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Hattie was quick to follow, pushing by Graceson as he said, “Well, isn’t it the couple of the hour. About time you showed up.”
Shavarra scooped my hands into hers, squeezing them tightly. “I hope you are faring well, despite everything that’s happened.”
“Everything appears to be shaping up, so I can’t complain.”
Shavarra sighed happily, shifting her attention from me to Dace. She looked him up and down, her face neutral until Dace finally cracked a smile and laughed.
“Thank the gods you’re okay.” She wrapped both her arms around him, squeezing tightly.
“Gentle,” Dace coughed, his face wrinkled with discomfort.
“Sorry, so sorry.” Shavarra laughed, guiding herself back to her seat on the table.
In that time, Hattie had rushed to my side and was holding my shoulders, one hand gently cupping the back of my head. The hug was familiar and exactly how I remembered the loving hugs of our mother.
“He is still fragile,” I said over Hattie’s shoulder.
Hattie pulled away, already taking my hand and dragging me to an empty seat. Shavarra retreated to her perched position.
“They don’t need to know that,” Dace muttered.
“Hey, man. It’s safe to say anything you want when you’re in the circle,” Graceson interjected.
“I wish you’d quit trying to make that a thing.” King Windre turned away from the window.
Dace raised his brows, inclined to agree. His image was already fading. I stared at the spot he stood, feeling the nagging urge to be in his presence. He is coming right back, I scolded myself as if that would appease the natural response of his claiming marks.
“How is Daethian? I got your letter.” Hattie watched me, ready to console me at a moment's notice.
“He actually woke up today.”
“And…?” Graceson leaned forward, his arm brushing along Shavarra’s thigh. A hint of red crept up her cheeks and she looked away with a smile. “Don’t leave us hanging.”
“And he is himself. He just had to die to actually live again.”
“Funny how that works.” King Windre lingered where Dace and I had appeared. “Do we need to prepare anything for this witch? Other than the requested?”
“No, fresh blood and removing the shackles will do just fine. Or so she says, but without the shackles, she’ll have her magic back. She’ll be weak since she hasn’t been consistently fed, but once she gets the blood in her system I imagine that will change and we will need to be on guard.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Graceson purred.
Jerydin and Randsin shifted in their seats, turning their blank stares in his direction. Graceson looked from one man to the next.
“And perhaps why they are here too,” he added. That was enough for Jerydin and Randsin to return their gazes to one another, though I caught Randsin rolling his eyes.
The air by King Windre shimmered, the image of Dace and the witch knitting together before us. Dace dropped his hold on her hands the second their travel was completed. She lifted her arms, rubbing at her wrists where they were dark and raw. The cuffs, our one security, gone. She offered the waiting crowd one of her glowing smiles.
“Geeta, this is everyone…everyone this is Geeta,” Dace said with false enthusiasm. With one large step, he moved himself to her other side so that he and King Windre had her between them.
“Oh, my.” King Windre stared, wide-eyed.
Her deathly gray skin and protruding black veins were a chilling sight to see. Even the bravest Fae was sure to feel some sliver of fear. Geeta was to most, if not all, unknown. Ancient and powerful, with teeth made for cutting open Fae and Nymph alike. As if we shared the same thought, Dace lifted his hand letting his fingers graze over the faded white slashes she had given him. How often did he relive that night?
“Why is she wearing an assassin’s uniform?” Graceson leaned forward, examining her.
“Because her clothes were full of holes and falling apart. I gave her the common courtesy of getting to meet you lovely bunch in respectable clothing,” Jesseline said, peeling herself off the wall behind us. I would have jumped if I wasn’t getting used to the way that Jesseline was always somehow there, completely unnoticed.
“Assassins aren’t respectable.” Graceson smirked.
