Nectar of the Wicked (Deadly Divine, #1) (15)

Not only had I kissed a royal faerie of Folkyn.

I’d made a deal with the winter king.





His name haunted me for the next two days.

Florian.

My first and only client was king of one of the four ruling houses of Folkyn.

The winter-wielding king of Hellebore.

King Florian.

The succinct way he’d given his name befuddled, as if he’d known it would leave me thinking of nothing but him until we met again. As if it were not an unusual thing for a faerie king to visit a pleasure house.

It was.

Kings and queens had their own personal harems, lovers, and even spouses. Whatever and whomever they chose. They had no need to seek indulgences elsewhere. Even more unusual was that a king would seek such a thing here in Crustle—in the middle lands the folk of Folkyn thought far beneath them.

And all of that coin...

It sat upon the tea table before Rolina’s favored armchair, catching starlight and sunshine as the hours passed, barely touched.

I’d been burning with the need to talk about it, yet I couldn’t decide whether to tell Gane of the meeting. Besides a quick visit to the grocer yesterday to buy more food, I hadn’t left the apartment. I was behaving as though Rolina were still here, though I’d seldom had room to think of her since my first evening at the Lair of Lust.

I’d seldom thought of anything but the bone-chilling memory of kissing a faerie king.

I’d lost hours to sitting upon the cushioned window seat and staring at the busy town street, pondering why such a powerful creature would want something like me. Not because I thought there was anything particularly wrong with me, but because of the overabundant perfection of him.

King Florian could bed anyone of his choosing without paying for it.

Sleep came in bursts of midnight-sky eyes and flesh-eating mists.

Dawn delivered quiet but busy streets.

With what I hoped was enough coin in tow—I didn’t dare bring it all—I hurried across the street from the apartment building and cut through the alleyway to Main Street. Freshly baked bread and steamed fish coated the brisk morning air.

I squeezed between the bakery and the vendor cart parked outside of it, ignoring the leering gazes of some of the miners and tradesmen who waited in line for beverages and breakfast. Farther down the street, beyond the myriad of shops and apartment buildings yet to open their drapes and shutters, awaited the market.

Amid the permanent display of mismatched carts, tents, and rickety tables and stands, row after row of vendors were setting up or already at work. A maze, I’d thought upon my first trip to the market crowding the broken and weed-infested cobblestone of an abandoned street. I was greeted now as I had been then, by the misty reek rising from the canal behind it.

Rolina had never liked to be seen with me, nor had she trusted me to venture out too often on my own.

But after contracting a violent stomach flu when I was fourteen years, she was bedridden for nearly a week. Reluctantly, I’d then been granted my first taste of independence. Though the cackling and shouting and incessantly stalking eyes had frightened me so much that I’d returned to the apartment with only half of what I’d been sent for, and I was never permitted to return again.

I was only permitted to shop for what we needed at the grocer on Main Street and ordered to return straight away. Failing to do as I was told was always met with repercussions too painful to warrant appeasing any desire I had to explore.

That was then, I thought soberly as I began the walk through the numerous stalls.

Discomfort curled into my chest and scoured through my limbs like slithering barbed wire when it came knocking again.

Relief.

Only a monster would be glad for the passing of another soul. Yet I still felt only an odd sense of confusion at the sight of her belongings, and a curious sadness for that of her missing mortal daughter.

All my life, Rolina had lived with nothing but crumbs of hope.

It was the one thing that had bound us—the only thing we’d had in common—our desperate hope for answers. I couldn’t decide if it were best she’d left this world without knowing of her true daughter’s fate. All I knew was that I couldn’t rest until I found the answers to my own.

Some traders muttered greetings as I passed. Others watched on while I scanned their wares. Healing implements, tonics, sweets, clothing, rare pelts, and...

Up ahead, the smallest of the stalls remained empty. But the beadwork upon the jewelry pulled my feet and fingers close. Sapphires of milky blues and crystal skies had been entwined into bracelets, necklaces, and even diadems.

A large hand slammed over mine.

My heart stopped at the sight of three long fingers. Two were nothing but gnarled stubs.

“Hello,” I said and cleared my throat as I attempted to snatch my hand back. “They’re beautiful.”

Slowly, the hand slid from mine. When I looked up, my eyes met with an orange set.

“So are those fingers of yours.” The faerie’s voice was gruff. “If you wish to keep them, don’t fucking touch unless you’re buying.”

Right. I’d forgotten that the rule as old as the Fae themselves extended to many business dealings here in Crustle, too. “Is that how you lost yours?”

The bald faerie raised a white brow. “Did you wake up this morning and decide to look for trouble, or are you always so reckless?”