Page 51 of A Deal with the Shadow King

Chapter 18

A Fallen Queen

The oval-shaped mirror of the antique shop whines on its hinges as I step out of the sceawere and hurry out into the gray streets of Inverness.

A rainy breeze curls around the corner of the building in front of me and sends shivers down my spine. Earthy notes of moss, wet grass, and the dry fumes of a whisky distillery bring back memories of my youth, when I could remain out of Faerie for weeks at a time.

The paved street is empty but for a thirty-something mortal hurrying alongside the old brick walls. A black raincoat is wrapped around her frame, and the free ends of her knotted sash flap in the wind. She draws a sharp intake of breath. Even though she can’t see me, she’s got enough instinct to cross the street, but I’m not here for her.

I’m here for someone I haven’t seen in decades. Someone I cared about, once upon a time. Before everything went to shit.

The woman I’m looking for knows better than to own a mirror, but her magical signature isn’t exactly discrete, so I follow it to a small shop tucked deep in the back alley. A wooden sign above the solid black door reads: Pat’s Pottery, Pots, and Potions.

A chime tinkles above my head when I enter the small shop. The rowan threshold steals the air out of my lungs, but I soldier through and pierce the old wood’s enchanted barrier.

I pry my dark hood off my head, and rain peppers the floor.

The pungent, smoky aromas of Panyang Congou and lemongrass fill my nose. Three small round tables with tall stools stand in a corner, the other side of the room occupied by a rowan bar counter with a sink and a portable stove. An eclectic array of vials and jars clutter the shelves behind it. A few handmade ceramic tea sets have been left to dry upside down on a rag, and a waterfall of reflective glass beads guards the entrance to the shopkeeper’s backroom.

By the spindle… A little bit more on the nose, and there’d be a cauldron boiling in the hearth.

I hit the bell with my palm, and a loud ding resonates throughout the room.

Breaking into a Fae’s shop is fair game, but skulking around is not. Shadows dance along the rowan panes nailed to the walls, allowing me a glimpse at the secrets behind the grain of the wood. The wicked pulse of power blasting off the bronze ceremonial lantern in the corner throws me for a loop, but I know better than to snoop around Devi’s things.

A discrete creak calls my attention to the alpine weather house fastened to the wall behind the bar where a girl holding an umbrella just switched places with a sunny gentleman.

I squint at the bauble, sensing a familiar presence within it. “I know you’re in there, Faeling.” I wait for a moment with no answer before my hand shoots out toward the wavering weather house.

Shadows spill from my fingertips to imprison the small winged creature that had taken refuge in it, creating a cage of black smoke around it.

“Fetch your mistress for me, Percy,” I command.

The Faeling buzzes around the cage, the friction of its wings creating a flurry of sparks in the poorly lit room.

After a few unfruitful escape attempts, it finally settles down long enough for me to see its shape. Dressed in purple from head to toe, it braces its leather cuffed hands on its tiny hips with a sigh. “She doesn’t live here anymore, she?—”

“Do you remember what the punishment is for lying to me, Percival Arthur Batten?” I say ominously.

The Faeling squeaks in terror. “I swear it on my life, My Lord. She’s not here.”

“It’s okay, Percy. I’ll deal with him.” The river of glass beads twinkles in the night, and a slender, barefooted Fae slips inside the room. She purses her full lips, the pout adding a sense of intrigue to her demeanor. “It’s good to see you, cousin.”

I grin dryly at the false appellation. “Devi.”

No warm-blooded creature ever gets used to Devi—not even me. Back when she was at the height of her power, her renowned beauty was enough to spark wars. Her eyes—considered by most to be her most striking feature—are large and expressive, framed by long, dark lashes. Painters have failed to capture the silver-flecks of her irises or the radiance of her smooth brown skin.

A thousand men and women have fallen to their knees in front of her, but few ever stood up again. Mortals who stare into Devi’s eyes for too long will love her until their last breath.

I will resent her for much longer.

Her thick mane is red as flame—and every bit as wild and untamed as she is. Each of the tousled strands carries a vivid crimson hue as she brings a hand to the multi-colored scarf wrapped around her forehead, and the constellation of dark freckles on her face is the only mask she ever needed to conceal her cunning.

“Now… Let poor Percy go.”

I wave the shadow cage away, and the Faeling flies off with a huff, both figurines of the weather house screeching back inside the alpine chalet.

“Of all the dwellings in all the worlds, you chose this...” I glance around her witch hut. “…shop.”

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