Page 8 of Dragons' Mate
Still at the table, the male who’d spoken earlier reaches for Sparkle’s cards. The cards go up in flame the moment he touches them, making the male pull back with a yelp.
"Hands to yourself," Sparkle calls over her shoulder. "Next time, I'll set your favorite part on fire."
“We need to talk,” Quinton tells her.
With a sigh, she waves her hand, dismissing her playing companions. They grumble but leave. I briefly wonder if I shouldn’t sculk out right along with them, but Quinton catches me around my waist and brings me to stand in front of him before I can take a step.
"Autumn, Kitterny,” Quinton says. “Kitterny, Autumn. Appearances aside, Lady Autumn is the visiting dignitary from the Slait Court in Lunos's northern continent. Her sister-in-law is Queen Leralynn, who you've likely heard about. Autumn, this is Kitterny. My... mate."
Autumn's glances at me. “My condolences, Kitterny.”
I can’t stop a snort and she grins in response, making me like her immediately.
“I presume you interrupted my last evening of freedom for a reason?” she asks Quinton.
“Indeed.” With the others gone, we settle around the now empty card table, with me trying to disappear into the rich chair while Autumn studies Quinton expectantly. Reaching into his satchel, Quinton pulls out the wrapped package he’d gotten from the chocolatier. "Peace offering," he says. "For leaving without saying anything the last time."
Autumn unwraps the package, her smile returning at the sight of a dozen chocolate spheres. She pops one into her mouth, her eyes closing in bliss. “Mmm.” She moans indecently and pushes the box toward me. “You must partake. Not that it means I forgive him, but I'm not dumb enough to say no to good chocolate."
Quinton ducks his face. I think he is actually happy to have pleased Autumn and is embarrassed about it. Or else he is just visualizing himself dismembering random people. With Quinton, it really is difficult to tell. About as difficult as getting a straight answer about what we are doing here at all.
"Not that it isn't an honor to meet you, Lady Autumn, and stars know I have so many questions I'd love to ask,” I say carefully, “but..."
"But the pledge ball for the trials starts at six o'clock this evening," Autumn says. "And I imagine this genius thinks I can do something for you two between now and then?"
"Can you?" Quinton asks.
"Depends on what it is,” Autumn says. “I'm on the wrong continent to hide your mate for you while you try to keep some poor human alive long enough to breed her.”
I wince. Autumn is… direct.
“Plus,” Autumn continues, "my official role in Massa’eve includes observing the trials, so I’ll be as entangled as you are. Well, not as entangled, but you understand my drift.”
"We don’t need to keep Kit from the trials,” says Quinton. “We need to get her into them.”
"Come again?" Autumn freezes with a chocolate halfway to her mouth. "Because I thought I just heard you say that you want to bring your mateintoa brutal proving grounds, where she'll be tormented and likely killed.”
“I didn’t say ‘want’,” Quinton says. “Do you imagine I like this idea?”
“The idea is actually mine,” I confirm.
Autumn finishes her chocolate as she weighs me with her gaze. "I take it back. You two are meant for each other. Start at the beginning and start talking." She waves toward me. "You. If we wait for Quinn to find enough words he is willing to part with, the trials will be over."
CHAPTER4
Tavias
“Good morning, Your Highnesses.” The guards at the entrance to the great hall at the Massa’eve palace touched their fists to their chests and returned to attention.
Tavias weighted each of them with his gaze, knowing that Cyril was doing the same behind him. The inspection before a large event was routine, but the event itself—a pledge ball that would commit all contestants to the authority of the priests of Orion and the strange magic of the trial grounds—was anything but. Nothing could be permitted to go wrong tonight, and everything had the potential to.
“Whose idiotic idea was it to make the pledge ball into a masquerade?” Tavias demanded. “There will be enough murder in the air without adding masks to the mix.”
“It’s tradition,” Cyril replied with infuriating calm.
“It’s an idiotic tradition.” Tavias growled under his breath. Not only were costumes a security risk, but there seemed little point in pretty dresses and ethereal music when everyone knew that the attendees were out for blood. There was only one prize after all, one dose of the fertility elixir to be had. Quietly taking out the competition before the trials even began would be a tempting move for anyone with few scruples.
In fact, Tavias was certain that their cousin Geoffrey had been behind Cordelia’s death a few weeks ago in an attempt to prevent Tavias's pack from entering the trials at all. It would have been a smart move, if it had worked. Geoffrey’s father—Tavias’s uncle—Salazar was quietly stirring a rebellion against the throne. If Geoffrey’s pack won the trials and the elixir, it would go a long way toward swaying people toward Salazar’s flag.
