Page 103 of Crown of Roses
No. She didn’t want to leave her friend behind. It was no longer safe in Kells. She had to get to her. They could bring her with them, back to Faeven.
“Cas, wait.” Maeve tried to pull her hand from his grasp. “Saoirse. I can’t leave her here. We can still save her. We can—”
But a spark flashed before her eyes. There was a puff of pink smoke, and then she was encompassed in crushed leaves. Sandalwood. And…and…patchouli.
Faintly, she thought she heard Casimir apologize before she lost herself to delirium.
Chapter Thirty
Voices hovered above Maeve, a mix of indistinct words and hushed whispers. They floated down to her, drifted around her like an early morning fog rolling in from off of the Gaelsong Sea. Dense. Mysterious. Untouchable. Muttered responses were met with soft laughter, but the sound of it was off. It was brittle and unpleasant. Her temples pulsed at the noise, a nauseating ache that stretched around to the base of her skull. Heaviness pulled her, and her head lolled from one side to the other. Cautiously, she blinked her eyes open. Darkness consumed her, and her vision strained in the dim light. She was seated upright in a chair, but her ankles were bound together with rope, and her arms were tied behind her back. She was a captive. A prisoner.
But where?
And why?
Floor-to-ceiling metal bars proved she was locked in a cell. Stone walls lined the other three sides of the room, and there was a distinctively musty, earthy smell, which could only mean she was far underground. A steady plop plop plop dripped from somewhere nearby, but other than the thatch of old hay against the far wall, she couldn’t make out much of anything else. Faint amber light glowed from a hanging lantern and reflected off the puddle of an unknown substance on the uneven floor.
Maeve forced her gaze up, and caught sight of movement by the cell’s door.
“She’s awake,” a gruff voice called out.
Footsteps approached, timely and powerful. The harsh scraping of boots and stone. Two other figures appeared, while a third fiddled with a key. Clanging and grinding metal filled the empty dungeon, and with a sudden click, the door to her cell groaned open.
“Well, well.” A feminine voice slid through the stillness and the tiny hairs along the back of Maeve’s neck stood on end. “I’ve been looking for you for a long time, Maeve of Kells.”
She snapped her head up and instantly regretted it. Pain splintered down her neck and her vision blurred, like a dingy, smeared watercolor. “Who are you?”
A hysterical sort of giggle erupted from the female, who lurked under the guise of shadow and the trick of muted light. “Did you hear that, boys? She doesn’t know who I am.”
Dread curdled like spoiled milk in Maeve’s stomach, and when the woman stepped into the haze of amber, she immediately knew why. She wasn’t a woman at all. She was fae. Slender and pale with ashen skin, she glided over to Maeve with the practice of purebred royalty. Her long and pointy ears were decorated with tiny silver diamonds that mimicked raindrops, and her dark brown hair was cut into a severely angled bob, with longer pieces framing her sharp features. Glowering eyes of honey were lined with kohl, but it did nothing to hide the folds of exhaustion sagging at her flesh. She wore a gown of plain, emerald green velvet that outlined her svelte figure. The neckline dipped low and silver beads studded the shoulder straps.
A trigger of warning burrowed into Maeve’s subconscious. “Parisa,” she breathed.
“Oh, good!” Parisa clapped her hands twice. “You do recognize me. How wonderful.” She lifted one shoulder and gestured vaguely behind her. “But where are my manners? Allow me to introduce you to Kane and Fearghal, two of my very close, and very personal friends.”
Fearghal…she’d heard that name before, but whenever her mind reached for it, whenever she tried to recall the memory, it slipped further away.
Her gaze cut to Kane and Fearghal, the two male fae Parisa had just introduced. One of them watched her with a sternly arched brow of disbelief. The other stared at her like she was a piece of sweetened summer fruit, prime for picking. Her skin crawled, uncomfortable with the way his eyes lingered over every inch of her. She adjusted her wrists, maneuvering them against the secured rope, and her cuffs clanged together.
“Welcome to Suvarese, darling. Crown City of the Spring Court.” Parisa’s close-lipped smile looked steeped in poison. “Though I am sorry about your current arrangements. I know dungeons aren’t the most ideal accommodations, but it’s only temporary. Just until we get you…situated.”
“Situated?” Maeve straightened in the wooden chair. “What are you talking about?”
Parisa blinked. “My, for a princess, you certainly lack decorum. Tell me, were you not raised to address other nobility of a realm by their proper rank?”
Shit. She couldn’t afford to piss off the High Queen of Spring. “Forgive me, my lady. The pink powder left me in a bit of a trance.”
Pink powder. Casimir. Where was he? And what had happened to him? To them? She tried to search her memories, but everything from before she woke up was indiscernible. The images were there, but they were murky and out of order. Thinking on it too much caused splitting pain to pound into the side of her temples once more.
“Yes, spraedagh can have that effect on those whose magic is stifled.” Parisa clasped her hands together in front of her, prim and proper. The perfect image of a princess. “Now, back to your previous question. First, Fearghal is going to remove your cuffs, and then—”
“What?” Maeve’s voice pitched with panic, but Parisa’s brows lifted. A quiet reminder to remember her place. “I mean, I’m sorry, Your Highness. But I don’t know if taking my cuffs off is a good idea. My blood is cursed.”
“Is that what she told you? How absurd.” The Archfae’s perky little nose wrinkled in disgust and she circled Maeve. “You, my darling, have everything I want and need. And all of it has been kept suppressed by these.” She tapped her nails against Maeve’s cuffs.
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you do.” Each step brought Parisa closer to the cell door while Fearghal inched closer to Maeve. “Don’t you want to be free now that Carman is dead? Don’t you want to know what kind of power truly lurks beneath the magical cuffs bound to your wrists?”
