Page 42 of A House of Cloaks & Daggers

Studying his profile as we climbed, Wren taking the stairs one at a time, I did my best to put the pieces together. “So, the High King—and or Queen—is decided based on power?”

Actual, raw power—more than the perceived power of human leaders. In my world, we often bowed to jokers, fools, and conmen based on smoke and mirrors. I couldn’t imagine the danger of a man like that with any measure of material influence. I’d have to tread very carefully indeed.

“Yes,” he agreed, and he started to move his hands in animated gestures as he elaborated. “The most powerful High Lord or Lady at any given time is crowned the ruler. It’s not even a conscious choice but a demand from the High Mother. Nobody can wear the crown if someone possessing more power is alive at the same time. The land rejects them. We don’t get a choice.”

That sounded to me like a recipe for disaster, but I wasn’t about to get into a debate with him over the morals of faeries and their politics. “And what does this have to do with the Malum?”

“The Malum desire a seat amongst the High King’s inner circle and have been denied, so they’re resorting to other means.”

Wren came to a stop at the next floor, leading me towards a wide corridor lined by a tall row of bay windows overlookingthe rear of the property. I drifted towards them, unsure where to let my eyes wander first.

Rich, finely mowed grass covered the land in green with spots of turquoise, and a bubbling water fountain sat in the stone-paved courtyard below. Thickly padded chaises and lounges were positioned next to glass tables beneath plants that looked like gigantic palm fronds, with faeries of all different shapes, sizes, and colours pottering around with broomsticks and silver trays of sparkling lemonade glasses.

Beyond the courtyard, the land was mostly bare, though bone-coloured rocks began to appear a fair way out as the property descended into a dip towards the horizon between two towering ridges. Glimmering in the distance was the sliver of a sapphire-blue lake or ocean.

Remembering Wren’s warnings about Merfolk, I immediately turned my back on the glass and redirected my train of thought. “I didn’t think Lesser Fae would even consider asking for something like that,” I mused.

Wren barked a laugh. “Lesser Fae?”

Shaking my head vaguely, I gave him a questioning look. “Not—Lesser—?”

“It’s the twenty-first century. High Mother spare you, Aura.” He resisted the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “We’re civilised and quite progressive, you realise. We don’t use that term anymore.”

“You don’t?”

“Nobody does.” His lashes fluttered, barely concealing the caustic roll of his eyes. “We call them by their names, or if it’s not personal enough to warrant a name, we use their origin race or simply the wordfaerie.High Fae is a heritage, a race of its own—descendants of the first High Mother-blessed—butLesser Fae was a derogatory, blanket term coined afterwards and usedto discriminate long ago when they were enslaved to us. They aren’t now.”

I rolled my tongue around in my mouth, embarrassment pooling in my gut. “So, you’re telling me—”

“I’m not telling you anything that you don’t need to know,” he cut in, sliding a hand through his hair. “But you really should do yourself a favour and visit the library. Read some books by faerie authors. Brush up on your myth and legend. Reconsider taking an interest in faerie politics, perhaps.”

Out of every comment that Wren had ever made to me, that one might have been the fairest, so I nodded and swallowed my pride.

“If the Malum aren’t considered…unworthy,” I began, making a visible effort to choose my words with more care, “then why have they been denied? Don’t all races of faeries have the right to a seat amongst the High King’s inner circle?”

Wren grimaced. “Not quite. It’s complicated. The Malum are—orwere—High Fae.”

“What? Like…you?” Shock contorted my features. I’d expected the Malum tolooklike Malum—whatever that was—but certainly not like Wren.

He dragged both hands down his face, the fabric of his wide shirtsleeves straining against the tension in his muscles, and he pulled his lower lids down until I could see the whites of his eyes.

“Let me guess,” I murmured, and then I sighed. “I should look this up in the library.”

He cracked a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “No. You won’t find this in there.”

“So…tell me what I need to know.”

A long pause stretched out between us, our locked gazes thickening the tension in the atmosphere.

“It was during the Gift War,” he began, mimicking me with a sigh. “A particular faction of High Fae decided to use the distraction of pandemonium to slip into the night unnoticed and begin heinous experiments with Witch Covens—an idea they’d brought before the High King, and he’d rightfully shut down. For centuries,” he went on, leaning back on his hands against the console behind him, “the Witches have refused to consort with us, preferring to practise what they believe ispuremagic derived straight from the land, rather than thegiftedmagic the High Fae were blessed with by the High Mother. These idiot deserters believed we would lose the war, so they thought to give themselves an advantage by trying to merge their power with that of a Witch. They convinced themselves that if they could harness the essence of the Witches, then they could not be rendered completely powerless if we were defeated and lost our gifted magic.”

“And the Witches cursed them?” I guessed. I was certain that my mother had read me the same story at bedtime before.

Wren’s throat bobbed, and he looked away from me, towards the window over my shoulder. “No. A horde offuckingBanshees tricked them. The whole of Faerie was a burning, bleeding mess at the time, and magic was in a state of utter panic, leaking across the land like melting snow. A tribe of Banshees went trawling through battlefields, picking at the lingering remnants of fallen High Fae like vultures, and used the collected power to temporarily transform themselves into beautiful creatures. The similarity they bore to true Witches allowed them to get close enough to the rebels, and they gutted the magic right out of them. Banshees are like leeches where magic is concerned.

“But they should have known better,” he said, swearing under his breath as his gaze fell upon the floor beneath his feet. I could have sworn that a line of silver tears glimmered in hiseyes. “Witches are too smart to be trifled with, and there was so much madness going on. I—” He broke off abruptly, glancing up as if he’d just remembered that I was standing there. “The Banshees have wanted to infiltrate the High King’s inner circle for millennium, but they’ve proven time and time again that they can’t be trusted. Each time they’re granted a seat, they violate the agreement and kill someone for their magic. They have no natural-born powers of their own, and they can’t control themselves around us. They’re drainers, and once they start, they can’t stop. The rebels should have known better.”

Drainers.

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