With that little ritual out of the way, the king gestured to a couch, indicating that Maxen and I should both sit there.
Rather than the traditional, showy finery and jewels that many Fae rulers favored, Sebastian was dressed in the human style of a rich businessman: a sleek-looking dark suit with a crisp white shirt and tastefully patterned tie. Only the chunky, bejeweled rings on his fingers gave away his love of sparkly things.
“And how is your father?” the Spriggan king asked as he settled himself on a tall-backed, overstuffed chair that actually looked a bit like a throne.
I blinked. “Oliver? He’s well,” I said.
I’d been calling my father by his first name since I was about ten years old. He wasn’t the warm-and-fuzzy type, and even when I was a child it had felt more natural than calling him “Dad.”
My brain chugged as I tried to work out how my father knew Sebastian and guess at how amicable—or not—their relationship was.
“You’re surprised we’re acquainted?” Sebastian asked.
“A bit, yes,” I admitted.
“Ah. Well, I’m making it a point to try to get to know all of your people.” He shot me a knowing smile as if we shared a secret, and it made me want to back away.
Okay, at least I had a clue about why he’d called me up here. I decided not to dance around it. I wanted to get back to work before this stupid visit cost me my assignment.
I gave him a tight smile. “I’ve heard some New Gargoyles have sworn oaths to you. I hope you’re not counting on my fealty. I’d hate to cause you disappointment, Your Majesty.”
Maxen shifted beside me, my directness obviously making him uneasy.
“Perhaps it might help if you understood why several of your people feel the Spriggan kingdom is their rightful home and I’m their rightful king,” Sebastian said. He crossed his legs, visibly muscular even in dress pants.
Fine, I’d bite. “What was their reason, Your Majesty?” I asked.
“The Spriggan’s hedges in Ireland house by far the largest population of nesting Old World gargoyles in Faerie. The creatures from which your own people’s characteristics were derived.” He said it as if he’d made some sort of profound pronouncement that should end any doubt in my mind about swearing fealty to him right then and there.
I snorted a laugh before I could control myself. Sebastian’s expression held, but I caught anger flashing in his eyes.
“But Your Majesty, the Old World gargoyles are to us like the great apes are to humans. Or as a housecat is to a lion of the Serengeti,” I said. “Yes, there is some connection between those creatures in your hedge and the race of New Gargoyles that spontaneously emerged at the Cataclysm, but only in a vague sense. Those creatures don’t even possess sufficient intelligence to be subjects of your kingdom. Are you really implying that I should consider them my ancestors, and because they happen to nest in your hedge I should swear allegiance to the Spriggan kingdom?”
It was beyond ridiculous. And if there were New Gargoyles who had actually bought Sebastian’s reasoning, I wanted nothing to do with them. Marisol should let them go as a favor to the Stone Order’s gene pool.
But as I took in Sebastian’s face, I realized I’d pushed too far. I’d ridiculed him in front of Maxen and the other courtiers sitting nearby. Our corner of the balcony had gone so quiet I could hear the sound of my own pulse in my head. I slid a glance at Maxen, but he refused to look at me. His jaw muscles were bunched, and the tendon on the side of his neck was tight.
I pushed my palms back and forth across the denim fabric that stretched over my thighs, mentally scrambling for some way I could smooth things a little.
Before I could come up with anything useful, movement in my periphery drew my attention upward. Just as I tilted my head back to see what it was, a small person clad in black dropped on a cord from the ceiling like a giant spider from the rafters. Metal flashed.
“Get down!” I shouted at Sebastian.
I sprang to the side, rolling across the floor toward the wall where Mort was. I snatched the blade from its scabbard, whirled, and charged at the intruder.
As I moved, I connected to Mort and activated the blood magic that made me one with my weapon. Violet-blue fire lit around my arm and surrounded the blade, extending the range of damage I could do with it.
In the second or two I’d spent to grab Mort, two more compact black figures dropped from above, each about four feet tall. All three wore masks that obscured everything but their eyes.
The first intruder hurled a throwing knife at Sebastian. One of Sebastian’s men shoved the king to the floor, both of them falling near Maxen’s feet. The knife stuck in the guard’s shoulder. Maxen had his sword in hand, and his own blue-black magic ignited. He rushed at one of the assassins.
I charged one of the others, jabbing forward at the assassin’s torso with deadly intent. He jumped to the side, agile as a cat, and my blade grazed off his ribcage, tearing fabric and drawing blood but inflicting only a superficial wound.
An agonized scream from the ground drew my attention, and a glance revealed that the knife in the guard’s shoulder was smoking. He clawed at it desperately, rolling off the king in an effort to stop the pain. His screams turned to foamy gurgles and then silenced.
Just in time, I turned to see my own opponent fling two very short knives at my chest. In less than a blink, I focused on the magic coursing through my blood and drew it to the surface of my skin, where it formed a thin, stony layer. The knives pierced my shirt but pinged off my natural armor.
The assassin tilted his head in confusion. I dropped to one knee, scooped up one of his knives, and flicked it back at him. It sank right into his heart. He clutched at it and then fell to the floor like a bag of rocks. Smoke began to rise around the blade.
The third assassin had seen his opening, with the king exposed, and was going for Sebastian. I charged forward, my arm swinging, and Mort traced an arc that was only slightly interrupted by the would-be assassin’s neck. The blade, sharpened by my magic, passed through with hardly any friction. The violet flame instantly cauterized the neck opening, neatly keeping the gore inside. I was particularly proud of that trick—beheadings without the mess.
The assassin’s head toppled across the floor and bumped against one leg of the sofa where Maxen and I had been sitting only a few seconds before.
I looked over at him and then down at the body of the remaining assassin, which was face-down and still. Blood pooled from the chest wound and wetted the dark fabric on the back, indicating Maxen’s sword had gone clear through. He tapped the head with the toe of his boot and gave me a grim nod.