Page 80 of A City of Emeralds and Envy
“I’ll make the potion,” Riordan says, leaping up with such eagerness I almost laugh. He’s so fierce and brooding, yet so fucking adorable.
“Fine.” West waves his hand airily. “Never was much of a hand at potions. There’s a supply room, fully stocked, though some of the ingredients may not be what you’d callfresh.”
“I’ll make do. Shouldn’t take long. I’ll need a little of your blood, Witch—and yours, too, Dorothy. I must also create a potion that will simulate a state of death for the Witch, and the blood of his lover is a key ingredient for that spell. Best not to trust an illusion or glamour when we’re dealing with a god-star. We must convince the Green Wizard that his enemy is dead and fading.”
Once the samples are collected, West rings for a servant, who leads Riordan off to the supply room. The rest of us move from West’s chambers to a parlor on the first floor of the castle, where he insists we partake in some food and wine, presented by a pair of affable servants. I can’t convince myself to nibble any of the food, though I’m sure it’s delicious. This entire situation reminds me far too much of the time when Riordan and I forged our alliance with Finias and Clara to take down the Eater of Hearts. The experience was hours of unbearable suspense followed by horrific pain. It worked out for us in the end, but I’m not sure we’ll be so lucky tonight.
Last time, Caer turned tail before the final confrontation.
My gaze travels to him as I take a tiny sip of wine. He’s restlessly prowling the edge of the parlor, stealing glances at Jasper, who sits beside Dorothy, feeding Fiero bits of roasted fowl. West is leaning over Dorothy’s shoulder while she reads lines of the incantation aloud.
When I look at Caer again, he’s watching me. He curls a beckoning claw and darts out of the room into the hallway.
I follow him, my skin warming at the anticipation of his touch. But when I step into the corridor, he’s leaning against the wall, his slim tail writhing gently and his ears pricked forward.
“You keep looking at me with this apprehensive stare,” he says quietly. “Like you think I’m going to run.”
I pinch my lips together and turn my gaze to the floorboards.
“Darling Alice.” He tucks a knuckle under my chin and tips my face up. “I made that mistake once. I won’t do it again. I’ve never been so terrified as when I had to exist without you and Riordan. Love you or lose you, I’m here to stay. You’re stuck with me.”
I force a smile, but I know it doesn’t reach my eyes.
“You don’t believe me yet,” Caer whispers, his gaze tender. “But I’ll show you, mousie, I promise. I will never be so selfish again. Even if I have to watch you suffer, sicken, scream, and die in front of me, I will stay. I will try to save you, and if I can’t, I’ll comfort you at the end.”
It’s a strange thing for a lover to say, and stranger still that it’s exactly what I need to hear. I find his hand and slide my fingers between his. “I vow the same to you. Whatever form you take, I will be there, playing with you, talking to you, cuddling with you—and yes, fucking you, monster or not.”
He releases a low, breathless laugh, tilting his forehead against mine. “I love you.”
“I love you, too. I love you so much I can’t breathe sometimes.”
His other hand wraps around the back of my head and he kisses me, a warm, fierce promise. “Mine,” he whispers. “I may share you with the others, but you belong to me.”
I laugh against his mouth. “That’s what Riordan said, too.”
“Riordan.” He smirks, shaking his head. “Lovable asshole, isn’t he? Speaking of assholes—do you think he’d ever let me…”
“Maybe,” I say doubtfully. “I think he likes to be the one taking, not being taken.”
“I’ll wager Jasper and I can convince him sometime.”
“I’d pay money to see that,” I breathe. “Does that make me a wicked little slut?”
“Oh, it does,” he purrs. “Ourwicked little slut. And also our cherished queen. Both.”
After a few more kisses, we return to the parlor hand in hand. Despite the reassurance from Caer, I’m still wretchedly anxious about our timetable—we’re only two hours from midnight now. The green hourglass emptied a while ago, and though West didn’t boast about the return of his powers, there’s a renewed confidence and cockiness about him, a wisp of green smoke hovering over his fingers as he perches on the armrest of the couch near Dorothy.
The two of them haven’t spoken alone since we arrived, and neither one seems eager to make that happen. Maybe they don’t want to face the reality of their bond until after the situation with the Wizard is resolved, one way or the other.
At last Riordan strides into the parlor, holding a vial in each hand. He looks taller and more handsome than ever—beautifully triumphant, fortified by the return to his true calling—the science of magic, and the creation of spells and potions.
“One to prepare the scrying stone,” he says, lifting the purple vial. “And the other to mimic a Fae state of death.” He raises the second bottle, which gleams green.
West grimaces, but he nods. He produces the scrying stone from his pocket and expands it from its marble-sized form to its larger size. When Riordan pours the contents of the purple vial over the stone, the liquid soaks into the glossy surface, as if the stone drank it all. Its color alters slightly, threads of white smoke lacing through the customary dark swirls of cloud inside it.
“I suppose that means it’s time to go.” Dorothy rises from the couch, a little stiffly. Reluctantly.
“Wait!” The word jerks out of me, more loudly and sharply than I intended. “I mean—please, I’d like a moment with Dorothy first.”
