But I definitely don’t want the queen to have her, either.

I smile sweetly at the queen and say, “Sometimes it helps if you’re not so desperate sounding.”

I expect another slap, but it never comes. Instead, the queen just sighs and turns to the males flanking her shadows.

“Farin. Gunter. Why don’t the two of you examine our new guest?”

Examine?

Definitely don’t like the sound of that.

Both males lower their hoods. The crony to the left is fae, but I wouldn’t be able to tell if it weren’t for the pointed ears. His skin is mismatched, but not in the way I’ve seen some humans, as if the Fates forgot to dye parts of their flesh, leaving blotchy segments all over their faces.

No. This male’s face looks like it’s been shredded—torn apart, then sewn back together. I’m not used to fae looking as if they’ve reached middle age; his isn’t an elderly face as much as it’s a weathered one, but the scars rob him of the youth that most fae consider to be their birthright.

I assume this is Gunter.

Then there’s Farin.

Crap. My suspicions were correct.

He’s much too attractive to be wiping my butt.

His pointed ears peek out from underneath sleek raven-black hair that almost falls into his eyes, which are unnaturally pale. The color of ice, but with a hint of blue, like there’s water running somewhere under the surface. Shadows lurk underneath those blue eyes, hinting the male suffers from chronic lack of sleep. His skin is ghostly. As if he hasn’t seen the sun in years.

Apparently I find sickly attractive now.

Good.

Gunter and Farin move as silently as shadows to the far side of the room. Their lantern lights catch on the edges of warped glass, dozens of little vials strewn across the workbench.

Together, they mix the contents of two of the vials. One contains ash, the other a pale, glowing paste. It’s Farin who dips his finger into the concoction, staining his white fingertips inky black.

But then Farin turns toward me and advances. My heart races as he trails his finger underneath my jaw, smearing the cold paste against my skin.

He stares into my eyes; his own devoid of emotion.

When he speaks, there’s no hint of apology in his voice.

“This is going to hurt.”

That’s when the pain barrels through me, and in the distance I hear someone scream.

It takes me a moment to realize the strangled noise is coming from my own lips.

CHAPTER 2

NOX

The revenant inside me relishes the taste of the girl’s screams. Her agony is a siren song, a lullaby that will gift me the first restful night I’ve had in weeks.

I could hate myself for it, for the way the girl’s sobs send a pleasant tingle through my twitching ears and down my spine.

But I’d rather just hate the queen.

Gunter seems to think she’s a more productive object of my contempt, anyway.

I sweep another line of wraithseeker underneath the left side of the girl’s jaw, and this time she writhes. The restraints on her wrists and ankles are too tight to allow for much movement, but her back arches all the same. Her brown eyes roll back in her head.

Days spent trapped in the queen’s dungeon have already painted grime against the girl’s white cheeks. I think she might be freckled, but the tiny brown dots speckling her nose have already paled from lack of exposure to the sun. Her black hair is matted, sticking to her forehead as if she’s been sweating out a fever.

Her lips are chapped.

We should have given her water before we started.

I can’t tell if she’s a pretty girl or if I’m so starved of female company, I simply have nothing to compare her to.

Either way, I try not to focus on it. It’s bad enough that I’m inhaling her pain like it’s fine wine. No need to add creepiness to my list of sins.

“What did she do?” I ask the queen.

The queen has this annoying tendency of believing she’s a moral person. It’s like there’s a code of ethics locked away in that slimy brain of hers. For years, I found it impossible to predict what she would consider righteous or evil, but I’ve started to recognize there are a few underlying rules.

Rule number one: criminals forfeit all rights.

I suppose that’s why Abra doesn’t lose sleep over torturing them in the name of advancing magic. “She committed treason against the Prince of Dwellen,” the queen says, apparently deeming my question worthy of a response. “She knowingly harbored a magical parasite that dwells inside her body and refused to come forward when that same parasite attempted to assassinate the prince’s betrothed.”

I quirk a brow. Okay, so that does seem moderately treasonous. Still, the girl is young. Probably not yet into her third decade.

Prison is one thing.

What we do here?

What I do here?

It’s just difficult to imagine this girl racking up enough crimes to warrant torture, that’s all.

It’s not that I care. I’ve been experimenting on prisoners for years now. I’m used to their screams. Like them, even. Though that part’s not really up to me.

It’s just that the girl is snarky and bold. She reminds me of—

“Well?”

I don’t bother to fight the temptation to roll my eyes at the impatience in the queen’s tone.

“I work best in the quiet, you know,” I say.

“You work best in the manner that is beneficial to your queen, Farin.”