Page 24 of The Shadow Heir

11

Casimiro

She whirled toward me with a wide-eyed scowl, but her ruffled dress, still wet from her encounter with the lake, stuck to the floor, temporarily tangling around her legs. Her brown eyes flashed up to my crown then down to my open shirt collar.

“My face is up here, Valencia.”

She let out an angry huff of air, and I couldn’t keep the smirk from twisting one side of my mouth.

“Shall we, then?” I asked, offering her my elbow. She did not move to accept it.

This woman had discovered how to finish her performance in the center of the tilting floor, where it was safe, moving with all the passion she’d shown me in the dance in Leor. I’d been impressed then.

But she hadn’t stayed in the center.

She’d run for the edge, forced the dance floor to tilt once more. Most mortals feared death, though I’d encountered a few over the years who had a reckless death wish. But as she’d pulled herself from the waters, dripping and heaving, only to drop toher knees at the final note of the song, I’d known then she was not like the others.

“I do so desperately hate to wait,” I drawled, elbow still lifted toward her.

This woman perplexed me. She seemed eager to survive and yet eager to anger me. If I was to craft a trial that would kill her, I needed to know who she was, what she was likely to do or not do.

“I do so desperately hate to be taken captive and forced to act against my will,” she spat back. Two people at the table gasped. At least one tried to hide a snicker.

I stepped toward her, pausing when I was close enough that she had to tilt her chin up to meet my eyes. Shehmphed, a sound I found most amusing. The gazes of the other entertainers fixed on me, but I didn’t spare them a glance.

“You chose to entertain, did you not? I did not force that on you.”

A loud breath hissed from her nose as she held my gaze. “And were you entertained?”

A full two seconds passed as I stared down at her, waiting for her to flinch, to see if she would look at me differently now that she’d survived a task intended to kill her, a task I’d designed in a matter of minutes upon her arrival. Over half the mortals collected by my father died the night they arrived. Those who did survive their first trial all perished within the year, most within the first six months. I’d brought home only two mortals since my father had left.

And she was the first to survive.

“Yes,” I replied.

She held my gaze with piercing intensity, perhaps waiting for me to look away first. I did not. Finally, she lifted her hand and placed it in the crook of my elbow, her fingers brushing my skin where my sleeve was rolled up. The featherlight touch contrasted so vividly with the fierce pressure of her hands whenwe’d danced only an hour ago. Oddly, I wanted to feel that same purposeful grip in her tiny hands again rather than this polite, delicate touch.

“You will sit with me tonight,” I said, remembering why I’d walked to her table. She didn’t want to die, but she didn’t want to play it safe either—and I needed to discover what motivation she had to survive. All mortals had their reasons—a lover, a family member, a dream, sometimes a religion—but those never seemed strong enough to push them through the hardest nights. This woman would be dead in a matter of months at most.

Every pair of eyes at the mortals’ table bored into my back as I walked away leading the woman on my arm. I strolled slowly, casually, through the tables, nodding and smiling at those who greeted me. Their gazes flashed suspiciously to the mortal on my arm. Father had many loyal to him here, and I couldn’t risk one of the courtiers relaying information about me that might anger him. I tossed a wink over my shoulder to the nearest table, and a few of the seated nobles chuckled in response. But a woman with a tall hat meant to mimic our mountain shot me a brief, disapproving scowl.

It wasn’t against my father’s rules to enjoy the mortals who came through our doors, only to value them.Mortals are poorly made toys. Enjoy them, but know they will break, he’d told me.

The woman holding my arm was pressing down so forcefully, attempting to make my arm buckle, that I didn’t think she was the type to break easily. Despite her effort straining her muscles, she maintained a dignified posture.

I led her to a table at the center of the cavern. From her seat down on the stone bench before us, Alba looked up, a bright smile breaking across her glittering face. She’d styled her hair with little white mushrooms poking up from the crown of braids that encircled her head.

“Sit,” I offered as I slid down onto the bench across from my sister.

“Oh!” Alba said, her eyes flicking between me and the mortal woman. “Oh,” she said again, leaning forward, a conspiratorial gleam in her eye.

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes in return. Alba, more than anyone, knew the importance of the mortal games—the importance of my success in continuing my father’s wishes while he was away. But the idea of Alba making a wrong assumption about my intention for this woman brought a sour feeling to my stomach.

Zara stared down at the stone bench for a moment, clearly uncomfortable. As I waited for her to sit, I snatched a strawberry, bit off the red part, then tossed the leafy stem toward the cage above our table. A long, furry arm reached down and snatched the tuft of leaves. Zara gasped at the sudden motion.

“This is a mandrill,” I explained dully. Mortals saw so little of their world, let alone all the worlds, that there were entire species they’d never heard of.

“It makes a terrible sound,” Alba added, “but fortunately, the cage keeps that sound from bothering us.”

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