Page 42 of Jailer to the Death God
“I’ll dance with you, Your Majesty,” says a voice.
I force my smile to stay intact as I turn and face Lord Venniroth.
I can’t deny him in front of everyone. He is a respected lord, a council member, and to refuse his offer would be a grave affront.
“Thank you for the invitation,” I say stiffly. My hand drops into his, and he spins me away into the dance.
He’s a skilled dancer, commanding and controlled. If his personality were different, and if he were not trying to seize the throne, I might enjoy this interlude with him, might appreciate the relief of losing myself to the music. As it is, I have difficulty focusing on the steps, and to compensate he grips my hand and waist tighter, practically hauling me along with him.
“There’s no need for this charade, you know,” he says under his breath. “We both know how it will end.”
“And how is that?”
“I’m the best choice, Majesty. I have political experience, economic savvy, and widespread influence. I can help you solidify your position and ensure that your rule lasts a lifetime. You and I—we can make this kingdom great again.”
“But at what cost? You support youth labor to supplement the dwindling workforce, and you want to reopen the ports. I can’t allow either of those things.”
“You are young and idealistic,” he says. “Once you’ve gained some experience in these matters—”
“I hope experience won’t make me a more careless person,” I say crisply.
“You think me careless?” He scoffs a little. “Tell me, Highness—which of us brought some mysterious foreigner into our borders and let him lay hands on our people? You say you’re against opening the ports, yet he must have come on a ship. On what vessel did he arrive? Where is it moored? And what type of magic does he practice? You call him a ‘healer,’ yet he does not heal. Do you think we’re fools, all of us? Do you think you can act with impunity, that no one will question or curb you because you inherited a title and a crown?”
He’s gripping my hand so hard it hurts. His fingers dig into my lower ribs.
I barely notice the pain. I am so full of pain.
Lord Venniroth whirls me sharply, almost violently, through the maelstrom of dancers. Jerks me closer to him, spins us both, while his hand snakes from my ribs, traveling upward along my spine. He clasps the back of my neck, a pinching hold on bone and nerves.
I hitch a tiny gasp, momentarily helpless to his grip. The dancers twirl around us, and their voices seem to echo, laughing and merry, while I’m paralyzed, the fish snared on the hook. There’s a world of rippling skirts, shiny boots, and tiled floors between me and my bodyguards—a sea of smiling faces and shining eyes that don’t see what Lord Venniroth’s hand is doing beneath my hair.
He could kill me in half a second.
I have some training in the defensive arts. But I was never trained to extricate myself from a grip like this—a hold that could snap my neck.
“I had hoped you would see reason on your own,” he murmurs, his breath puffing against my cheek. “But you’re a stubborn little thing. Arrogant. Entitled. So sure you know everything. Know this, Princess—I am the only one who can help you save this kingdom. And I will do it, despite your resistance. One way or another, I will—”
A voice, deep and dark as the Pit, interrupts. “Unhand my Queen.”
My entire body thrills.
I know that dreadful, divine voice.
Lord Venniroth looks up at someone behind me.
“Remove your hands from her. Now.” Arawn’s command, laced with power, vibrates through my bones.
Venniroth’s hold on my spine relaxes. His fingers slip away. “Vaughn the Healer, of Terelaus, is it? I’ve heard very little about you.”
“There’s little to tell,” replies Arawn. His hands cup my shoulders, drawing me back, away from Venniroth and into the cedar-and-sage aroma of his presence.
It’s a possessive gesture. An intimate gesture. And though part of me loves it, wants to sink into it, another part of me revolts, terrified because everyone can see it, and what will they think?
I pull away quickly. “I don’t believe you were invited to this event, Vaughn.”
As I turn to face him, words melt away on my tongue.
The death god dominates the room with his sheer height. He’s wearing a fine suit of thick embroidered wool, with a fringed cowl draped around his broad shoulders. His long, wavy hair is black now, with the faintest sheen of iridescent green when he moves. His dark brows bend, and disapproval weighs his beautiful mouth.
