Page 57 of Claws of Death

From my place by the window, I can see the tower on the edge of the palace and the balcony adjacent to King Recienne’s throne room. Yesterday, the Fairy King was standing there with his sister and his general, locked in an animated discussion.

I didn’t even try to listen in.

Absently, my hand reaches for my braid, tugging it over my left shoulder so it won’t slide into the wound on my right that refuses to heal. The soft, cream dressing robe I wear hangs loosely over the bandages Recienne’s healer changes every day.

After Clio got all of us off the battlefield, site-hopping one after the other to this palace, every fairy available tried to heal my wound. Myron was the first. For long minutes, he snapped and growled at everyone who would come near me. When he realized his own powers weren’t enough, he fell into a brooding silence, stepping aside to let the others try.

To let the othersfail.

“You look awfully cheerful.”

I only mildly startle at the sound of Herinor’s voice inside my room—the room that was meant for Myron and me, but he’s sleeping elsewhere since I screamed at him until he left when he attempted to lie down beside me the night after the attack. What’s the point of startling in a palace full of fairies who can site-hop in and out at their leisure?

Herinor doesn’t take my silence as an invitation to leave, but I don’t have it in me to speak either, so I keep watching the rabbits ducking under the bushes.

“You know I’m a horrible creature, Ayna.” He lowers himself into the brocade chair a few feet to my side, stretching out his legs and crossing them at the ankles. “You’ve seen what I’m capable of.”

From the corner of my eye, I can see his brows rise when I don’t react.

“Do I need to spell it out again?” There is no anger in his tone, no aggression. Only endless calm.

Because he hasn’t come to talk about the attack, I tolerate him, but I don’t know if I want to hear any of the stories of his past, so I shrug with my good shoulder.

“All right. Since you’re so eager to hear it.” Herinor gets up, draws his chair up to mine, and sits right next to me, elbows braced on the windowsill as he studies me from the side.

“Back in Neredyn, long before Vala decided we were unworthy, I liked to go hunting.”

He pauses, waiting for my reaction. When I show none, he continues.

“Deer was one of my favorites. Rabbit too.” He gestures at the two brownish-gray rabbits searching shelter under low-hanging branches of a hazel bush like they can feel his gaze. “But do you want to know what I’d hunt on special occasions?” He doesn’t wait for me to tell him I really don’t want to know. “Human.”

My stomach constricts, making my lungs suck in a startled breath after all.

Herinor grins at me from the side, but he doesn’t continue to speak for so long that I wonder if he’s pondering the merits of slaughtering a broken once-human. His gaze travels to my neck, then to my shoulder where my wound is covered but never ceases to throb. “I never ate human meat. That was for the lowly bastards who couldn’t control their urges.”

“And killing them isn’t lowly?” The question is out before I can think. Herinor’s grin widens when I turn to face him with a gasp.

“Who said I killed them?” The look in his eyes spells victory.

“What did you do to them then?” It’s easy to be angry, to face Herinor and despise him for what he’s saying. Much easier than hearing Myron’s apologies, his self-blaming for what happened at the Flame estate.

I still can’t think it. It’s easier to remain numb.

“Most of them, I let go—only to hunt them down again the next time that felt like a special occasion. But some of them…” He stops himself as if what he’s about to say might be too much. Apparently, he decides I can handle it since he leans in a bit further and whispers. “Some of them begged me to get a little taste of them between their legs.”

My cheeks are hot, and my heart is stuttering in my chest. He didn’t just say that.

Herinor merely shrugs, leaning back in his chair as if that was nothing. “Others begged me to let them have a drop of my blood.” When I blankly stare at him, he explains, “It’s not commonly known, but apparently, our blood is intoxicating to humans.”

“I’m not human.”

Herinor barks a laugh. “I’m not offering.”

Ignoring his amusement, I turn back to the window. The sun has vanished entirely, leaving the purplish shapes of the night. My Crow senses allow me to track the two figures meandering the gardens, and my heart throbs.

Clothed in familiar black, Royad and Myron are conversing as they slowly follow the gravel path leading from the palace to the fountain at the center of the greenery. While Royad has tied back his hair, Myron’s tresses arebillowing in the wind. There’s something wild about him that I haven’t noticed before, and I tell myself it doesn’t matter if I do now.

“Why are you here?” My tone is flat, but the bite is there anyway.

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