Kester leaned into her, whispering, “Don’t worry.”
The dais continued to rise, until they were a hundred feet in the air, the crowd below growing smaller. She tried not to give in to the vertigo, or the disorientation of realizing that the columns were actually enormous tree roots. Are we in a giant tree? Dizzy, she stepped back from the edge.
“Magnificent, isn’t it?” Oberon intoned from behind her. “I’ve ruled these fae since we first came from the heavens, and I never grow tired of the view.”
She turned, surveying the king. His eyes were clear and his skin unlined. If she’d been asked, Ursula would have guessed he was no older than forty, though with his strange coloring and enormous size, he looked distinctly otherworldly. She wasn’t supposed to speak, and this man was creepy enough that she was actually pleased with that particular demand. So she just widened her eyes, trying to look as innocent and stupid as possible.
He moved closer to her, bending over her neck and taking a long sniff. “Ahh. I never get tired of that, either. The scent of a female ready to mate.”
Revulsion rose in Ursula’s throat. Get me out of here. I’ll take Emerazel’s hellfire over this guy.
The king continued on his monologue. “I was born before the sundering, before the gods were exiled from the heavens, and yet I still thrill at the sight of a young beauty like you.” He laced his fingers together. “Out of curiosity, has the Headsman told you how old he is?”
“Three hundred ninety-four,” said Kester from her side.
Ursula turned, gaping at him. He’s three hundred and ninety-four years old? That meant he’d been born in the 1620s, back when people thought diseases were caused by an imbalance of the humors, and went to public executions for fun. Did that mean she would have to reap souls for four hundred years to pay off her debt to Emerazel? A spark of anger ignited. Kester had been remarkably silent on that point—and what was his plan for this mating thing? It wasn’t like she really trusted him.
She shuddered. Honestly, she wouldn’t make it four hundred years. Not if she continued to fail at reaping souls.
Fire roiled in her blood, and she tried to push her panicked thoughts out of her mind. She needed to focus on getting Zee and Hugo’s souls back, and then getting the fuck out.
The dais slowed, pulling up at a wooden balcony that jutted from a tree root.
“Welcome to my private apartment,” said Oberon. “Some of my closest friends are here.”
A lick of hope sparked. Does that include Abrax?
The platform slid neatly against the balcony, and the king’s guards ushered them forward into another, smaller hall, its ceiling a network of flowering vines. In the center, vibrantly dressed guests stood around a banquet table, and others lingered around a bar carved from oak, sipping jewel-colored cocktails.
As Oberon led them into the hall, every one of the guests turned to stare at Ursula and Kester. Kester gave a cursory bow, but his eyes never stopped scanning, searching for Abrax.
The crowd parted for Oberon as he walked to the banquet table, laden with a suckling pig and fruit. With a low growl, the king pushed the food off the table. Rage burned in Ursula’s chest. Is he clearing space for us to mate? Am I supposed to replace the suckling pig? She glanced around the room, searching desperately for Abrax, but she couldn’t find the bastard.
Oberon turned, his lips curled back from his sharp teeth. His footsteps echoed through the room as he approached Ursula, and her stomach tightened. He stopped just inches from her, and warm light glinted off his rings as he reached up to touch her cheek.
Okay, this has gone on for long enough.
“Don’t touch my mate,” said Kester, his voice booming.
“I can see the fire in her eyes,” the king snarled, touching her neck. “I want to tame—”
Dropping her wyrm-skin purse, Ursula snatched his hand, molten hellfire inflaming her veins. She was an ancient fury, come to bathe the world in fire. “I’m not fucking around anymore,” she shouted. “Give me Abrax or I will burn this place to the ground.”
The king’s face contorted in agony; smoke curled from his hand. The guards drew their weapons, but Kester was already chanting in Angelic. As he spoke, his words froze the king and his guards. They grimaced with agony, the sound of crunching bones and sinews filled the room as fae bodies twisted, breaking. The king gagged, his eyes bulging.
So that’s why he got the creepy nickname.
While Kester crippled Oberon with his magic, she let go of the king’s arms, stealing a sword from one of the guards. It felt glorious in her hands, light and swift. “Where is Abrax?” she demanded—louder, so the whole crowd could hear.
Frantically, her eyes scanned the room for any signs of him by the back of the room, but it wasn’t until she turned to look back at Kester that she saw the incubus.
Abrax stood right behind Kester, tendrils of inky midnight magic curling off him like smoke.