She studies me for a second like she’s trying to decide if I’m complimenting her, then she relaxes a little, more herself again. “The girl is crazy and exasperating. But she’s actually pretty informative.” She considers and then adds, “She’s explained loads more than you have.”
“Is that right?” The spark in her eyes brings a surprised lightness to my chest. “Loads, aye?”
“Don’t be Irish at me.”
I tip my head and give her a taste of the old me. “No choice, macushla.”
A questioning look passes over her features like I’ve affected her in some way with my endearment. She starts picking nervously at the front of her dress. “Sometimes you’re actually a little British, though. Has Marius rubbed off on you?”
“Aye, maybe.” And I can’t help being captivated by the soft skin of her shoulder as she shrugs, by the small creases that form when she crinkles her nose, the shiny coral of her glossed lips, full and lovely—gods, what am I doing?
No. She’s not lovely. She’s average. Simple. Practically human. “Let’s go,” I say quickly and walk away. I have to hope she’ll follow me, because I don’t want to glance back and see the surprise on her face that I know is there.
We arrive at Lunar Hall, in downtown LA, and I’m amazed by how many Otherbloods are crowding around the front, waiting to be let in through the main building into the back courtyard, where the ceremony will take place. It wouldn’t be good for Sage and me to wander around in the pack and get noticed. She’s meant to make an entrance at the right time—it’s what Marius would want. So I lead her through a side door, slipping past the guards.
Once we get through the main lobby and find our way out to the banquet courtyard, I realize how large the crowd really is. This is no small tribunal. Pixies and shades are thick as smoke on the ground floor, gathering in groups by their Houses around the circular courtyard, whispering to each other. And multiple demis from every House are sitting in elaborate seats along the half-moon-shaped balcony. Several would’ve had to come in from overseas. Word must have gotten around that this would be a more high-profile Introduction. Demi Introductions are rare, but none are as rare as a daughter of Brighid. I assumed Marius would keep that off the public radar, but Aelia’s gallivanting all over town likely blew any secrets about our newcomer.
On the half-moon balcony overlooking the torchlit courtyard I see two sons of Lyr and a daughter of Arwen—Queen Beatrix, sneering down at the crowds as always, her hooked nose and crooked teeth worn with pride. I see my father’s eldest, Finbar, the first son of Cernunnos. There are several alfar around him. And the Cast’s envoy, who Marius invited, is standing close. The bald man appears to be intent on speaking to my brother, his thin body stiff, his feminine features pinched. The sight of the important man talking like that with Finbar fills me with unease. Finbar doesn’t need any more power in the demi ranks.
But then I’m distracted, because off to the side I spot Kieran and his sister Princess Mara. My steps slow, and my hand moves to the dagger at my waist before I realize I need to take a breath. I’m too tense. This is not the time or place, even if I do have the urge to stab something.
Mara’s looking at us, her silver-blue gaze sharpening as it falls on Sage. She leans over and whispers in her brother’s ear, her long nails petting the head of a young shade kneeling at her feet. Kieran turns slightly to look. When he spots me, he nods as if we were meeting in a pub.
I don’t bother to nod back. He can go fuck himself with his formality. I’m about to say something to Sage to distract her, so she won’t notice him there watching—I can already feel her nerves prickling my skin—but then ahead of us a shade starts to feed from a cocktail waitress, so I steer her away into the crowd.
“Oh crap,” she whispers, moving closer to me. “Who are all these people? I thought this wasn’t supposed to be a huge deal.”
“Apparently, things changed,” I say, searching the faces for Marius. “Word must’ve gotten out.”
She shakes her head and starts backing up, away from the masses. I take her by the arm and lead her out of the pack, over to the shadows behind the trees that rim the courtyard. “Don’t run off now.”
She tries to yank away from my grip and only succeeds in stumbling into a bush. I pull her back to her feet. “Calm down. You’ll cause a scene.”
“Calm down?” she hisses. “How in the hell can I calm down when I feel like I’m about to walk into a nest of vipers?”
She’s not far off. “You have all the power here, Sage. Don’t let the unknown scare you away from what you deserve by rights.” I notice a few heads turning to watch us, so I take her deeper into the shadows, behind a fountain, where only the sound of splashing water and the flicker of torchlight surround us.
“What do I deserve?” In the moonlight, her eyes are a dark emerald.
“You deserve . . .” I feel my mouth begging to say things I can’t say, things I can’t mean. “You deserve power, the power your mother goddess would wish for you to have.”
“I don’t want any power over other people, Faelan. I just want freedom.” Her hand goes to her mouth, and she chews on a nail for a second. “All my life, I’ve been waiting to be free from people who had control over me. From having to depend on people who always screw me over. And now it’s all tightening around me again. But worse. This . . .” She looks through the shadows to the torches and the hundreds of souls waiting to meet her. “This is so much worse.”
“Then you should take this power, Sage.” I let go of her arm and nod to the courtyard. “Take it from them, and make them give you what you want. Those bastards don’t deserve any of it.” I’m a little shocked by my truthful outburst. I mean every word.
Amazement fills her face too as she looks up at me. The sweet smell of it curls around us—and with the smell comes the memory of her in my arms when she fed from me. She’s so close right now, so warm, and gods, I want to touch her more. Danu help me, I want to touch her cheek, to run my thumb over her brow. Slide it over her coral lips . . .
“I think something’s wrong with me,” she whispers, looking away.
I was just thinking the same thing. “Why?”
“Because I shouldn’t feel this stuff that I’m feeling for . . . certain people.” She puts her fingers to her temple and squeezes her eyes shut. “I’ve got too much twisted shit going on in here.”
“Nothing’s wrong with you, Sage.” It’s me who’s wrong.
“You don’t understand,” she says, sounding sure. She starts to pace back and forth. “I’ve got all these feelings. And I’m not sure how to shake it off or get my head straight now. I nearly died last night and I fed off you and I can’t even wrap my head around it. But now I’m here and I have to go out there and fake it, and since my torque isn’t working right I’m probably going to accidentally melt off someone’s face if they look at me crooked.”
“That’s not how it works.”