House of Pounding Hearts (The Kingdom of Crows #2)(5)

“Aoife is Imogen’s sister,” Phoebus explains.

Beneath her black mask of makeup rests the same small feather that adorns every Crow’s cheekbone. “You met Immy?”

The memory of Lorcan’s colleague abrades my already tetchy mood.

“We ran into her and Ríhbiadh on our way over.” Everyone at our table—and not at our table—grows quiet when Phoebus drops Lorcan’s last name.

“Well, I’m nice one.” Eefah leans over the table, her long braid swishing past shoulders that are wider than Giana’s, but not quite as wide as Riccio’s. Probably from all the flying.

I try to remember if Imogen’s were as wide, but the hallway in which we met was dark and I was rather busy glowering at my jailer.

“You and me have so much in common, Aoife.” Sybille grins tauntingly at her older sister, who rolls her eyes.

“I personally prefer Gian—” Before Phoebus can pop the last a out, Sybille pinches an orange rind off an otherwise bare platter and launches it at our friend’s pretty face. It hits his tall forehead and slithers down his nose before plopping onto the table. “Just proving my point, Syb.” He knuckles the slimy juice off his skin. “Oh, and you’ll pay for that later.”

She smiles as though daring him to get her back. Which he will. Phoebus always strikes back, but unlike Syb, who’s of the act-first-ask-questions-later tribe, Pheebs is imbued with an inordinate amount of patience.

“So, Imogen works with your king?” I ask.

“Your king?”

“Morrgot. Or whatever it is your people call him.” The Crow word leaves a bad taste in my mouth because, for the longest time, I thought it was Lorcan’s name. Well, his birds’ name—names. It was Dante who corrected my awry assumption by offering me the translation: Your Highness.

“Your people?” Eefah’s brow puckers. “Cathal is father, no?”

“Yup.” Sybille bumps her shoulder into mine.

Eefah’s forehead smooths. “You are Crow too, Fallon. Lorcan Ríhbiadh is your king, too.”

“Lorcan Reebyaw will never be my king.” My avowal is met with vicious hisses.

Hmm . . . There are few things I enjoy more than being challenged, Behach ?an.

My gaze snaps to the tavern entrance where I expect to find Lorcan. When I don’t see him, I scan every shadow for golden pinpricks. That wasn’t me challenging you.

And yet, I feel challenged.

Although I think the words, my lips also shape them, “It’s not a challenge.”

“What’s not a challenge?” Syb asks.

“Nothing,” I grumble.

“I’m guessing Fallon took after her birth mother.” Riccio rubs the stubbled edge of his jaw. “I hear the princess of Shabbe was quite the looker.”

The blood drains from my face. “You know?” I stare around the table, seeking scrunched brows but finding none. “You all know?”

“Lazarus told us,” Sybille says softly, as though she senses that speaking any louder would make me snap.

I hunt the dim tavern for the giant Fae healer with the silver hair but don’t find him amongst the patrons.

“He assumed we already knew since Antoni knew,” Gia adds.

I whip my gaze toward the boat captain. Although his irises are the same blue as Dante’s, they somehow seem darker tonight, like the ocean that stretches between Luce and Shabbe instead of the midday sky. “Since when?”

He inhales deeply, his jaw as stiff as my spine. “Since that night in the woods with Bronwen.”

The night he trailed me to where Bronwen was waiting for me with Furia. How I miss the stallion Dante rode away on. One more reason I have to loathe the new Fae king.

“Zendaya was great beauty.” Eefah sighs as Connor returns with a jug, which I hope contains more Crow wine, and a platter piled high with grilled vegetables and fruits.

No dead animal in sight. No seeds, either.

“Was?” I look away from the colorful mound striped black like everything else in this kingdom. “Is she—dead?”

“No.” The answer comes from behind me.

I twist around on the bench, my gaze climbing up . . . and up . . . and up.

“Your mother is alive.” The gruff timbre accenting the male’s Lucin raises the fine hairs on my arms.

Eefah gasps and rambles something in Crow I don’t catch, because every gram of my attention is concentrated on the male swathed in smoke.

“?lo, daughter.”





Three





Time stops as I take in the man who made me; this elusive father I’ve only just learned about.

Although I’ve seen him in visions, the glimpses I’ve had of him don’t compare to the actual person. He’s taller, larger, and completely more terrifying in real life.

His nose looks to have been bashed in by an entire mountain, his whiskered jaw is jagged enough to saw through tree trunks, his hair is a chin-length storm cloud, and his eyes . . . they’re the darkest shade of black, darker than the murder of Crows that cloaked the sun the day Lorcan roused his people. They are eyes that have soaked up all the rage in the world and stored it.

This rage and the blood it enflames are the only things this man and I have in common. In no other way do we resemble one another.