Page 47 of Blood On His Lips

Numair cursed and grabbed my upper arm. “We need to move. That’s Tybien Montague and Vervain Labornne.”

“What, mean girls?”

He looked baffled then shook his head. “No, Tybien Mon—”

“It’s a joke,” Juliette said. “Too much time in America not actually attending classes. There may have been poles involved, too.”

“They’re coming towards us,” Numair said, after giving her a weird look. “We won’t escape a brawl if we stay here.”

“They won’t break the faire rules. The consequences are clearly posted even if their Lord didn’t brief them beforehand. Let go.” He released me slowly. I didn’t move. “And the rules aren’t even complex. Don’t start a fight, don’t kill anyone. I can say in seven words what it took them an entire report to reiterate over and over—and over—again.”

“We haven’t even gotten to the ribbon cutting.” Juliette sounded resigned, watching as the Fae continued to approach us. The window of opportunity for them to reverse course flounced away.

“Don’t be a pessimist.” I too watched the approaching Montagues. They pretended as if they didn’t see us, and my estimation of both their intelligence and acting affinities dived. “Maybe they just want to say hello. Don’t draw a weapon, no matter the provocation.”

“That implies,” Numair said, unfaltering gaze on Tybien, “that you acknowledge therewillbe a reason to draw a weapon.”

“How close are we to the ceremony?” I asked.

“If people start screaming, the commander will hear.”

Close enough.

The Montagues closed in. A younger cousin of Baroun’s, Tybien was surrounded by his personal guard, Vervain at his side. Seven in total, all with intent gazes and subtle sneers.

“Lord Tybien,” Numair greeted in a pleasant tone. “Good afternoon. We will meet your High Lords soon, if I don’t mistake the time. Will you walk with us?”

“I would sooner accompany a mongrel,” Tybien said, his brown eyes narrowed. “Ah—I forgot, you have one available.”

Right. We were skipping straight into duel language. Baroun had not informed his House of our personal truce. Typical.

I grabbed Juliette’s sword arm, almost missing her. “Chevalier.”

Baroun’s cousin smirked. “Or maybe it’s the other way around? Maybeyou’rethe bitch, Numair.”

Numair said nothing, also shifting closer to Juliette. “You bark a good game, boy,” she said softly. “Is that all you are? A pup with the courage to yap at its betters only when protected by the law of the Prince?”

Tybien straightened. “Draw your blade then, Faronne wench.”

Why do you think the pup is trying to start a fight?I asked Darkan idly.He must think the Prince will protect him.

He is mistaken.He sounded thoughtful.Tybien is an infant—though not too young to die for his mistakes.

You think I’m an infant. What does that make him, an embryo?

He is a younger infant.Youdo not start fights with inferiors.

I finish them, though.

Yes, you do, don’t you?It was a verbal pat on the head.

Juliette gave the child a slow, taunting smile. “I don’t need a blade to deal appropriately with you. But if you must run and ask Baroun permission first, we’ll wait. If you need extra time to suck his cock while you’re at it, we’ll wait on that too.”

Crude,Darkan said.Though what she lacks in elegant content she makes up for in delivery.

I sighed. “Juliette.”Give her a century.

If she survives.

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