Falin paused and shot a furtive glance down the long hall. Aside from the melting golems, we were alone. “The queen summoned him, but she didn’t ask him directly, so his answers were slippery at best. It didn’t matter. He had no blood on his hands, so she wouldn’t believe his guilt.”
I glanced at my own gloved hands, and at Falin’s. I’d killed in defense of myself and those I cared about more than once, and I wore the dead’s blood on my hands because Faerie took things very literally. As the queen’s knight, Falin was her bloody hands—the one who killed if it must be done but also the one who carried the taint of every unnatural death through the court’s history. It made him powerful, but also reviled in the court. Not that other members of the court had never killed—the queen had dueled to the death to gain her position so very long ago—but in the winter court, members passed the blood off to the knight, leaving everyone else’s hands lily white—or blue, or green, or whatever color they happened to be naturally. You could cover the blood with gloves, but you couldn’t hide it with glamour.
Ryese should have Icelynne’s and the other fae’s blood on his hands—if not the humans’ who he killed indirectly with Glitter.
Of course, just because Faerie tended to be literal, that didn’t mean it assigned guilt the same way I would. Ryese had surely orchestrated the kidnapping of the drained fae, but Tommy Rawhead and Jenny Greenteeth might have delivered the death blow to the fae. They’d also chosen to whom to distribute the Glitter. I hadn’t seen Jenny inside Faerie, but Rawhead’s hands had been saturated with blood.
“So how do we convince her?”
Falin shook his head. “It may not matter. She will not hold the court at this rate.”
I stopped. “Doesn’t someone have to defeat you in a duel before they can challenge her directly?”
“Yes.”
“A duel to the death?”
A muscle bulged above his jaw, but he nodded.
Shit.
“But if her madness deepens and she cannot gain control of this”—he waved a hand to indicate the sleet, the melting walls and golems, maybe even the discordant notes thrumming through the air—“then Faerie itself will reject her as queen. With no designated heir, the scramble will become a free-for-all. The fighting knowledge, speed, and quick healing the court’s blood grants me would be a boon to any potential contenders.”
“And let me guess—unless you pass it on willingly, the easiest way to acquire that is to kill you?”
Again a tight nod. “After the queen is dethroned, at least. Before that it will revert back to her. A fail-safe to help her protect her seat of power. And as to passing it off, I can only do that with the queen’s blessing.”
And no queen, no blessing. Great. So there was a higher than average chance any change in power would involve Falin’s death.
Reaching out, I squeezed his hand. He glanced down at where my gloved hand touched his, and the smallest smile tipped the edges of his lips as he squeezed back.
Behind me, the fake Death began screaming again. “Are your emotions so fickle, Alex Craft? I’ve proven willing to sacrifice my everlasting soul for you, and your heart still wanders?”
I jerked my hand out of Falin’s as if a snake had lunged at me. Then I whirled on the fake Death.
“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” I yelled at him. “You aren’t real.”
The fake Death smiled his very un-Death-like mocking grin. Anger washed through me, tinged with guilt. A second fake Death appeared, this one spouting off rhetoric about my inability to commit as the other returned to goading me about how little I knew about my own lover.
Dizziness crashed over me with the second hallucination’s appearance, and I swayed. Only Falin’s hands steadying my shoulders kept me from falling to the sleet-encrusted floor. That gave the Deaths even more fuel to work with.
“Alex, stay calm,” Falin whispered. “The drug is triggered by your anxiety and fear and it’s feeding off your energy. You don’t have much to spare. So try to stay calm.”
I nodded, knowing he was right. But even knowing something was true or for my own good didn’t make it easy.
Taking a deep breath, I turned my back on the two fake Deaths and tried to ignore them. Falin watched me a moment longer, as if afraid I’d collapse if he looked away. Then he also turned, striding through the slush once more.
We’d rounded two corners in the seemingly never-ending corridors when I drew up short. Falin stopped, studying me with one cocked eyebrow. The question in his expression was clear, as was a hint of irritation. Me and my hallucinations were slowing us down and Ryese was out there. Somewhere.
Still, I waved him off, trying to concentrate. I felt . . . something. A kind of change in the space around me. It was similar to the magic trail I’d followed when I’d found the amaranthine tree. But that trail had felt warm, good. The disturbance I felt this time was . . . wrong.
Like a wound cut into the very fabric of Faerie.