32. Bodin
Chapter 32
Bodin
N othing is worse than feeling like sinking while standing on solid ground. My inner turmoil comes not from the argument unfolding before me but from being forced to remain here and listen to tedious bewailing while lecherous suck-ups mob our Shadow. I itch to leave. Especially now she wears something other than my clothing. How will other fae know to back the fuck off without my scent surrounding her?
Earl Larkspur of the House of Stone, face flushed with indignation, will not shut up. Two nobles eavesdrop nearby, their eyes gleaming with barely concealed interest. Perhaps I can use scaring them off as an excuse to leave.
“Unacceptable,” Earl Larkspur hisses at us. “Days of inaction. The old code—broken. There’s an order.”
Legion’s jaw tightens. “I understand?—”
“Do you?” The Earl’s voice rises. “Nightmares invade Heliodor. In three days, we’ve caught?—”
“Don’t lecture us,” Emrys snaps, leather creaking as he clenches his fists. “We know the situation.”
Tension thickens the air like a poisonous fog.
“This isn’t the place for such conversations,” I tell the Earl.
He ignores me and fixes Legion with a dark look. “Where else, when you banish us from your keep?”
I scan the ostentatious ballroom for a glimpse of silver hair, hyper-aware of potential eavesdroppers. Those two nobles must see their death on my face because they quickly scurry away. We are not free, though. Puck breathes the same air, and his presence is a constant threat.
The Earl’s words chill me: “It’s as if this kingdom crumbles in Titania’s absence.”
Frustration knots in my chest. I should patrol, especially with the Baleful Hunt absent. Babysitting our Shadow is having a knock-on effect. Legion rubs his temples, shadows deepening under his eyes. He hasn’t fed, likely too busy in my absence and giving his rations to Varen or Styx. Our Sixth’s insatiable appetite unnerves me, and Legion coddles him—lets him get away with everything. Even now, he’s managed to slip away from his duties.
A nearby lord’s laugh grates against my nerves. The Ivory Palace’s opulence suffocates.
“Stray Nightmares plague Avorlorna,” the Earl says, folding his arms. “Heliodorsuffers most. Thirty good souls lost to Nightmares from unfrozen water gates in days.”
I clench my jaw, bristling at the loss of life.
The Earl continues, voice rising, “Without the Baleful Hunt’s regular sweeps of Heliodor territory, the House of Stone is vulnerable. We are the kingdom’s source of resonance stones. What would happen if we suddenly lose our communication network during a war?”
I snort. “You think to question our intelligence?”
“The Shining Host must address this charlatan’s suggestions,” the Earl gestures at Puck’s grandstanding on the dais, his fury barely contained. “Martial law should be imposed during Titania’s slumber. Either you agree, or I challenge Goodfellow to a duel tonight.”
Emrys's eyes flash with a dangerous glint, his voice a low, menacing purr. “Tread carefully, you preening peacock. Threaten us again, and you’ll learn the true meaning of peril.”
The Earl’s skin pales, and the scent of his fear blooms. It is truly interesting how these Folk harbor fear of us Sluagh deep within their bones when their minds recall nothing of our origins. Then again, it makes sense. When my mind clouds, my body still remembers certain things—my hunger for blood, a persevering feeling I am not eating well, and the need to be with my hive. I inadvertently search for Willow, but the rest of the exhibitors seem to be winding up and spilling from the dais, filling the room.
Legion calmly tells the Earl, “Martial law during the Gentle Interlude is a fool’s dream and perilously close to talk of treason. We must prove without a doubt the risk to our safety is real.” He pauses for effect. “The increase in attacks could be from one terror or multiple.”
“You know as well as I do that it is not a single, rogue Terror.”
“My point is, we need overwhelming evidence first.” Legion’s stern expression holds enough weight for the Earl to read between the lines. “Perhaps your soldiers should bring some of those indispensable resonance stones and capture some of these attacks.”
“Yes, well,” the Earl says woundedly, “that . . . is a good suggestion.”
The topic of conversation changes to more benign things—the leaderboard and point system. Legion manages to secure some points for our Shadow in return for one of us voting for his Shadow. Finally, Earl Larkspur leaves.
Legion immediately turns to us, lowering his voice. “You know what this means?”
“Naturally,” Emrys agrees darkly.
“Have I missed something?” I ask.
Legion nods toward the dais. “He carries the Baleful Hunt within him.”
Puck turns a bird to stone with his eyes, eliciting laughter from his admirers as the clump of stone falls with a thunk and cracks.
“Ask for something more challenging!” he boasts, his voice carrying over the music.
Emrys growls, echoing my anger.
“Yes,” Legion says grimly. “As I suspected would be the case, the temple is unguarded and will likely remain so for the future.”
The implications hit hard. I’d assumed Legion voted him in because it was the simplest way to control the Hunt for now, but the fool Regeant is too afraid to let the dragon out for air. Despite what he believes, Puck is not fae. Tiania is not a goddess. Her wish-granting parameters are contained within her natural abilities of deception. This is only one of the secrets we hold close to our chest, waiting for the right time to reveal. Until then, the Baleful Hunt will slowly eat Puck from the inside. That danger his grand-standing poses will eventually fizzle out on its own. In the meantime, with our Shadow’s ability to transfer magic, we have free access to the cabinet.
“This is another reason you voted him in,” I put to Legion.
“Yes.”
Something like hope stirs and falters in my chest. “We can bring Fox home. We are not meant to be divided.”
Legion’s grim eyes meet mine. “Find Styx. Then our Willow. Emrys and I will diffuse the situation with the House of Stone nobility.” He pauses. “We can’t afford a Radiant duel now. Not with this idiot’s new layer of trouble in trials and training.”
I nod, heading back to where I last saw our Shadow. She is gone. Styx wanders the refreshment table, poking food and licking his finger clean.
At least he is clothed. Like us, he wears all black—a small mercy amid gaudy costumes.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
Styx glances at me, mischief in his eyes. “I saw our mortals do this.”
“But why are you?”
“Taste-testing, I suppose.”
“It’s all dirt to us. Why bother?”
“Curious,” Styx says, squishing a frosted cake, his finger going knuckle-deep. “Oh, soft, wet,” he muses, licking his finger clean. “They say this is sweet.” Then he gives me a dark look, his voice deepening. “Did she taste like this too?”
Possessive anger surges, then ebbs. Memories flood back—my fingers inside our queen, the soft glide, the sleek sensation. The smell—her sweet, musky feminine scent. And yes, the taste when I ran my tongue up and down my finger. The carnal look in Legion’s eyes when he did the same.
I clench my fists, fighting for composure.
Styx watches me, waiting for an answer. But there are no words to explain her taste. How can I compare it when I have nothing to compare it to, not even the tastiest soul of the most heartbroken innocent? Nothing can compare to her essence. I hunger for it, even now.
Distraction.
Calamity.
Blood on yellow feathers.
“Styx,” I say roughly, “we need to find her. Trouble’s brewing, and Puck left the temple unguarded. We can retrieve Fox.”
“Unguarded.” His eyes lock with mine. “Has this happened before?”
I shake my head. “Not with this kind of carelessness. If it had, we’d have done the same for you.” My gaze catches movement outside, a twilight shadow sneaking away from the ball. “I take my eye off her for one minute?—”
“Tell me what she tastes like first,” he urges.
“Like the sun,” I say low. “I can’t explain it otherwise.”
Closing my eyes, I see blood. Yellow feathers. A familiar yet unknown woman’s mocking voice: “You can’t outrun your past. Your true nature. You’ll always hurt what you hold dearest.”
“What’s wrong?” Styx asks, concerned.
I rub my temples. “I’m remembering. Blood . . . feathers . . . always yellow. An old queen, maybe. Saying we’ll always kill. That love isn’t for us. It’s our nature to destroy.”
Styx stares hard, then sighs. “Canary’s death isn’t your fault.”
Peablossom’s familiar pale blue hair cuts a line toward us through the crowd.
I grab Styx. “We need to go. Now.”
We make a hasty exit and head outside.
“Don’t tell me that’s her,” Styx growls as we arrive at the exit in time to see a figure running toward the hedges.
“Fuck. The last time she broke in, a resonance stone captured her image. Puck used it to blackmail Fox.”
Styx’s eyes blacken, fangs descending. The transformation chills me, sharpening my memory and purpose. I am Sluagh. The Second. Willow is ours.
“We should kill Goodfellow now,” Styx hisses, distorted. “Why not let me feast on his soul? He’s no challenge. Fox could’ve taken him easily.”
“Perhaps,” I reply, walking purposefully toward the door. “But hasty actions have dire consequences. And we have someone more important to consider.”
Inside, Peablossom shrieks, “Oh my word, what in the Cauldron’s name happened here? Who did this to the food?”
Ribbons of shadow swirl around, hiding us from view. Styx grins at me, mouth full of sharp teeth, both terrifying and exhilarating. He covers his mouth to stop a laugh. Before we flicker away, he shouts, “It was Glen! He finger-fucked the food.”
We vanish amidst an uproar of outrageous and aimless protests.
I can’t shake the feeling we’re walking a razor’s edge. Our queen is potentially in danger, and here we are, barely containing our monstrous nature before our enemies.
The irony stings—we’re meant to protect her, yet we might be what she needs protection from.