Fully nude—unless a dusty-rose tinted coating counted as covering—she sprawled atop a chaise lounge. I was still a bit too far away to be completely sure, but by scent I deduced she was drenched in blood, the seed of several men, and—bizarrely—a bit of sneakle-milk pudding. Her head was propped on cushions, one arm draped over the side of the chaise while one foot rested on the floor, providing an unobstructed view of her thighs, spread wide.
Olvidian was a drug that often proved stronger than its users, and the stolen title of empress wouldn’t magically make her any less susceptible to its overpowering effects. Extracted from the olandry flower and distilled into a resin, olvidian was later heated into a thin, clear, ingestible liquid. On the small table beside the chaise lay five tiny vials just like all the other vials signaled for olvidian use that I’d seen over the decades. All of them were empty and toppled over, which explained why the supposed empress of most of our world lay limp and glassy-eyed—but not why she was drenched in sneakle pudding. The blood and male seed, well, those were self-explanatory.
Of the many men in the room with her, none were moving. Of the females, there were only two others in addition to the empress, and their plain dress marked them as servants. The two young women sat rigidly on a settee as far away from her as they could get while still avoiding the shadows swirling agitatedly along the walls.
“Alobaz, darling,” Terencia trilled after lifting her drooping head. “Why did you delay so long in coming to me? I’ve been waiting and waiting for you. It’s been days.”
When Baz didn’t answer, she dragged herself up the cushions, smearing dark pink along the brocade. She didn’t pull her legs together. I couldn’t decide if the move was intentional provocation or if she was too drugged to care about propriety.
“You will answer your empress mother.” Her words slurred a touch.
Rafaela had failed spectacularly at being a good mother. But in comparison to this mother, Rafaela the Ruthless was downright proper.
The chamber was several times the size of Baz’s, though by Mauldrene’s doing or some other sort of faithum, I couldn’t tell, especially since there were plenty of signs of magical meddling. Lightning crackled in reddish-violet webs that dashed and pulsed along the walls, ceiling, and floor. Puffy flakes as of storm clouds drifted down slowly from a darkly glowing portal in the ceiling, fading before they touched anything material. And what I guessed were wraith-like ghosts pushed up against the floor that surrounded Terencia’s chaise, their sharp, knobby outlines starkly resembling the gnarled trees outside. The specters’ hands formed claws, their mouths cries, as if a gossamer veil of shadow was all that kept them from returning to the world of the living. They thrashed against their shrouds in an eerie silence pronounced by the constant of Mauldrene’s background orchestra. Though their heads, arms, and shoulders constantly battered the misty shadows that danced along the floor, they didn’t succeed in so much as caressing the empress’ foot.
Meanwhile, the empress gazed only at Baz, as if her surroundings were completely normal—and maybe for her they were. Every fae possessed a power unique to them, even if it was theirs alone due to a slight variance. Most fae guarded that secret, learning from the time they could first speak that it was dangerous to say too much. Few shared my misfortune in having their power revealed in scorching history books. The Bazrians didn’t. Junot and Terencia didn’t. Including the dripping blood on the door, this all could be theatrics of her faithum, though it felt like an extension of the island, of Mauldrene.
Near a far wall stood a bed that was ample enough to accommodate a dozen Baz-sized men. A scarlet-hued gauze draped from its posts, currently tied open. Between it and the empress’ chaise lounge stretched a shallow pool. Steam rose in tendrils from its heated waters.
The lumoons that bobbed above our heads throughout the chamber didn’t fully illuminate the pool’s depths, but they did reveal that the water was cloudy with patches of red. The bodies of two men, one much slighter than the other, floated facedown. A naked and bloodied Lev was slumped against the pool’s steps. His eyelids were fluttering in an attempt to remain open.
“Where’s Moncho?” Baz asked in that dead voice I’d believed was gone.
Terencia harrumphed, her head wobbling slightly. “That’s no way to greet your empress mother.”
“Where is Moncho?”
Terencia pushed herself fully to seated, at last pulling her legs closed, a process that required the aid of both her servants. They also fluffed her hair and handed her a goblet of blood before scuttling away.
“Where is Moncho, where is Moncho,” she said with a wave of her goblet-filled hand, the blood within sloshing. “Hello, dearest Empress Mother,” she intoned in a deep contralto that was meant to imitate Baz’s sexy grumbles but failed immensely. “Are you well? Have you recovered from your journey to this wretched place that is so dreadful that you have to make your own fun?”
Baz’s body tangibly vibrated. I wanted to touch him but didn’t.
“Hello, Empress Mother,” he said in that awful dead voice. “Are you well? Have you recovered from your journey?”
“Why, it’s so thoughtful of you to inquire, Alobaz. I have, indeed, recovered. I have fed. I am almost, but not quite, satiated.” Her eyes were a green so vivid they sparkled even in poor lighting. Set in her pretty face, those emerald eyes zoomed in on Baz as if he were the only other person in the room.
She smiled coyly, uncrossing her legs—unnecessarily slowly—before crossing them again. “With you here now…”
Still vibrating, Baz stalked closer to her, which meant that so did I. Ed, Zi, Night, and Félix remained behind, a tense wall of muscle, ready to intervene should Baz require.
“Tell me where Moncho is,” Baz said.
Twin emeralds glinted as her sly smile dropped. She shook her head but quickly stopped, as if the motion set her world to spinning. But when she spoke, her words were suddenly crisp. “When will you learn? You don’t command me. You obey me. And when you don’t, I punish you. I am the empress. You are the prince, and the spare prince at that.” She allowed the reminder to linger. “Where is my husband?”
“What if I told you he’s on the other side of the door?”
“I wouldn’t believe you.”
“Why not?”
“Because, despite your current behavior, you are a decent son. You would never risk upsetting your sire by bringing him unannounced to my chambers when you know I’ve been attending to my needs. So where is he, truly?”
“I don’t know. The castle took him. I was unable to find him.”
Her eyes flashed for a second, too fast to reveal with what.
“You’re telling me that my husband, the emperor of the Domdurron Empire, is missing?” Her words were abruptly sharper. Could the empty olvidian vials be for show?
