Page 4 of A Kingdom of Monsters

“You’re not funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.” Scion replied from where he lounged on the grass watching me. “I really am concerned about how many servants you’ve terrified into hiding.”

“Fuck off,” I grumbled. “Just because you’ve had no difficulty mastering flames, doesn’t mean we can all be so gifted.”

Scion shrugged and gave me a rare grin, which lit up his entire face, and set his silver eyes dancing.

Indeed, he’d taken all of one afternoon to learn to swap easily between his own inherent magic talent of shadows and illusions, and the power he’d borrowed from me by way of our mating bond. Now, Scion could make flames in one hand and shadowy ropes in the other, all while barely breaking a sweat. Meanwhile, I was just happy to have stopped lighting buildings on fire by mistake.

It was infuriating.

“Don’t be jealous, Rebel,” he said with a slightly arrogant smirk. “I’ve been practicing magic since birth. It’s a skill like any other, you’ll get used to it. And honestly, I do think that last attempt was better.”

“That’s not saying much,” I grumbled.

“On the contrary,” another voice chimed in. “What you’ve accomplished in these last weeks has been nothing short of remarkable.”

I glanced over my shoulder and offered a weak smile. “Thank you, Idris.”

Scion scowled, and he didn’t have to say anything for me to know precisely what he was thinking.This motherfucker gets thanks and I get complaining? How is that fair?

That thought cheered me slightly. “Don’t be jealous, my lord,” I teased. “Manners are like any skill, you’ll get used to them eventually.”

My mate scowled, but beside him Idris grinned.

Idris—whom we’d rescued from the prison in Underneath a few months ago—was completely unrecognizable from when we’d first met him. Then, his hair and beard were so long they brushed the floor. He’d been dressed in rags, and while it was clear he wasn’t exactly starving under all that filth, he’d dragged around an aura of illness and depression.

Now, that prisoner was gone, replaced by an average looking Fae male. If I passed him in the ballroom at the Obsidian palace, or on the street in Inbetwixt, I wouldn’t look twice.

Idris was tall and muscular, with a square face and chin-length black hair. To a human, he would probably appear young—thirty at most. For the Fae, however, the slightly ashen tone to his dark hair and depth of his eyes would imply he was middle aged.

That implication would be incorrect.

Though he didn’t look it, Idris was likely the oldest faerie alive. He claimed he’d been imprisoned beneath the castle of Underneath for seven thousand years, which seemed unbelievable but was, nevertheless, possible.

Like all magical beings, Fae were immortal. That term, however, was not entirely correct. To be truly immortal meant that you could not be killed by any means. Nearly all creatures could bekilled, provided you knew how to do it properly. The average age of the Fae population was somewhere in the realm of 300. I’d met beings as old as ten centuries, but very few older than that. Most Fae who lived to such an age chose to pass on at some point, returning to the Source when they felt their life was complete. Perhaps Idris had never felt that urge, given that his life was put on hold the moment he’d been imprisoned.

Regardless of what we knew–or didn’t know–about the former prisoner, Idris had thus far been a helpful and pleasant guest. Ambrose seemed to trust that he wasn’t a danger to us, and that was enough for me. At the very least, he’d been allowed to roam free since we’d arrived in the capital–a privilege that couldn’t be taken for granted when it hadn’t been extended to all those who returned from Underneath with us.

I glowered, that thought instantly darkening my mood.

Seeming to sense my unease, Scion stood up and strolled over to me. He said nothing, but leaned his cheek against the top of my head for a moment in a silent gesture of affection.

On rare occasions—usually when he thought we were about to die—my prince would share outrageous declarations of love. But on a daily basis, Scion was as incapable of speaking his feelings aloud as he was of lying to my face. Despite my teasing, I wasn’t all that bothered by it. I didn’t enjoy discussing my feelings either, and anyway, Bael was poetic enough to last all of us an immortal lifetime.

As if reading my thoughts, Scion pulled back suddenly. “Where’s Bael?”

I shrugged. “Sleeping, I believe.”

Scion frowned. “Again?”

“Not so much again, as ‘still.’ He changed back into himself early this morning, but still seemed too tired to leave his room.”

“That’s…unusual.” Scion frowned, which sent a spark of anxiety skittering through me.

Since our return from Underneath, I couldn't help but notice that Bael seemed more tired than I had ever seen him before. At first, I’d thought it was fatigue from the battle with his father, but now I wasn’t so sure.

“Why?” I asked quickly. “Do you think he’s ill?”

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