Throne of the Fallen

Synton had chosen his temptation well.

The paintbrush was a cunning gift. It made Camilla seriously consider painting the Hexed Throne for him, consequences be damned.

She laid the paintbrush back on the crushed velvet, emotions churning. She needed to give him an answer about his proposed deal tonight.

She wished this decision didn’t feel so much like a betrayal. She recalled the night before her father had died—he’d tried to draw her near, his arms shaking with the effort.

“Darkness… will… not… win.”

“I don’t understand,” she’d said, tears stinging her eyes. Had he known? She remembered thinking, had he always known?

“You… are… good, sweet girl. Never… doubt.”

It was the last thing he’d ever said to her. And Pierre had made clear throughout the years how he felt about hexed objects. How dangerous they were, to be avoided at all costs.

Mixed with Camilla’s rare… talent… should she paint the Hexed Throne it might very well appear. Stories varied on what it did—from granting everlasting power and immortality to cursing all other rulers and even destroying immortals—but Camilla wasn’t sure any variation would be good.

What did Synton want with the painting of the throne?

He’d claimed he wanted it only for his personal gallery, but Camilla didn’t need his uncanny ability to detect a lie to know he wasn’t being truthful.

Could she really risk giving someone like Synton access to an object with the power to do unspeakably dark things? Her father had taught her repeatedly that power corrupted even the purest soul. Synton didn’t strike her as having a pure soul to begin with.

If Camilla painted the Hexed Throne, she would be responsible for whatever happened after. Maybe Synton wouldn’t abuse it, but it could be stolen by someone worse.

A gentle knock brought her attention to the here and now.

“Come in.”

Her maid dropped a polite curtsy then helped Camilla into her slippers.

“The Lord and Lady Edwards have arrived.”

Camilla glanced at her reflection one last time, then donned her mask.

One way or another, the woman who returned to this home would be changed. For better or worse.

The way her luck had been going didn’t inspire confidence.

“Please, Father. Help.” Camilla tried to summon a memory of her father, seeking his reassuring voice, but whatever being heard her plea in the Great Beyond laughed darkly, the chilling echo reverberating through her bones.

Camilla hurried from her bedchamber, hoping that haunting laugh wasn’t a sign of worse things to come.





SEVENTEEN


HEMLOCK HALL WAS no House of Envy, but the prince of that circle was pleased enough with the restoration. And the turnout. Regardless of the ache growing in the pit of his stomach, or the way his attention kept turning to the clock. Much would be decided by the end of the night. He’d either be one step closer to victory, or he’d damn his people forever.

The fate of Envy’s court depended on one stubborn mortal.

The irony was poetic, he supposed. Lennox had had decades to plan this game, and had probably chosen Camilla because of that very trait, knowing she’d not make it easy for any of them.

Still, Envy hadn’t expected to come this close to losing so soon.

He focused on his breathing, on the role he needed to play of enigmatic lord. Inside, he churned like a violent sea. He wanted to pace the upper balcony, strum his fingers along the banister, release some of his pent-up energy.

Maybe he just needed to find a willing partner and fuck his way to serenity. Or better, restore some power by stoking someone’s envy.

That shouldn’t be too hard. He looked out at the first guests, arriving with great excitement at his glittering estate. He’d restored the circular drive, adding a fountain that boasted a statue of a winged beast, the water colored a sparkling pale green.

Every chamber, every inch of the grounds, had been designed to dazzle and to provoke his sin.

Nearly everyone in Waverly Green’s mortal high society had accepted his invitation, well over a hundred nobles drawn to the manor house and its mysterious allure, if only to boast about it later. Envy had also made sure to withhold certain invitations. There was nothing to be envied about an event that everyone could attend.

He watched as a dozen or so couples swarmed into the ballroom, dressed in gowns and suits of the finest materials, their masks gleaming in the candlelight. Women circled the room, talking excitedly, while the men swiped drinks from passing trays.

Envy moved along the balcony overlooking the grand hall, listening in. Even wearing deep gold masks, he recognized the Lords Walters and Harrington from Vexley’s party, and the man—Lord Garrey—who’d snuck off with Widow Janelle.

Lord Garrey was interesting. Apparently, he’d had a string of bad luck over the last few years, despite his family’s impeccable standing. His youngest sister and then a woman he’d courted had gone missing, never to be seen again. Envy’s spies had also uncovered his connection to Lord Edwards, a boyhood friend. Lord Garrey, too, had been seen frequenting Silverthorne Lane.

Knowing all this, Envy suspected that Lord Garrey was another player. Fae liked to take mortal women, lure them into Faerie. It would be something worth playing for—a chance to win one back.

Envy’s hunch grew as the man excused himself to slowly wander around the edge of the ballroom, his attention sliding over each painting and sculpture. Envy had purposefully included art depicting Unseelie. He’d wanted to see who would notice. And like clockwork, that was where Lord Garrey paused now. The Wild Court.

Envy signaled to Alexei, who’d been waiting on the main floor, indicating that he should watch the mortal in question. His second nodded, then disappeared into the shadows.

Envy returned his attention to Walters and Harrington. Two buffoons, from what he’d observed, not likely players, unless Lennox was simply toying with Envy.

Whispers from that group of lords reached his ears, their voices tinged with jealousy. Apparently, Envy’s invitations had done what he’d hoped they would. He’d stamped them with a two-headed wolf, the symbol of his House of Sin. And they had been printed on the finest card stock, the green so deep it was almost black, with silver ink that glimmered.

Gifts had also been sent, each tailored to the guests. Brandy, cigars, rare books—Envy’s spies had been gathering careful intelligence for him. He’d made it nearly impossible for those invited to refuse. Harrington and Walters practically seethed from the audacity, the insult of the packaging being so wretchedly, wonderfully unique.