Page 104 of The Cursed Kingdom

Large, gloved fingers curl around my bicep. Mason’s hand.

“Come on.”

He pulls me up, and I flinch as I stumble to my feet.

“Fuck you.” I rip my arm out of his grasp. “Don’t touch me.”

Mason releases me, and I take a giant step away from him. Kie doesn’t say anything about my interaction with the shifter, but he looks like he disapproves. It’s all I need to see, and I hurry closer to Kie in the hopes it keeps Mason and his unwanted touching at bay.

I’m tired of this, and I wrap my arms around myself as Mason walks up alongside us and stares at the new doorway. I guess Zaha’s ready to see us.

Chapter Forty-Four

ABBY

DESPITE HOW BRIGHT the room we spent the past several hours trapped inside was, it takes my eyes several seconds to adjust to the sunlight. I was beginning to think the gods’ realm would be a series of creepy, white rooms, but the portal leads us outdoors.

It’s midday, and we step onto a cobblestone outdoor patio. There’s a slight breeze, nothing terrible, and the sound of running water fills the space. I assume it’s coming from the giant, stone fountain fewer than twenty feet before us. There’s a statue of a woman inside it, her impeccably detailed naked body long and lean as she raises her arms over her head and lets the water rain down around her.

I eye the soft smile on her lips as I clench the fabric of my shirt, my heart pounding.

Then I turn around, my breath hitching as I realize the portal we just came through is gone. Behind us is the elegant exterior of a home. It’s made out of a reddish brick, and it looks like it came straight out of a magazine. Vines travel up the three-story building, winding up the brick and conveniently growing aroundthe large windows. It’s a beautiful home, which feels on par for a god.

I turn back around.

The patio overlooks a cliff, and the only thing that separates the flat cobblestone and the steep drop is a black, iron fence. It stretches along the entire perimeter of the patio, giving the illusion of safety.

There are two mountains off in the distance, a larger one on the left and a smaller, more vibrant one on the right. I can’t see the valley where they meet, but given the amount of water pouring down the side of the smaller mountain, I assume it leads to a stream.

Birds—hundreds, if not thousands of them—fly between the mountains. They range in color and size, but they’re all bright enough to look fake. It’s hard to believe they aren’t animated, and I swallow past the lump in my throat as I spot four redsomethingsthat look about three times my size soaring across the valley and disappearing over the larger mountain on the left.

This doesn’t seem real.

I stiffen, my eyes locking on a woman sitting at a small, wooden table at the far end of the patio. She’s underneath a flower and vine-covered pergola, hidden partially behind the giant fountain. Once I spot her, I can’t look away.

If it weren’t for her soft, subtle movements, I wouldn’t think she’s real.

She’s white in the truest sense of the word, and her skin is…marbled? Thin, dark lines travel across every inch of her white skin, the pattern identical to what I’d expect to see on a marble kitchen countertop.

Her facial features are delicate and her ears pointed, and I crunch my eyebrows together as I glance between her and the statue. They’re identical. She has a naked statue of herself onher patio. I can’t help but notice the statue’s skin isn’t marbled, though.

She’s wearing a long, white dress, the material blending in with her skin, and her hair is pulled out of her face in some sort of intricate knotted updo.

A platter sits on the table in front of her, and she picks at something on it before lifting her fingers to her mouth and taking a bite. Is this Zaha? It must be.

The woman picks another piece of food off the platter. She frowns as she evaluates it, her full lips curling down at the corners and her white eyebrows pulling together before she pops it into her mouth.

Behind her, standing along the fence, are five women. Their hands are clasped behind their backs and their faces cast downward, almost like they’re each a piece of furniture or decoration instead of people. Some have hair, some don’t, and they wear identical pale dresses.

None are wearing shoes.

“Is that Zaha?”

I keep my voice low, but the woman looks up as I speak, confidently meeting my gaze.

My muscles lock up. Even her eyes are white—every bit of them.

The hairs on the back of my neck rise. I don’t trust this, and I’m getting the odd feeling that she can read my mind or sense something about me that I’m not looking to give. This is Zaha. I feel it in every inch of my being.

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