Page 3 of The Curse of Golden Blood
I barely contained a curse. I'd been eyeing one of the other groups, hoping the Warlord would go for someone there. Instead, his red gaze was fixed on ours.
As he moved through the square, he touched the shoulder of each mortal he chose. No words, no explanations. They climbed the transparent platform, now dusted with snow, and waited in silence.
By the time he reached us, he had already chosen nine.
I could feel the tension rising among the others, the fear. It was a strange sensation. I'd never been afraid of the fae before. I'd always hated them, and I'd always known that one day, I would make them pay.
But now, standing here, looking at him, I felt a sliver of fear.
I turned to Pelbie. "No matter what happens, no matter who he chooses, don't say a word. Don't look at him. Don't give him a reason to pick you."
Pelbie nodded. Her face was pale and her hands were trembling, but she was trying. I was proud of her.
The Warlord didn't bother with any theatrics. He strode straight over to our group and surveyed us. He stood right in front of me.
He smelled like ozone and crushed violets. Like stormlight soaked into soil, like something sweet left too long in the dark. The scent was dizzying. It caught in my throat and stayed there, heavy and strange.
He was taller than I'd expected, and broader. Up close, his wings were magnificent, a deep, rich blue. His face was sharp in a way that felt almost sculpted. A strong jawline, full lips, and long lashes. Too flawless. Too inhuman. The kind of beauty that made you forget what he was. Until he looked at you.
I glared back at him, daring him to pick me. I wanted to throw myself at him, claw at his pretty face, make him bleed. I wanted to rip his wings from his back and watch him scream in agony.
I hoped he could feel my hate. I hoped it seeped from me like my breath in the frigid air.
He smirked, as if he'd heard my thoughts, but he looked away. His gaze landed on someone else, and everything inside me froze.
Pelbie.
His hand lifted. And he touched her shoulder.
No! No, no, no.
The ground tilted beneath me. I couldn’t breathe. A hot rush of nausea clawed up my throat.
It didn’t make any sense. Why her? There were stronger, faster, sharper people in our group. I wasn’t deluded. Pelbie couldn’t fight her way out of a dream, let alone a fae warcourt. She was a healer’s apprentice, gentle and soft-spoken, more comfortable with poultices and pressure points than blades.
My breathing became shallow as I froze in place, not moving at all, not wanting to accept this reality.
Pelbie let go of my hand as she stepped toward the platform. The fae's mouth twisted into something resembling a grin. It was a cruel, ugly smile. As if he was amused by my shock.
He must have known. He had been watching me, hadn't he?
This was a game to him. A sick, twisted game where he decided who lived and died, who were delivered into the hands of the fae, and who didn't. He was enjoying it.
Hate and fear gripped my heart but I knew what I needed to do.
"No," I heard myself say. "I won't let you take her."
There was a stunned silence. Every single head swivelled to face me. Including the Warlord. He was no longer grinning.
"Mira." Pelbie's voice was trembling. A single tear slipped down her cheek as she shook her head. "Don't."
My palms burned with the need for revenge, with the fury that consumed every inch of my soul. The world darkened around me as I stared the fae down.
The Warlord's wings spread slightly, like a predator preparing to attack. I was going to give him what he wanted.
A challenge.
He didn't say a word. He was waiting, almost daring me to say it again. As if he weren't sure whether I would disobey him. As if it wasn't even possible.
