The queen brushes a fingernail against my cheek, and I don’t bother to fight back a shudder at her frigid touch. “You know they have healers who specialize in decreased circulation, right?” I say.
That earns a sneer, as well as a slap across the mouth.
Like I’m a child.
I want to ask what happened the night the queen stole me away from Evander’s prison. What the psychotic magic that takes over my body once every full moon did while I was locked away somewhere in the dark corners of my own mind.
But for all I know, the queen doesn’t know yet that I don’t remember anything that happens when it takes over, and I’d like to keep it that way.
“You won’t like it down here, you know,” she says, almost crooning, like she’s trying to convince a naughty child why it would be to its benefit to behave.
“I don’t know. I think it’s rather cozy once you get used to the smell and befriend the rats.”
The queen ignores me. “I can already tell you’re destined for more. You won’t be content here, unable to move. But with me…” She tucks my matted hair behind my ear and I have to fist my palms to keep from cringing. “You wouldn’t have to be helpless anymore. Imagine what we could do together.”
Oh, right. She’s not talking to me.
She’s talking to it.
It’s sort of bad manners, for a queen.
But I suppose she did marry into royalty.
“I don’t know. Cindy’s pretty attached to me at this point,” I say, almost through my teeth.
My psychotic body-possessing magic prefers to go by Cinderella. Once the full moon comes out, and she’s broken my hipbones and rearranged my face to her liking.
Cinderella—it’s a stupid thing to call oneself, but I’m hoping that somewhere within me, she’s seething at the nickname.
The queen’s icy eyes flick to mine. “Surely you want the parasite out.”
Parasite?
Oh, that was so much better than Cinderella. I’d consider thanking the queen for putting into words exactly how I feel about the ancient magic sulking inside of me, had she not tied me to a dais.
It’s true. I want the parasite gone. I’d like to keep my body to myself, please and thank you.
I don’t want the parasite.
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.
