Page 6 of The Duchess Curse

The glamoured flower on her palm was flickering, and the queen frowned, looked up. A cloud had rolled across the sun, and shadows thickened around them. “I need a potion to increase the power of my talent when”—she glared at the offending cloud above—“reserves are low.”

When light was low.

But the queen couldn’t say that. The transcendents claimed their talent for illusions was born from a divine spark rich in their blood. Nonsense. Light gave them power, whether they wanted to admit it or not. The queen clearly did not wish to admit it.

“I know of no such potion, Your Majesty.”

The queen made a fist of her hand, banishing the fading bloom. “Then you will discover it. Only you cannot if you are dead, and I have heard, you’re having a difficulty remaining alive at the moment.”

“No difficulty at all, Your Majesty.”

The queen raised a brow and handed Guin a serviette. “For your cheek.”

Guin pressed her fingertips to her cheek and pulled them away. Blood, dried and rusty. She’d forgotten about that. “It was nothing. A small altercation near Finsbury.”

“Be that as it may, I’d like to take precautions. Until you produce what I’ve asked for, you’re to have the benefit of increased protection. All day and night.”

“I already employ a small army of guards, and they are well trained.” By her now-dead head guard. And friend. Good Gaia, she was not supposed to be thinking of Bran! She cleared her throat and blinked several times, clearing away the moisture.

“I’m sure. But you shall have one more.”

“Oh?” Irritating, but she could not decline a royal command. “And who is to be my newest shadow?”

The queen chuckled. “Funny you should use that word. Shadow.” Another chuckle.

“Your Majesty…” Dread curled tight in Guin’s belly. “Who is it?”

Those glittering eyes, so young yet so cunning. “The Duke of Braxton.”

Guin felt like she’d been hit with a hammer. Several. One to the head, another to the gut. If she didn’t want to think about her dead guard, she certainly didn’t want to think about Braxton. He was currently, as far as she knew, alive and well, and… Damn it! She was trying to keep him that way. Husbands were, after all, usually the first to die when it came to the duchess curse.

2

FIRE EATER AND DEATH CHEATER

Dead men couldn’t feel sunshine, but Bran could. Because he wasn’t fucking dead. Until he disposed of this bloody glamour, though, he might as well be. Hopefully, the plant shop on Philpot Lane could bring Bran back to life. It looked like life—all greenery and sunshine. Despite the chill seeping through Bran’s greatcoat and into his bones, despite the low-hanging, white clouds, Apollo’s Plants thrived.

If anyone could help him, this glorified gardener could.

His reflection in the window was tall and lean and haughty, wearing the same fashionable suit he’d conjured time and time again since he’d inherited it—the opposite of what he actually looked like beneath the illusion.

Not that anyone could see.

He pushed through the green door. A bell tinkled merrily above his head, and a wall of heat hit him. Definitely in the right place. But the right place seemed empty. Not a soul around. Only plants in all shapes and varieties. The air smelled of soil, and Bran slipped out of his greatcoat, folded it over one arm.

“Mr. Chester!” he called out.

No answer.

But the plants… danced? Vines hanging from an upper balcony that curved around the shop swayed without a breeze, and the potted plants lining the tables on either side of him stretched their branches in sinuous movements.

He only knew one other person who could do something like this. Born a transcendent, like Mr. Apollo Chester, then trained to be something quite different. Like Mr. Apollo Chester.

“Chester!”

A noise near the back of the shop was Bran’s only answer. He followed it, and the noise grew louder—yelps and hisses and moans—fucking Jupiter. Someone was being attacked. He sprinted ahead, knocking over a rose bush as he rushed past the wall of plants near the back of the shop and behind the desk⁠—

“Oh fuck.” He slammed to a stop, spun around, slapping a palm over his eyes. “Apologies.” Hell. What a sight. A woman, her wrists pinned to the wall above her head with vines, her legs wrapped around a man’s waist, that man’s trousers around his ankles, his shirtsleeves rolled above his elbows.