Page 18 of Heir of Illusion

Deep within the dungeons of my mind, a ghostly scene slips through the cracks of its cell.

Would you do anything for me?

A shiver skates up my spine as I recall the way his lips brushed against my ear that night.

Of course, I would.

A foolish response from a foolish girl.

A flash of pain pulls me from my silent reverie. Uncurling my fists, I find my nails have left a row of crescent-shaped cuts marring my palms. I wipe them on my cloak, the wool roughly pulling at the torn skin. Grabbing my now empty satchel, I hug it against my chest, its weight somehow heavier than before.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

Not bothering to wait for a response, I flee from the room, undoing the locks with haste. I don’t stop sprinting until I reach the alley where I lean my head against the brick wall, gasping for air. Shame burns hot in my stomach as I throw the bag to the ground, along with my cloak. The skies open up, soaking my silk dress quickly and cooling my heated skin. My broken fingernails dig into the bricks as I frantically try not to slip away into the past again.

In the aftermath of Leona’s death, I spent months caged within my own mind. Reliving the memories. Rewriting my perception of them. I don’t have time to replay it all now.

Della gave me a name. A purpose, if only for a night.

Pressing my cheek harder against the wall, I rebuild the dungeon that houses the memories I can’t face. I imagine myself filling the cracks, eliminating any chance of escape.

While Della and I are both the architects of our own hauntings, she welcomes her ghosts.

I imprison mine.

Chapter

Five

As Lynal Skynner finishes his fourth ale of the night, I wonder if he has any idea that it will be his last. He isn’t a particularly remarkable man. Dirty blond hair clings to his damp face, flushed red from the alcohol. Round ears mark him as mortal, but that’s to be expected.

While the city isn’t technically divided by species, it’s generally known that high fae live in Highgrove, closest to the palace, while the half fae community has turned Midgarden into their artistic haven. Across the river in the Dockside District, commonly referred to as “the Lowers,” mortals such as Lynal have carved out lives for themselves.

I recognize him as a regular, but I’ve never taken much notice of him before tonight. He was just another drunk making a fool of himself, not a unique signifier around here.

He’s surrounded by a group of similarly useless men, all taking up one of the high-top tables near the bar. Lynal appears harmless enough, generous with his smiles and laughter. Tonight, he’s being generous with his coin too, which is unusual for anyone around here.

“This should cover our tab tonight,” he brags, making a big show of handing his silver coin to the waitress. “Drinks are on me tonight, lads.”

He blushes as his friends pat him on the back, all cheering at their good luck. But around the room, covetous eyes watch the transaction closely. It’s risky to show silver in a district where everyone pays with copper, but Lynal is no doubt feeling invincible after the deal he brokered this afternoon.

Looking at the man now, most people would never guess what he’s capable of. But over the past year, I’ve learned that even the most innocent face can hide a myriad of sins.

And after all, Della is never wrong.

I’ve spent the last few hours cloaked in an illusion, sitting at an empty table in the back corner of the pub. In my line of work, there’s a lot of waiting. The constant quiet before the brief storm.

But as the babble of the crowd washes over me tonight, I don’t mind being patient. I enjoy coming to this pub for a reason. Sometimes the silence in my room at the palace eats away at me. The quiet burrows under my skin, stretching it tight until a single sound might snap me in half. But in a place like this, the noise never ends.

My corner is dark and far from the bar. It offers me privacy since most people prefer to remain near the action.

Except Calum.

The elderly gentleman comes here almost every night and always sits in the same spot, drinking the same ale. I’ve followed him home a few times to ensure he makes it there. He’s gruff, and sometimes his mind strays from the present, but I appreciate how genuine he is.

Lynal and his companions throw their heads back in an uproar, laughing at a crude comment one of them made about the barmaid. Judging by the number of drinks he’s consumed within the past hour, it shouldn’t be much longer now until I can make my move.

“Keep it down, lads,” Calum grumbles, the rich dialect of the northern villages decorating his words. “Yer not as funny as ya think ya are.”

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