Page 49 of Prince of Darkness and Deceit

A chill dances over my skin as the presence sharpens. Its attention slides over me—lingering, curious—before the pressure settles on my arm clutching the tome.

I suck in a breath and spin around to flee.

Behind me, a soft, taunting chuckle ripples through the air, and it haunts me all the way home.

10

As hard as I try, I cannot make heads or tails of what the thick leather tome in my hand is. Other than an immediate invitation to the damp cells located underneath the barracks.

I press my lips together. Vibrant pages are spread across my lap. Familial crests. Images of estates.

I turn the page.

The first few sections of the contraband Fae text make me wonder if it's some sort of historical account—a documentation of Fae families or bloodlines. But then the images change to flowers. Plants. A tree with dangling gold fruit. And I can’t tell if this is a history book or a nature-lover's diary.

But no. The plant drawings are accompanied by flames…flasks…other clues that make me believe—no, make me hope—that this book is the key to unlocking a way to help Darius.

I just need to figure out how to read it.

The Fae language is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. The letters are more like intricate symbols, two or three shoved together to create a word I have no inkling of how to pronounce. I certainly don’t know how to understand any of it.

I peer up and confirm I’m still alone in Darius’s tent. Incense curls in the air, the spicy scent I attribute to Fae now ingrained in my senses.

Draven dragged me here hours ago, shortly after I finished checking on my patients that morning. It was as if the surly Fae knew I was about to take a break, and he made it his personal mission never to allow me a moment’s rest.

I place the book on the floor and rub my throbbing temples.

Draven stayed with me for an hour before grunting that he had better places to be and stomping out of the tent, tossing a vague threat about retribution should I try anything funny over his shoulder.

It’s mildly insulting that the Fae view me as such a non-threat that they’d leave me alone with their vulnerable friend on the third day of knowing my name.

I snort and drop my hands.

Why would the Fae fear me? If I do anything to Darius, everyone I know and love will be destroyed. They have the upper hand. They always have. And they always will.

Darius suddenly jerks, a violent cough tearing from his chest. Phlegm rattles in his throat, choking him.

I lunge forward and slide a hand beneath his neck, tilting his head forward as he gags and heaves.

“It’s all right,” I murmur. “You’re all right.”

His coughing gradually subsides. I ease him back and draw my hand away, soft strands of black hair slipping through my fingers.

It’s clean. Smooth. Someone must have washed it recently, or maybe Fae hair doesn’t tangle or grease the way ours does. Just another advantage their kind has over humans, I suppose.

I glance at the looking glass on the table by the cot. My blonde curls are piled into a loose knot, the shiny roots glistening in the dim light. Dark circles hollow my eyes. My cheeks look sharper than I remember. I need to sleep.

I’ll find Lev tonight and invite him over. Maybe a night tangled in bedsheets will quiet my mind long enough for the fatigue dragging at my body to finally take me under.

I settle back on the plush rug, tucking my skirt under my knees, and resume searching the book. There has to be something useful here. I won’t accept anything less.

I nibble on a stale piece of bread I shoved in my satchel before leaving my home this morning and flip the pages. An insignia with thorns and a sword catches my eye. I look up at the selmary rose threaded through the tent fabric. It's as confounding as it was the first time I saw it.

I abandon scanning the unintelligible words and begin searching the pictures for the mystical flower, tuning out the hum of conversation from the soldiers gathered outside and the clank of metal as they sword fight or whatever else they do to pass the time.

I’m halfway through the text when fabric flaps. I look over my shoulder.

Nothing. Must be the breeze.