The pixie looks from me to Sage, but when Sage doesn’t say anything she must decide her princess is agreeing, because she stands, bowing again, then scuttles off to make her useless poultice. We’ll only be able to avoid her for so long, I’m guessing. “That should keep her busy,” I say to Sage once the pixie is out of earshot.
She just goes back to massaging her temples and groans.
“You did well,” I add, hoping to lift the misty cloud that’s filtering from her shoulders.
She shakes her head, looking lost. “I’ll never get used to this. It’s all so flashy. And proper. And how am I supposed to remember all those names and faces? Prince of this, queen of that. Holy Moses.”
“If it matters to them, they’ll make sure you don’t forget.” I decide not to tell her how much she’ll wish she could forget some of them soon. I’m guessing she’s already wishing that. Instead I ask, “Would you like to freshen up?”
She gives me a hopeful look. “Oh yes, please. Just make sure the bathroom has a window I can escape through.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
SAGE
I lean on the counter in the bathroom, pleading with my panicked insides to calm down.
What is wrong with me? I can’t understand why I was so shaken by Kieran again. And this time was so much worse. When he whispered to me, I heard a familiar voice. I wanted to do what he said, and I wanted to hear him say my name. It was horrible and wrong, and the things my mind pictured . . .
I reach up and touch the thin scar on my neck, reminding myself what he did to me, how much I hate him. Because I do; I hate him with the power of a thousand suns. Even more than I hated him this morning. He makes me feel vulnerable and weak. He takes away my will.
And even more frightening, I know he can see it. He’s doing it on purpose.
I wonder if it’s some twisted form of revenge for what my sister did, killing his brother.
I’m still gripping the small black velvet bag in my hand, the medallion on the torque digging into my palm. A torque that belonged to my sister. My sister who’s in goddess hell because she killed millions.
But strangely, relief filled me when it fell from the bag into my palm. And in spite of what my sister was, I want to be wearing it right this second, as if it’s actually mine—as if it’s something I lost, thrilled to have found it again. It’s a bad feeling. I shouldn’t be glad at anything Kieran does.
I look up and study my reflection in the mirror. The painted crescent moon on my brow has dried to a crimson brown.
I have Faelan’s blood on my forehead. Someone else’s blood is on my skin. And I just let him put it on me.
The sensation of it still buzzes in my temples. The smell of him in my head like new life. Like warm grass and rich earth. Strong and comforting.
I breathe in the scent and let it fill me, pushing all thoughts of Kieran from my mind.
I’m loving the smell of someone’s blood. I’m buying into the madness.
But I don’t know what else to do.
Just breathe, Sage. Bide your time.
Behind me there’s a plush, circular red velvet couch sitting in the middle of the ornate bathroom; I consider curling up on it to take a nap since there’s no window to climb out of. Maybe they’ll forget about me.
There’s a knock on the door. “You all right?” Faelan says from outside.
“Yeah,” I call out. Then I whimper to myself, “No.” I don’t want to go back out there. All those faces, the looks, the attention. I don’t know how to process it all. It’s wrong, it’s all wrong.
How can Faelan and Marius expect me to mingle with these people tonight and act normal? It’s a walking nightmare.
The one thing I found out that was actually interesting is that I have a brother. I have no idea what to think about him—he looks like a weird Scottish farmer—and I’m not sure what to call him, but according to Faelan he’s a sibling. Family.
I used to wish for a real family. I wished a million times that my dad would rescue me when my mom—or the woman who I thought was my mom—was on one of her benders. I’d wonder why he never came and found me, why he left me with her. Was it to punish me? Had I done something wrong? I wanted a real family so badly it stung in my lungs. All the kids would draw their moms and dads and sisters and brothers with sunshine in the sky and a tree in the yard, and I’d just ache and draw dragons or fairies.
The irony.
And now I meet my family. And I want to scream.
I wonder how Faelan felt when those smug brothers of his set their wooden box of diamonds at my feet, not even sparing him a glance. His tension was obvious. I couldn’t just let them act like he wasn’t there. It rankled me, like those jocks in high school who think they’re God’s gift to womankind. And that Astrid chick wasn’t doing her gender any favors, fawning over that Duncan guy. If Astrid was really in a relationship with Faelan a long time ago, like Aelia said, why’s she drooling all over his stuck-up brother right in front of him?
I’ve officially decided I don’t like her. If there’s some kind of Astrid-Aelia smackdown in the future, I’m Team Aelia all the way.
“Sage, you can’t hide forever,” Faelan’s muffled voice says.
“Why not?”
The door swings open a crack. His head peeks in. “You’ll have tongues wagging if we stay missing too long.”
“So what?” I groan, plopping down onto the circular couch.
“They’ll think we’re”—his voice lowers—“busy.”
I’m up and out of the bathroom in seconds.
We don’t go back out on the balcony. Instead we go downstairs and out into the courtyard, through the crowd. I’m not sure how people do this all the time, small talk. It’s freaking exhausting. So many faces, sharp gazes cutting through me like a knife. No one looks at me with openness or even curiosity; it’s all cunning and manipulation. I recognize it immediately, the all-too-familiar search for a weakness.
In the foster homes, a lot of the adults or older kids would look at me that way: What can I get out of you? What can you give to me?
I was a means to an end, a monthly check, a possible hit, a potential lay. Never just Sage.
And here I am again, a thing.
Faelan stays close, not engaging any of the people who approach. He just hovers right behind me, ever present.
I nod and keep a fake smile on my face until I think my cheeks might crack. It’s mostly a lot of those underlings, the demigods and demigoddesses remaining on the edges, as if they’re allowing their peasants to take a gander at the newcomer before swooping back in. I can’t always tell what each person is when they approach me with a humble greeting before scuttling off into the crowd again. Some have wings or overly large eyes, so I’m fairly sure they’re pixies, but the selkies and the pixies begin to look very similar as the night wears on. The only way I can tell if it’s a shade talking to me is if they grin wide enough for me to see their small fangs. The alfar are impossible to be sure of. Though I do see a couple of taller, more elegant figures with features similar to Astrid’s: delicate nose, almond-shaped eyes, prominent cheekbones.