Page 78 of A Beautifully Crafted Lie

“Odhran.” My voice is a whisper. My safe room is so quiet even my heartbeat seems too loud. He doesn’t face me. “Odhran…” My fingers graze the side of his hand, but he doesn’t pull away. “Are you alright?” I know his tension isn’t because of my refusal to discuss the mate bond, which Aed happily explained the details of before our arrival here. Odhran’s shift in energy is because of the palace, and the fact that he’s about to enter it, something he’s vowed not to do, which he’s broken to be with me.

His anger builds the closer we get to the front entrance, radiating through our connection, an invisible tether linking our minds through an exchange of blood. It’s a strange thing to be able to communicate with him this way, made possible by feeding on me while the droplets of his own blood closed my wounds. A simple cut on the palm and a subsequent handshake enables him to speak with his friends. Their bond wasn’t created with fangs and lips pressed to skin, at least that isn’t what Eadan had explained before we left Odhran’s home. Having any part of one’s self inside another’s mouth is a form of intimacy, and the very reason so many faeries find the act of feeding so arousing. There’s nothing arousing about their connection—that much she was adamant about. The connection lasts as long as it takes red blood cells to be replaced within the body, a few weeks. Then the crimson handshake is repeated. Perhaps our connection is to end soon too. It’s been three weeks since we were in Brogan’s throne room together. It all feels too much and is causing me a headache.

“I’ll be alright once this shit show is over and done with.” His voice quivers. Shadows, as cold as a winter breeze, curl at our feet.

I search his eyes, but there’s no indication that he’s willing to share more than he already has. Something happened behind those walls, of that much, I’m sure. “I’m here to listen when you’re ready.”

A muscle feathers along his jaw. I leave the Great Room, returning to the present. As if we didn’t skip a beat, Sloan’s hand lowers from Odhran’s shoulder. Sloan’s unruly auburn curls are tied back into a messy bun, in stark contrast to his friend beside him. His golden skin is light against Sheridan’s tawny complexion, and his hair is long compared to Sheridan’s clipped style. They’re two different worlds united in friendship. Where Sloan relies on his strength, Sheridan has stealth on his side.

Eadan gives me a pointed look, cautioning me. He may be a dick most of the time, but circumstances have shaped him that way. She’d told me back at the tailor’s shop. You need to ask yourself; how deep do you want to wade into this?

How deep will I wade? If not for my sister, I would willingly plunge into the depths of the ocean, surrendering myself to the vastness of the unknown. But I need to save Laoise. I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t. If she ends up like Selma… or me.

Hundreds of ravens materialise out of nothing, swirling in a tornado of darkness above Sloan and Sheridan, the air singing with beating wings. “Remember what I said. And if anything happens…” Odhran says, looking at Sloan.

“It won’t.” The hardness in Sloan’s usually warm eyes confirms his statement as false confidence. If something goes wrong, I know he’ll risk himself to ensure the safety of his friends. They all would.

“Darragh has many enemies who only pledged their loyalty out of fear. That oath dies today. Don’t let our men die along with it. They may attack while the crown is at its weakest.”

“My informants haven’t detected any unrest along the borders.” Sheridan steps forward, tension broadening his shoulders. “Nonetheless, we will send word as soon as situations change.” With a bow of his head, he dismisses himself.

“King Brogan stands with us. Stay in contact with his emissary.” Yes, King Brogan did send a letter to Odhran, but only I could recognize the open ending in his note, because of the private meeting I had with him and the bargain we sealed. Fómhar aligns with the King of Geimhreadh, he’d written. Not its heir. Not its rightful king, just king. Darragh is the current King of Geimhreadh, even if he’s forsaken its needs, and Odhran hasn’t been crowned, even though he’s the heir. My stomach turns in a sickening knot. The closest Geimhreadh has to a king is the one ruling from his throne in Samhradh, the one who conquered it and named it his, King Darragh, and soon to be King Eamon. What blinds Odhran is hope, and hope is a cruel lover. It’s that same hope that leads me to believe Brogan aligns with no one.

Sloan and Sheridan turn, marching toward a gathering of soldiers wearing the same black armour.

I touch the backs of my fingers to Odhran’s, and he takes my hand, leading me down the decoratively lit path toward the castle. His anger grows and my chest tightens with every step we take.

THIRTY-SEVEN

BRYNDIS ASHGLO

Datura Stramonium uses: eases breathing, aids sleep, curse breaking, and divination. Cultivate in warm wet climate or alternatively in a greenhouse.

The Herbal Healer’s Handbook, by Agnes O’Connell

Odhran’s fingers flex against the bare skin of my lower back, guiding me into the extravagant ballroom. Sentries stand at the gigantic golden doors, decorated in an ostentatious display of pearls, tanzanite, and emeralds. Violins and cellos gracefully guide us into the heart of the celebration. My fingers flutter against my skirt, as though I were playing their tune on my mother’s pianoforte. Guests glide across the floor, each faerie pair more beautiful than the last.

Odhran’s hand leaves my back, and its absence draws my attention from the crowd back to him, possibly the tallest man in attendance. The strongest too. Courtiers don’t have the build of warriors. Though tall and athletic, they lack the muscles built in training and the scars earned in battle. They’re soft and polished, and he’s their opposite.

“Are one of those mine?” I raise a brow at Odhran who downs the contents of a fluted glass he snatched off a silver tray, holding a second one for a spare. This is not the time.

“It isn’t safe for humans.” He doesn’t look at me; instead, he searches the crowd in front of us. A wave of annoyance washes over me like a hot flush.

“And treating me like just another human isn’t a safe option for you either,” I snap at him.

He finishes the second flute, placing it on the silver tray of a servant as he passes. It takes me a moment, and I have to look twice, but the servant doesn’t have the characteristics of a faerie. He’s human, his eyes dull and unfocussed.

“He is one of the reaped,” Aed growls. “This is what they do. What your beloved Odhran did. Compel them into servitude, a meal with a job.” I remember how I assumed Àine to be someone oppressed, and how wrong I was. She serves him out of gratitude instead of debt, and only because servitude gives her purpose. Aed is wrong about Odhran too.

“I beg your pardon. How could I forget that my lady has teeth,” Odhran whispers, banding a protective arm around my waist as he pulls me to his side.

“Careful, I might use them.” I narrow my eyes at Odhran, making a mental note to ask him about the reaped humans later, even if it’s only through our shared connection.

“I’m counting on it.” Something in his tone makes me blush as he leads me onto the dance floor.

One song flows into two until I lose count as sweat threatens to bead on my brow, and my feet ache inside my shoes. Although he’s undoubtedly distracted, he doesn’t miss a step, and in his arms, I don’t either. For a moment, I forget why we’re here and to look for the servant in the crowd, the one with dull eyes.

His footsteps pause, missing his first beat. I reach into our bond for the first time since we stepped through the front doors, searching for him, but he isn’t there.