even the leaves hover in the air, as if they hang suspended in time.
“You know what I am, Mira. I don’t just create illusions—walking dreams—I breathe them into reality.
I can change the very existence of the world around us.
Belladonna will believe what I want her to believe.
I can make it look like the Lord of Mistmark dies with but a flicker of my will. The entire gathering will believe it—”
“And you would bet my life upon your skills?”
“Yes.” Fury lights within his eyes. “I wish you would trust me.”
There it is. The crux of the matter. I don’t. I don’t entirely trust anyone. “But I—”
Everyone’s head turns as the bride appears. The ward evaporates, but silence falls over the guests, the entire room settling with a single hush. A stream of natural light falls over the entrance, highlighting Belladonna.
My breath catches.
She’s beautiful. Stunning. The red of her dress is cut to accentuate her waist, and the bodice caresses her full breasts, making more of them. The fae are rarely curvaceous, but Belladonna’s curves threaten to spill out of her dress.
A single split up the center of the skirts reveals creamy white legs, and the train of elegant red ruffles is almost ten feet long.
A girl could kill for a dress like that.
Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.
The Lord of Mistmark cuts a look toward his bride, the muscle in his jaw tightening imperceptibly. And then his lashes shield his eyes, but I know his attention is shifting to the side.
Toward the shadows that linger between the enormous columns that support the roof of the amphitheater.
Falion.
His assassin.
Shit. Maybe Belladonna isn’t the only one who’s been plotting to stop this wedding in its tracks.
Stalking toward her betrothed, Belladonna’s eyes find me in the crowd. Her eyebrow arches challengingly, as if to demand whether I’ve fulfilled my part of the assignment or not.
I roll my eyes.
The priestess steps forward wearing a gauzy white gown, roses bedecking her hair. “Goddess bless thee.”
“And thee,” intones the gathering.
“Who stands before Her Holiness today?” she calls.
There’s a long drawn-out moment before Mistmark clears his throat. “Alaric of Mistmark, Lord of the Summervein.”
She turns to the bride. “And thee?”
A clear voice rings through the grotto. “Belladonna of the Blood Lily, Lady of Mariangettes.”
The priestess settles into her usual spiel about the goddess’s blessing. Belladonna’s voice is quiet as she repeats the words she needs to say to make her pledge—too many people might recognize the slight changes of timbre in her voice.
Mistmark’s cool tone is almost a shock after her quiet words.
The priestess summons her page forward, and he presents a dagger on a plush velvet cushion. “By blood I bind thee,” she calls, taking the dagger and slicing a nick into the tip of Mistmark’s finger.
Holding his hand over a golden goblet, she forces three droplets of blood to mix with the elderberry wine within.
She repeats the gesture with the bride and then presses the cuts together, mingling their blood. A velvet ribbon binds their wrists together—if they remain bound until the following morning, it’s said their union will be blessed with bounty. To strike the cord early means drama and strife.
“Drink and Goddess bless,” she says, lifting the wine to Mistmark’s mouth and then the bride’s.
“Ready?” Keir murmurs.
“Wait,” I urge, tucking my arm through his elbow.
He’s giving me a look, as though he’s starting to suspect I’ve another plan up my sleeve. “Not until after the ceremony,” I caution.
Thick lashes shield his eyes from view. “Just what are you up to, Mira?”
“I don’t want to bring misfortune down upon this hall,” I whisper. It’s said the goddess watches each blessing, and to defy her will is to draw her attention. “Just a few moments more. Once it’s done, the goddess will turn her face away.”
“I didn’t know you were superstitious.”
“A good thief doesn’t invite bad luck.”
He nods, thank the goddess.
“By Blood, Ash, and Cord, I name thee bound before the goddess,” the priestess calls, dipping her thumb into a pot of ash, before she paints it between each of their eyes. “Goddess bless this union.”
Everyone leans forward in anticipation, because this is the moment we’ve all been waiting for. A single kiss to seal the ceremony.
The Lord of Mistmark steps toward his bride, his lips pressing together thinly as his face lowers toward hers.
There’s no sign of distaste upon his face—Mistmark’s an expert at keeping his horses well in hand.
I’ve met him several times this past week, and I still don’t know a cursed thing about him.
It’s the bride who hesitates, casting a slightly stricken look toward the crowd as if searching for a particular guest.
Come on. Come on.
Play the game. Do your part….
I squeeze my fingers into a fist even as the bride does the same.
Even as she tilts her painted red mouth toward her new husband’s.
Their lips meet.
It’s a breathless moment as all the guests shift, some of them leaning forward hungrily as if in search of a hint of discord, and some of them merely curious.
Instead, the bride slides her hand behind Mistmark’s neck, hauling his mouth against hers. Her hips tilt toward him, a hint of unexpected longing echoing in the curve of her spine.
Malechus allows a dangerous smile to stretch across his face.
But it’s Mistmark I didn’t account for.
The groom draws back sharply, touching his hands to his lips and staring at his bride’s face. Confusion draws his brows together.
My heart sinks through my chest like lead.
He knows.
And then he staggers to the side, going to one knee as if he’s a puppet with cut strings. The color drains from his face, his fingers bleeding red. The same red as the bride’s lipstick. The same red as the miroire flower, renowned for its ability to murder a fae within minutes.
Anger flashes over Mistmark’s expression as he grabs a fistful of the wedding gown. It’s too late. He doesn’t have the strength to fight, even as he knows what has happened.
The last thing he whispers is “Sora?”
Before he collapses on the dais at the bride’s feet.