Page 48 of The Maleficent Faerie
“How long until you take my blood and send me to sleep?”
A long sigh escapes him. “We’ll ride hard to Ru Gallamet. There are a few preparations to be made, and then I will perform the spell. So… a day or two.”
A day or two until I fall asleep for a century. When I wake, my real parents will probably be dead, and one or more of the Three Faeries may be as well. Dawn will be a hundred and twenty-five. That is,ifthe Edge hasn’t consumed everything by then. There’s a chance I may never wake at all.
“Where will I sleep for the century?” I ask. “Will you send my body home?” But even as I say it, I’m not sure where home is. My years have been spent traveling between castles or visiting my mothers’ house in Arboret, near the winter palace. Somehow the thought of lying asleep in any of those places for a hundred years feels too exposed, too vulnerable. I don’t want to trust my body to the mercy of the people who tricked me, lied to Dawn about her identity, and subjected me to soul-damaging magic.
“Never mind.” I cut the King off as he’s about to speak. “Don’t send me back to them.”
“One of your parents may wish to take your place.”
“If they do, they can comehereand kiss me,” I retort. “I won’t be at their mercy for a century.”
“Then you’ll be at mine.” His dark eyes pry at my thoughts. “Is that what you want?”
I hesitate. “You won’t fuck me while I’m asleep?”
He looks startled. “Of course not! If you resign your body to my care, I will see to it that you are protected and treated with the greatest respect until you awaken. A day I will look forward to with great anticipation.”
But there’s a shadow on his face, a hollowness to his tone.
I want to ask him more questions: about the day of my christening, about his interactions with my parents and his apparent feud with the Three Faeries, about the spell he plans to perform and how much it will hurt. But I feel vaguely nauseated, and I keep looking down at my fingers, noting the absence of my rings. I keep catching sight of the gold tendrils of my hair, startling inside, having to remind myself I’m not under a glamour, that the silken gold is my real hair. I keep thinking about the emptiness where my wings used to be. Those tiny unpleasant shocks happen over and over, minute by minute, and it’s exhausting.
“You should rest.” Malec rises, his hair spilling over his shoulder in a river of black. He’s still naked, the carved planes of his pale body exposed to my view. He casts a regretful look at the carcass of a shredded feather pillow, and at the ripped fabric where his horns dug into the mattress. “I shall have to reimburse the Chapel for the damage. At least a couple of the pillows are still intact. You should be comfortable enough.”
Doesn’t matter. I won’t be able to sleep.
Will you stay? Will you help me forget?But I can’t bring myself to ask. The confidence that buoyed me earlier is slipping away.
Malec picks up his clothes, pauses beside the dresser, and peers into a small mirror. He frowns, taking a lock of his hair from the right side and switching it to the left before nodding in satisfaction. “Good night then, Princess.”
I make a sound that’s supposed to be a mocking scoff, but damn me if it doesn’t quiver in the middle, far too much like a sob.
Out of the corner of my eye I see him hesitate, a tall white statue framed by black wings. I refuse to look at him. I will not show any more weakness tonight.
After a few moments he melts out of my line of vision, and the door to his room closes.
18
Screams rip through the night.
I startle out of sleep and leap from the bed. My wings whip out, feathers ruffled to twice their size—the damn things are a telltale indicator of my mood. No time to smooth them down—I charge through the door into Aura’s room. She’s thrashing among her sheets, fighting the fabric and screaming.
The other door of her room opens, and Ember peers in from the hallway. He snaps his fingers, igniting the lamp on the table, his eyes flashing reflective red in his dark face. Behind him I glimpse Vandel’s freckled features and tousled red hair.
“My Lord?” Ember asks.
“I’ll take care of it.”
He nods and retreats, pushing Vandel back into the hallway.
“What the fuck is going on?” Vandel protests.
“The prisoner had a nightmare. Go back to sleep.” Ember closes the door, muffling Vandel’s protest that he isn’t a child to be sent back to bed, Ember isn’t the squad leader and therefore can’t order him around, and so on.
I ignore them and approach the bed. By the dim lamplight I watch Aura’s face—eyes pinched shut, a tortured, pleading expression furrowing her brow. Her head tosses on the pillow, and she cries out again.
“Princess,” I say, before I remember she isn’t used to being called that. “Aura.”
