He’s crouched at the boundary of it, waist-length black hair pooling over one shoulder, extraordinary face arranged in an expression of undisguised delight. Those purple eyes are very bright. He’s wearing something impractical and gorgeous, and he’s peering in at us the way someone peers into a shop window at something that has caught their interest.
He sees me see him. His smile widens.
“Oh good,” he says. “You’re awake.”
I stare at him.
“How long,” I say, very carefully, “have you been there?”
“Not long.” He waves a hand. “Long enough.” The purple eyes are dancing in a way that absolutely means he saw me snuggling and is going to be insufferable about it for the rest of eternity.
“What do you want?” I say while covering my naked lap with my discarded tee shirt. I really don’t need any more shadow beings seeing my junk.
“Can’t a boy visit his former betrothed?” He says it lightly, reaching up to run a hand through all that extraordinary hair with the casual self-consciousness of someone who knows exactly how good they look doing it.
This, I decide, is extremely annoying. Everything about Fiend is extremely annoying. The hair, obviously. The face, which has no business being that remarkable at any hour, let alone whatever hour this is. The ease of him, the way he takes up space as if space was designed with him in mind and is grateful for the opportunity. The purple eyes that miss absolutely nothing and find all of it privately hilarious.
“You were his betrothed?” I say. “I thought you were Hex’s betrothed?”
Damn it. I didn’t want to say that out loud. I think I already knew this piece of information, and if I wasn’t half-asleep and recovering from the snuggling incident, I would be able to recall this.
But more importantly, I don’t care that Dis was ever betrothed to this glamorous, gorgeous man. Don’t care at all. It’s irrelevant. No need to draw attention to it and mention it.
“I’ve had several,” Fiend says pleasantly. “One does accumulate them in politics.” He turns those eyes to Dis. “Hello, Dis.”
“Fiend,” says Dis. He says it with the measured neutrality of someone who has known this person for a very long time and has learned not to react to the theatrics. “Why are you here?”
Fiend sighs. It’s a magnificent sigh, long and expressive, communicating worlds of put-upon patience. He straightens up from his crouch and examines the ceiling of my flat with the expression of someone checking the craftsmanship.
“My current betrothed,” he says, “did not order your assassination.”
The room becomes very still.
“He is content,” Fiend continues, with the air of someone delivering a weather report, “with the promise you gave my other former betrothed. He considers the matter of the throne settled.” He pauses. “My current betrothed, the current king, would like to make clear that he has no quarrel with you, provided you have no quarrel with him, and that he considers your survival to be, on balance, acceptable.”
Dis and I look at each other.
“Who has the amulet?” Dis asks.
Fiend sighs again. He wanders away from the circle entirely and starts investigating my living room, picking things up and examining them with the absolute lack of shame of someone who has never been told that this is rude. He picks up my favourite book. Sets it down. Picks up a small crystal I have on the windowsill.
“Not my current betrothed,” he says. “Somebody considerably more tiresome.” He holds the crystal up to the light. “You might survive the next attack, assuming you’re not catastrophically stupid about it. Which.” He glances at me. “You haven’t been, so far. Surprisingly.”
“Surprisingly,” I repeat.
“It was a compliment.” He sets the crystal down. “Of a kind.”
“Who is it?” I ask. “Who has the amulet?”
“Someone who wants chaos more than they want power, which makes them considerably more dangerous than someone who simply wants the throne.” He says it simply, and for just a moment the lightness in his voice drops a fraction, and what’s underneath it is something harder and more serious. “They won’t stop at one attempt. Hence the visit. Hence the.” He gestures vaguely at nothing. “Peace-brokering. Which, incidentally, I am doing entirely without being asked, because someone has to and everyone else is busy having feelings about it.”
He looks between Dis and me with an expression that suggests he finds the feelings deeply entertaining and only slightly exhausting.
“Really,” he adds, with another hair adjustment that I am choosing not to watch because it’s annoying how goodit looks, “at this point they should just give me the throne and be done with it.”
Dis and I stare at him.
“I’m joking,” he says, in a tone that doesn’t entirely confirm this. “Mostly. The point is, peace is in everyone’s best interest. Yours especially.” He looks at Dis directly. “Don’t go seeking vengeance on the wrong people. You’ll know the right ones when they come for you.” A pause. “If they come for you.”
