Page 10 of The Grip of Death
“The main course, Harlock. Are you quite sure it’ll be ready for — ”
Harlock nodded and smiled. “Of course, sir. I’ve been preparing all morning.”
“And the custards? You’re sure they’ll have time to set before — ”
“Naturally, sir. Everything is in order and prepared to your liking.”
Edric Wright beamed. I could have had a heart attack. He looked so affable, so sweet, like someone who wouldn’t mind someone like me marrying his only son.
He rubbed his hands together. “Jackson, you haven’t lived until you’ve tried Harlock’s cooking. The custard especially is to die for.”
“Oh, I believe you. Looking forward to it. I suppose I’m about to find out for myself.”
Another face appeared in the doorway. “Edric?” Wilhelmina called out. “Darling, what on earth are you doing back there? Are you harassing Harlock again? He’s made your favorite dishes so many times now. He doesn’t need you meddling. Leave the poor man alone.”
Her face disappeared and an obedient Edric came trotting out of the kitchen, calling after her in a musical voice. “I’m sorry, dear. I’m coming, dear.”
Who the hellwerethese people? Harlock didn’t say a word, only stared at me with a smirk. I narrowed my eyes at him.
“All right, now. Don’t be so smug. Point taken. They’re probably going to be okay, and I shouldn’t stress over problems that aren’t there.”
Harlock shrugged. “Who knows? You might have more in common with the Wrights than you think.”
I rolled my eyes and sighed. “Gods forbid.”
Yet another face appeared in the doorway, this one with a shock of black-and-white hair. My spine stood straight at attention.
“Jackson! What on earth are you doing in there? Leave Harlock to his work. Come back to the table. You’re bothering him, and it’s not polite to my parents.”
“Sorry, Xander,” I called back, already feeling miserable. “I’m coming, Xander.”
I pushed myself away from the counter, then paused mid-step as I recognized the echo. Harlock clearly heard it, too, his smirk somehow even smugger. I jabbed my finger against the counter.
“Not a word from you and your custard, Harlock.”
He grinned, teeth as sharp as knives. “Why, I didn’t say a thing.”
6
A few daysafter lunch at the Wright house, Xander and I had another little commitment to attend to. It was nice to think that we could return to our respective pre-wedding tasks — him using his elite organizational skills to get the planning in order, me itching to get back to work on the arcane engine, see how much we could get done before the big day.
But King Oberon had called for us to meet him, and when the fae King of the Summer Court personally called for your presence, it wasn’t something to be taken lightly.
“It’s going to be fine,” Xander said, his footsteps echoing down the wood-paneled halls of Grayhaven academy. “You guys are worrying too much.”
And by “you guys” he meant me, and Reza Arshad, and Niko Belkova. It was the four of us, after all, who had crossed over to infiltrate the Winter Court with the help of Sparrowheart, the Summer Knight. Together, we finally ended the reign of mad Queen Titania, the fiend responsible for so much chaos on both Earth and in the Verdance. The Chrysanthemysts, the Fractures, the corrupted fae — all her fault.
We kept in touch with the Summer Court, of course. According to Sparrowheart, their agents in the Winter Courthad reported that the realm was slowly recovering. Survivors of Titania’s wrath had emerged from hiding, the remnants of the previous queen’s council cooperating to rebuild what was left.
The Court of Winter’s fate was vague, at best. It was clear, at least, that any offer of aid or reparation from King Oberon would be met with great suspicion, if not outright violence. Titania’s actions had left deep scars all over the Verdance. I couldn’t begin to imagine how hostilities between the courts would ever be resolved.
But our most recent contact from the Court of Summer had come in the form of a message, impossibly inscribed on a bright green leaf. Ours had blown in through the gap under the front door of the Pryde house, the words embossed as naturally as the veins in the leaf itself. Reza and Niko received theirs separately.
They were invitations, though it wasn’t quite clear what it was we were being invited to. Even vaguer was the question of attire. Maybe the fae did things differently, but I would have thought that a culture built around social etiquette and courtly events would include a line about the right sort of thing to wear.
“Fae trickery,” Niko said, grumbling as he tugged on the cuffs of his Grayhaven uniform. “It’s got to be. And maybe it’s not meant maliciously, but it’s like a test. They want to see if we’re smart enough to know what to wear for — what the hell are we attending, anyway?”
He’d gotten the worst of it, showing up in his Grayhaven grays, looking handsomer and more dapper than I’d ever seen him. But more uncomfortable, too. Reza, in contrast, had decided to arrive at the academy in the closest thing that he had to a work uniform: a leather jacket over a very flattering pair of dark jeans.
