Page 96 of A Court of Hearts and Hunger
“It’s not for much longer, I hope.”
“Does she fuck others, or just you?”
“There are others, sometimes. I am her favorite. She likes that I’ve been permanently scarred by magic. I suppose that proclivity of hers makes more sense, now that I understand she’s been cursed herself.”
“And was the Tama Olc helpful?”
He shifts his stance, staring grimly down at the rabbit-mask in his hand. “I’m not sure yet. I must try to glean more information tonight. Caer and I will be leaving soon, which means—”
“Back in my cell I go,” I finish. But I don’t move from the chair. It’s so comfortable and warm.
“I am only doing what must be done, to save not only this realm, but yours as well,” Riordan says quietly. “The Queen is interested in the human world. I believe, once she is finished decimating this kingdom, she will consume the Seelie region. And then she may ask me to open the way into your realm. I hinted as much to you before, when we spoke of your nightmares. I believe the dream you had was prophetic.”
“What are you saying?” My eyebrows rise. “I’m a seer now?”
“Entering Faerie can sometimes awaken latent abilities in humans,” he says. “Not magical gifts, but psychic ones. Perhaps you have such an affinity. You had another dream as well, about a whirlwind carrying away a wooden shack, and a road paved with golden cobblestones. Nonsense, or so it seems—but it carries the same energy signature as your nightmare about the Queen.”
“I’ve never seen the Queen, and I don’t remember those dreams.” My hands are trembling so much I’m afraid I’ll drop the bowl, so I set it aside. “Riordan, I’m frightened.”
“The best way to conquer terror is to learn about the thing you fear,” he says. “I will let you have a book tonight—clearly printed, with simple words. You can practice your reading while Caer and I are at court.” He walks over to a bookshelf. “I believe I haveA Child’s History of Faeriesomewhere around here. It is partly inaccurate, but should give you the basic knowledge you lack about our world.”
The hope that sprouted in my heart when he spared me grows taller, putting out leaves and blossoms, overshadowing my fear. I rise, pulling the folds of my dressing gown together and tightening the belt. “Thank you, Riordan.”
He inhales slowly, jaggedly. “I like the sound of my name in your mouth.”
His scarred fingers are gloved in lace, and he trails them briefly through my hair before handing over a chunky, leather-bound volume. “A book for a book. And now, come with me, kitten. I will escort you back to your room.”
29
That night, the Queen commands me to paint the Dread Court. No other direction—just a vague, general demand. Which makes it far more likely she’ll be displeased with the result.
I decide to lean into emotions rather than specifics. Spots of color—crimson, amber, gold, creamy white, interspersed with flecks of blue and purple, streaked with black. Impressionistic representations of wings, antlers, and tails. I paint the saturation of light, bleeding crimson into the dark arch of the sky. The dais is a suggestion, its crystal throne an indistinct beacon of light above the everlasting festival below.
I’m working on canvas this time, and I soak the edges in black paint—shadows creeping in, the rot of the outside creeping toward this last bastion of Unseelie glee.
While I work, Fin plies his usual tricks. Tonight he’s handing out bottles labeled “Drink me,” which give the guests temporary appendages—extra wings, arms, horns, tails or—other parts. Once again, his magic is the talk of the Court.
It worries me a little. True, he’s only using magic for entertainment, but the Queen would be a fool not to recognize the real depth of his power, how he could employ it for far different purposes. She’s as clever as she is wicked. It’s only a matter of time before she deems Fin too dangerous and cracks open his chest for a snack.
Which is why he and I must complete our rescue of the girl tonight and get clear of this place. I’d like to be able to eliminate the Queen altogether, but it would be wisest to take the spellbook and Drosselmeyer’s maid and flee back to Seelie lands. From there we can plan how to oust this Eater of Hearts before her victims are so numerous they overrun Lir’s kingdom too.
I daub a few final highlights onto the painting and scoot my stool back to look at it. One thing I can’t communicate with paint is the smell of the Dread Court—the reek of raw flesh, the musk of sex, the bitter aroma of wine. I won’t lie, I’ve been craving a drink for hours. Several Fae have offered me drinks or food, but I’ve rejected it all, with the excuse that I’m too busy with my art. But I would give up another memory for a glass of the good Seelie wine I usually drink back home in Beannú.
Once again, the Queen has been watching the festivities, but not partaking. When I rise from my stool, her attention swerves from the crowd to me. “Is it done?” she asks.
I avoid her eyes, offering her a deep curtsy. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Bring it to me.”
“It’s still a bit wet.” I carry the canvas to her, then kneel at her feet, my head bowed.
“Little Unseelie,” she murmurs, reaching out to slide white claws through my hair. “How is it you see us so well—you who are not a member of this Court?”
“Perhaps I’m one of you at heart,” I venture.
She sweeps her delicate fingers under my chin, pulling my face up. “You think your heart tastes like ours? You think the raw heat of Unseelie blood pumps through the fleshy channels of your vital organs?”
“Maybe,” I whisper.
