Page 25 of The Shadow Heir

“Do sit,” I said, shooting my sister a glare I hoped warned her not to be too friendly. It was my job to kill this woman, not befriend her.

Finally, Zara stepped down and sat at the table halfway between me and my sister.

“You dance like a flame,” Alba gushed, utterly ignoring my silent warning. Her freckled cheeks sparkled with iridescent powder tonight. “Well done. And”—she leaned toward Zara—“my brother never invites mortals to our table. You must have truly impressed him.”

I nearly choked on the bite of cheese I’d just popped in my mouth. I swallowed quickly and clarified. “I invited her before Ibrought her here. I didn’t assume she would live long enough to accept the invitation.”

Zara’s eyes flicked up to meet mine. Her breaths quickened as she stared daggers at me. “Tell me, do you always try to kill us mortals through what we love most?”

The memory of last night’s death prickled in my mind as I leaned over my elbow that rested on the table. “It is my duty to ensure my courtiers are entertained, señorita Valencia.” I forced a half-hearted smile. “Mortals die with such flare.” Last night, the man’s drowning gurgles had brought the courtiers to their feet—and the news of it had reached my father almost instantly. My sister’s comment about birds nicked at my mind—the fae still valued their songs while we had been taught to place no value on the lives of mortals. “We find it increases the intrigue when you must die doing something you love. It proves all that passion you fleeting creatures claim to have is nothing more than a passing breeze.”

“Cas, that’s not very nice,” my sister said teasingly. But her restrained smile said she was enjoying this.

Zara’s brows lifted and a small chuckle sounded in her throat. She leaned back and took a slice of bread from a cutting board strewn with grapes, cheeses, and dried dates.

Needing a distraction from the way her every sound and every glance felt like they were mocking me, I twirled my fingers. The apples began to shift and restack themselves. Zara stared dumbly, bread still in hand.

“Why do you wear white?” she asked. “I thought it was a servant’s color.”

The apples kept spinning but my attention shot to Zara.

“It is,” Alba agreed. “That’s why he wears it. It annoys our father to no end.”

Zara’s eyes went wide.

“Our father dresses in all navy or gray. It’s terribly boring,” Alba droned on.

“Where is your father?” Zara asked, looking between my sister and me.

“He’s—”

“How are your knees?” I snapped, interrupting my sister and flashing Zara a quick smirk.

“Still there,” she quipped. “I thwarted your little game, and now you’re mad. How old did you say you were?”

Here she was, antagonizing the man with the power to kill her. Prickly little thing.

The apples crashed to the table, then rolled onto the floor. A few faces turned toward us. Zara stiffened, finally showing a hint of fear.

After an uncomfortable silence, Alba whispered loud enough for all of us to hear, “He’s a hundred and fifty-seven years old.”

Zara’s brows lifted almost to her hairline.

“Thank you, Alba,” I droned.

“And how old are you?” Zara asked my sister.

Alba’s face fell. “I’m only eighty-one. I can’t even cast a shadow form yet.”

“Alba,” I chided. At this rate, she’d be making friends with this mortal.

She shrugged dramatically at me. “He doesn’t think it’s fun to talk to mortals. We can usually cast a shadow form around one hundred years old, when we reach adulthood. But Cas was able to cast his first one at seventy-two. He’s a bit of a prodig—”

“Stop.”

Zara jumped at my abrupt word. Alba’s lips pinched and she stared down at her plate.

“My sister has not yet learned all the ways of our court.” I shot her one more loaded stare, hopefully reminding her what was at stake. She hadn’t lived long enough to see it, but sheknew, aswe all did, what would happen when our father returned. If he found anything not to his liking, we would be the ones to pay the price, and I couldn’t afford to let Alba pay for my mistakes.

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