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There’s something about being the predator stalking the prey, only to have the prey smile back at you, that has you wondering what the prey knows that you don’t.
“So how do you intend to free him from whatever’s possessing him?” he asks casually, as if he’s inquiring about my decorating plans.
I sigh. “Lazarus’s Comet.”
He arches a brow. “That doesn’t come around for another century or two.”
“Too bad you won’t be around to see it,” I seethe.
“Hmm,” he says, and I can’t explain why, but when he moves to go past me and toward Nox, I let him.
“And if there was another way?”
“Then I’d be all ears.” It comes out trite, but it’s about as honest and raw as I could be.
When the man reaches for Nox, I tense, and he wisely withdraws his hand to his chest. “Have you ever heard the stories of how the fae first came to this realm?”
I figure it best not to tell him that the being inhabiting the body lying in front of him is the beginning of that story. “Haven’t we all?” Truthful enough.
“And what of the stories about how the fae first consumed the Old Magic?”
Again, I find it prudent not to divulge all that I know. “Isn’t that lost to history?” I ask, and his sage green eyes twinkle.
“Not if you know someone who was once there.”
I let out a huff. “Most of the fae who originally crossed over into our realm were slaughtered. They didn’t exactly endear themselves to the people.”
Colored lights twinkle like stars across his skin. “But not all the Old Magic was consumed. What if someone escaped?”
I narrow my eyes, even as he tramples too close to the truth.
“What if I tell you a secret?” he asks.
“What if you do?”
“A secret in exchange for a bit of trust. A bit of faith in me.”
“Fine,” I say, crossing my arms.
“What if I told you I had a friend once who had a taste of that Old Magic? Who let it possess her until she told the grandest stories?”
I quirk an eyebrow, but he notices me shift on my feet in recognition.
A grin spreads across his face. “You know her too, don’t you?”
“You mean to tell me you’re friends with the Queen of Naenden?” I ask, rolling my eyes.
He shrugs. “She wasn’t always the queen, you know. She didn’t always have those scars, either.”
There’s a distance in his gaze, and I can’t decide if I find it sweet or despicable. On one hand, I imagine him remembering the occasion on which Asha lost her eye.
On the other, he looks as if he’s mourning who Asha was before the accident. Before she was queen.
I quite like her the way she is now.
“So she’s told you then,” he ventures, “about the female whose Magic closed the Rip between this world and the next?”
I frown.
