Pretha blinks at me, her shoulders seeming to sag in . . . relief? “I didn’t even feel you move past my shield,” she mutters. “Impressive.”
“He kissed her. I’d think you’d care about that.” I sound as catty and cruel as my cousins, so I shake my head and soften my tone. “I mean, I thought you’d want to know.”
She frowns, and then realization strikes and she smiles. “You think I’m with Finn?” She laughs. “Where in the world did you get that idea?”
My cheeks heat, and I try to swallow my embarrassment, but it’s useless. I’ve made assumptions, and now I look like a fool. “Lark has his eyes.”
She shakes her head. “Lark has her father’s eyes. Finn’s her uncle, and he’s free to kiss whomever he wishes.” She mutters something under her breath that sounds a lot like Likely thinking of someone else.
“What are tributes? Why do you need them and what happens to them? Why did that girl have a handful of stones in her pocket?”
Pretha folds her arms. “We’re trying to be your friends, Brie. Friends don’t spy.”
Chapter Eighteen
“FIRE GIRL. WAKE UP,” a raspy voice says by my ear.
When Pretha returned me to the palace, I went straight to bed—upset with myself for spying on people who have trusted me and more upset with myself for feeling . . . whatever it is I felt when I saw Finn kiss that girl.
“Fire Girl.” A pointed nail grazes the shell of my ear, and my eyes snap open.
King Mordeus’s goblin is crouched over my pillow.
Finally.
“What’s taken you so long?” I ask in a hiss as I swing my legs over the side of the bed.
“The king has had matters to deal with, girl. He works on his own timeline.”
I snort. All faeries seem to work on their own timeline. I blame immortality for their lack of urgency. “Let me get dressed.”
He shakes his head. “No time.”
I look down at my thin sleep shift. “Are you kidding me? I’m not going like this.”
“Now or wait another week. It’s up to you.”
Glaring, I grab my satchel from where I tucked it beneath the mattress. Before I can turn back to the goblin, his cracked fingers wrap around my wrist. The room disappears around us.
When we appear at the Court of the Moon, I expect to find myself in the throne room. Instead, I’m in the entrance of a small sitting room. The king is lounging on a red wingback chair. The goblin releases my arm, the room spins, and I fall to the ground before I can get my feet under me.
Bile rises in my throat, and I put the back of my hand to my mouth.
“Abriella, you’re looking lovely,” the king says. He’s dressed in all black today—from his pants to his crisp tunic to the velvet robe draped across his shoulders. Even his fingernails have been painted black. Three sentries stand on either side of him, forked tongues darting out every so often, as if they can taste danger in the air.
I lift my chin even as nausea grips me. I refuse to show weakness in front of this male—though in honesty I’d find some enjoyment in vomiting on the king. “I’ve had your mirror for a week. I don’t appreciate being kept waiting.”
“Nor I,” he says, his tone bored. “And it took you longer than I expected. My spies tell me you ultimately asked the golden prince for it. That’s so clever. I only wish they’d been able to see what payment he required for that favor. I certainly hope he made the most of it.”
Nausea is replaced by anger in a flash, and cracks of darkness web out from my fingertips on the marble floor. The king’s sentries reach for their swords, and I spare a glance at the endless depths revealed in the crumbling marble.
Whatever this power of mine is, it blossoms in the Unseelie palace.
“Well now.” The king’s eyes darken, and his nostrils flare as he looks at the mess I’ve made. “I see you haven’t learned to control your magic yet.”
I haven’t even learned what it can do yet, apparently. I certainly didn’t know I could do this. But I make a fist and concentrate on winding the power back into myself. I imagine it coiled in my gut, not dormant, but like a powerful snake—alert and ready to strike.
The king scans my face. “What I wouldn’t give for such a gift.”
I don’t care what he thinks about my powers, and I don’t want to stay here any longer than I have to. It’s not the court I object to, but Mordeus. The way he looks at me—as if he wants to climb inside my brain and take a look around. It makes my skin crawl. I push myself off the floor and straighten my shift as best I can. “Let me see my sister.”