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PROLOGUE
That fae bitch has stolen my shoes.
I’ve only been here a few weeks, but as I look over at the clothes that I draped over the chair nearby and see that my short, leather boots are gone, I know instantly that it was her.
Fiana.
I’ll bet she’s tittering in some nearby hiding place, probably with Vern and Rikoth, the other two elites who are always by her side.
In case the three fae are watching, I pretend that I don’t notice they’re gone as I get out of the warm water in the bathhouse, ignoring the fact that I’m naked as I walk across the black tiles. They’ve already seen everything, pointed and laughed, poked and prodded the human as if they’ve never seen one before despite the fact that Varrik has alluded to me more than once that there were others before me … others who aren’t here anymore.
That’s all I know about the past humans, though. It’s been six weeks since the river, the day that everything changed and I was brought here. I try not to think about it anymore. It just makes me cry, and my three tormentors are always nearby to see my tears and mock me.
I don the worn blue dress I was given my first night here, not bothering to dry myself with the bath sheet nearby even though it looks unused. They’ve probably sprinkled something nasty on it like last month when boils erupted over my skin for three days.
I lace up the front of the dress and leave the room, intending to go back to my personal chamber in Varrik’s keep, but as I step into the dark hallway, I tread on something that crunches and breaks underfoot. I freeze with a cry of pain.
Glass.
I should have known as soon as I saw the torches were dark …
Agony radiates from my bare foot, and I attempt to retreat back into the bathing room. But I hear laughter and sniggers behind me, and I’m pushed hard in the middle of my back. I can’t help but stagger forward, or I’ll fall, which will be worse if, as I suspect, they’ve scattered it all over the floor.
Each step causes worse torture than the last, the shards flaring with reflected firelight as they bite into my flesh. And when I come to a jerky halt, plumes of flame burst in the torches on the wall so I can finally see what I already know. The grey stone is covered in a glittering, razor-edged minefield.
I glance behind me and see a trail of my bloody feet at the end of which my three fae tormentors stand in the doorway, staring at me, wide smiles on their faces. Vern’s huge body is at the rear, towering over the other two.
Fiana, the fae female of the group, flicks her silver-blond hair and holds my boots out to me with a sly smile.
‘Come and get them, swine,’ she sings.
I don’t let the pain show on my face. I just level them with a glare over my shoulder, wishing I could retaliate, but my skill was bound for my own protection during the procedure before I even woke up. I yearn to let it loose, see what I can do. Will it be like Fiana’s power to move things with her mind, Rikoth’s ability to force compliance, or Vern’s physical strength? Will I be a shifter as well, like Vern? Whatever it is, I pray to the gods that its might rivals theirs because I doubt they’re ever going to stop bothering me unless I make them.
‘I don’t think the piggy wants her shoes,’ Fiana says in a confused tone. ‘Well, she can’t stay there in the hallway all day. She’ll be late for lessons, and Varrik will be very displeased. Rik, help her?’
I grunt as Rikoth, the smaller of the males with darker hair and eyes, makes my foot move without me telling it to, and I step forward directly onto a large, thin piece that slices deeply into the pad of my foot.
I can’t help the scream that forces itself through my clenched teeth, and I hate that I open my mouth to beg them to stop their torture. But I don’t let myself say the words, not even when I’m forced by Rikoth’s skill to take another step and then another.
I’m almost to the end of the hall, and there are only two more steps before the floor is clear. My feet bleed freely all over the place, making me slip on the polished marble.
Vern makes a snorting sound through his wolf-shifter nose. ‘Gods, even her blood smells of farm beast. I’m going to get some fresh air.’
Fiana shrugs, and my shoes thud to the floor. The three fae disappear from the doorway, bored of their games for now.
I heave a breath and make myself walk with a low whimper, making it to the outer door. I step outside into the warm sunshine with a grimace, knowing I’m going to have to sit by the path and root around in the wounds on my feet for the glass pieces that are inevitably lodged in them.
‘There you are.’
I jump, recognizing the voice, and my stomach sinks even further now that there’s someone else here to see my abject humiliation, pain, and misery. It’s one of the fae boys from lessons. Kal, I think. I’ve noticed him, but we’ve never spoken. I surreptitiously hide my feet under the skirt of my dress, not wanting him to notice their current state and see my vulnerability … just in case Rikoth hasn’t used his skill to hide everything they’ve done from the others like he usually does.
What does Kal want? I haven’t seen him with Fiana and the other two, but that doesn’t mean he’s not here to torment me as well. No one here likes me, and I realized within days of being in the Camp that the ones who pretend they do are the ones to fear the most.
I gaze up at Kal’s blue eyes and golden hair, wondering at the way I always feel drawn to him in lessons. Even now, there’s a persistent awareness of him at the edge of my consciousness that tells me he’s not a threat. I ignore it. For all I know, putting me at ease is his skill, but I have no way of telling. Every fae here, from Varrik’s elite to the young, clumsy faelings, is dangerous. Especially to a human with a magickally repressed skill, even if it is of unknown potency. I can’t defend myself yet, so I need to be extra careful.
I belatedly realize that there are a couple of others just behind him, and I stiffen further. I recognize them as well. I often see Kal with these two other boys, and they always sit together in lessons. Like Kal, I don’t know their skills, but they’re fae like he is, each with slightly pointed ears, which is the only feature I’ve noticed on them that tells me they’re not human. I haven’t spoken to either of them at all either. The one on the right is Grey. He’s tall, and his eyes, which are usually narrow slits when they land on me, are blue like Kal’s but darker and more brilliant. His hair is almost black, and he keeps it short. It only comes to the nape of his neck. He’s staring at me, lips turned up in disgust, and I wonder if it’s my human-ness or if his fae senses are picking up my apparently farm animal-smelling blood. Either way, his animosity has my gaze moving to fall on the other one, though his expression isn’t much different from Grey’s.
Dane.
