“Take this and get yourselves a room at the Temple Inn. Wait for Kitarni’s instructions, and if you suddenly start to feel horny as fuck, drink that potion.”
His eyes glint in warning, but he doesn’t elaborate before turning on his heel and rushing after Madoc. The two of them have been talking about going to meet his family all afternoon, so I suppose that’s where they’re headed now.
Prae asks for directions, even though I tell her not to, and before long we’re standing in front of an inn that looks like some seelie grandmother threw up on it. Flowers and doilies and lace curtains abound, and the effect is so nauseating that I can’t bring myself to cross the threshold.
“Not this one,” I moan. “I can feel my balls shrivelling into my asscrack.”
Prae snorts. “That sounds like a fragile masculinity problem.”
“It’s paintedpink, Prae. Come on. This is obviously Bram getting back at me. Don’t make me go in there.”
“Don’t be a baby. He chose this one because it’s close if the dryad wants us.” She jerks her head towards the temple across the street. “Seems like a nice place.”
Her words make sense, but she’s hugging her waist in an attempt to keep herself from bursting out laughing.
“No. No way.” I put my foot down. “We’ll stay somewhere else.”
Only, the next inn I drag us to on the main street is full. So is the next, and the one after that. Soon we’ve checked out every single inn on the major roads—even eventually giving in and trying the one Bram sent us to. Nothing.
“Are there no rooms anywhere in the city?” I growl, after our latest failure.
“Lots a’ folk coming in to see the Nicnevin,” says the goblin innkeeper as he ushers us from his doorstep. “Try the Poison Pixie down on Hollowmere Street. It’s in the poor district, if you think you can handle that part of town.”
I raise an eyebrow at the challenge, but he’s already gone. “I like the sound of that.”
Prae gives a long-suffering sigh and pushes off the wall where she was waiting for me. “We could just go find the dryad again.”
“Oh, come on. What’s she going to do? Make us stay in the stuffy temple? Besides, this new place sounds fun.”
“The poor district.” Prae groans. “Caed, we’re going to be robbed blind and then arrested for murdering the thieves.”
“They can try,” I retort. “Besides, there’s nowhere on earth that can be worse than Fellgotha.”
It turns out the Poison Pixie is a dive on the very edge of the city, across the river. This far from the palace, the houses are smaller, ramshackle, and forced together in odd shapes that defy the neat and orderly nature of the rest of Pavellen. Some of them are even sinking into the water below—as if the marshy riverbed has chosen to reclaim this part of the city.
The canals and white stone architecture have been left to grow mossy and green, giving the entire place the feeling of having been dragged straight from the swamp. Weeping willows fall over the water, branches smacking the faces of the fae attempting to boat through the dark water beneath them.
The inn is one of the worst buildings, pitching over the water to a worrying degree despite clear attempts to prop it up with huge wooden braces on the far side. Even from across the street, the place reeks of piss and ale, and as we approach the battered and chipped door, we’re forced to dodge as an angry selkie is thrown from the inn by an even angrier troll.
“Come off it, Frannie,” he splutters. “You know I didn’t mean it.”
“That’s Frangila to you, Dex!” A troll’s roar is a terrifying thing, and this female is unleashing the full force of it on the selkie. “Now get out of my inn!”
He stammers, eyes comically wide. “You took my pelt! We’re wed now!”
“I thought it was a Goddess-damned dishrag!” the troll retorts, tits swaying beneath her apron. “As ya’ well knew. Now get yer scheming drunken ass back home before I rip ya’ apart and feed ya to the eels.”
“But I’m the only chef worth a damn in the district. You need me!” the selkie tries again.
The troll grips the doorframe with both hands, opens her large mouth terrifyingly wide, and roars so loudly my ears ring.
The male scampers off, heading for the canal. When he reaches the water’s edge, he grabs the pelt strung around his waist and wraps it over his shoulders before diving, shifting into a seal mid-leap, and landing in the water with a splash.
When the troll is finally satisfied that he’s gone, her eyes scan the crowd, noticing the onlookers. “Whaddaya’ think yer looking at?”
Suddenly everyone has someplace else to be, except us, and our inaction calls her attention to us.
“Males.” Prae nods, approaching the troll in her dirty apron. “I don’t suppose there’s a vacancy in your establishment now?”
