By the Dark One… The hardened bachelor, Nickolas Bloodsinger—only good for one-night stands and strictly transactional relationships—blushing? I’ve been so caught up in my own romantic woes that I need to pay more attention going forward.
Twilight casts a golden glow over the low tents and trampled paths of the rebel camp. A handful of wooden structures form larger buildings, giving the camp a village feel. Weapons lean within reach, dozens of javelins stacked against posts, and a myriad of blades laid out on crates. Ropes and ladders run up into the trees, where figures perch on high branches, half-hidden among the leaves, watching the sky as much as the ground.
Nick is right. E really shouldn’t be flaunting his wings around here. Good thing he’s invisible.
I’m about to risk a quiet instruction to that effect when a beautiful redheaded woman runs in our direction.
She’s tall—taller than me and almost as tall as Nick. Leather pants hug her curves, worn soft with use, and a fitted green coat cinches at her waist. Her hair falls loose around her facein a beautiful shade of burnished copper. High cheekbones, a sharp nose, and plump lips complete her look, and while there’s warmth on her face, there’s steel underneath it.
The brown, reddish tattoos running up and down her tanned arms are too complex for me to make out the pattern, but I grin knowingly.
She’s my brother’s type, alright.
Lysandra slows as she nears and pecks him on both cheeks. “Nick, I’m so glad you made it.” She turns to me, her slender brows knitting into a faint frown. “And this is…”
“Lysandra, this is my sister, Maxine. Maxine, this is Lysandra.”
Her brown eyes clear. “Maxine, welcome.”
She doesn’t seem to notice E, but now that I think about it, I can barely feel him. There are so many new, different bites of power, so many full-blooded Fae moving around camp, that his essence almost gets lost in the crowd.
“How did you make it to Faerie without being caught?” she asks.
Nick winks in response. “I told you I’d find a way.”
“Well, you’re in luck. Everyone’s gathering in the tavern to discuss another raid. The Lord of the Tides’ second-in-command is here himself.” She slips her arm under Nick’s and tugs him along. “Come.”
She leads us toward the largest building, most of her peers heading in the same direction.
The rebel camp is filled with redheaded women—witches—and men wearing accessories similar to the guards. I’ve never seen so many witches in one place, and my heart grows three sizes. All Nick’s dreams and obsessions, his longings, seem possible here.
The men’s fashion is peculiar, to say the least. Thick metal torcs circle their necks, dull with age. Leather bracers, studdedwith spikes, wrap around their forearms. There are metallic beads braided into their hair, and small charms hang from their belts, made of bones, teeth, or bits of polished stone.
I quickly squeeze E’s shoulder as we’re about to enter the building. “It’s too crowded. Wait here,” I whisper under my breath.
His warmth leaves my side as I get caught up in the movement and enter the tavern on Nick’s heels. The small building consists of a long bar with stools, tables, and chairs scattered around the hearth. There’s a staircase leading to a second floor, and a raised stage along the back wall.
By the Dark One and all his whispers…
An imposing Fae is standing on the stage, thunderclouds rolling over his shoulders. His shadow stains the wall behind him, pitch black despite the warm light from the fireplace.
I’ve never seen such an unapologetic flaunting of darkness. There’s something terrible in it, but beautiful, too.
Like the eye of a storm.
Chapter 33
The Dark Prince
MAX
The stranger is Fae through and through—and incredibly handsome. Dark ringlets fall over his forehead in an unruly way that doesn’t soften his scowl, and the hollows beneath his high cheekbones give his youthful features a severe, masculine edge.
A dark coat, finely made and fitted close to the torso, finishes just below his hips. The collar stands high, framing his jaw, the edges worn just enough to suggest use, but not neglect. Subtle patterns catch the light when he moves, texturing the fabric, the pants and shirt beneath, draping him in layers of black. The ensemble commands attention, yet there’s no flourish or extravagance, nothing that might catch or drag.
Ink crawls over the back of his knuckles in intricate lines that disappear beneath the cuff of his sleeve. Rings snake around his fingers, dark and pale stones set in heavy metal, either reflecting the light or swallowing it every time he moves. They climb too far, past where rings should sit, and I realize they’re not rings at all.
The jewels are embedded in his skin, and nothing about them feels ornamental. Mabel’s explanation about Mist jewels and how they amplify one’s power comes to mind, but I thought only the Mist Fae were able to use this technology.
