Torrent of Tears (Scourge Survivor Series Book 3)(61)

She shook her head and turned to me, her eyes glassy. “What the Queen has done cannot be undone . . . but to know my brother speaks of it . . .”

“Oh, gods, Elani, I’m sorry. Don’t be angry with Rowan. I swear, he only told me so that I can help end this nightmare.” I remembered the pained expression on Rowan’s face as he’d warned me what they did to his little sister if I didn’t stop. Now, I couldn’t stop and he would never forgive me if Elani paid the price. “And Rowan? Have you seen him?”

She shook her head. “One of the Queen’s Strati will come and take me to the consort quarters after. It is the only time he’s allowed to see me . . . and only if he pleases her.”

I pressed my fist against the sharp stab in my gut. My stomach being empty was the only thing that kept me from throwing up. After. That one word stole my breath.

A bright-eyed girl burst through the door and scurried into the foyer. “Everyone, she’s here. She’s back.”

Everyone? Yep. Half a dozen people popped into my personal space, all of them eyeing me like a prize sow at market. I was sooo not in the mood. “What is this?”

Elani transformed from the weepy young girl I’d been speaking with into her servant-girl persona. Emerging from my walk-in closet, she offered me a sad smile. “Your marriage to Lir-Zale is the final event of the Leap Year Celebration. There will be five Eligible’s marrying. Your sisters arranged the ceremony months ago, but there are dozens of last minute preparations to be made. You will begin with beauty treatments, gown, hairstyle, paint colors, what gems you want in what pattern—”

Oh gods. Only by sheer force of will, I struggled against my instinct to kill someone. The dye was cast. Denying Zale would only put everyone in more danger. Gesturing to the little army of carts now lining both sides of the outer bathroom I sighed. “Okay, so what’s all that?”

“Your illusionist’s tools for your beautification.”

“My who . . . for my what?” I followed Elani’s pinched gaze to a skinny, green-skinned male wearing a glittery silver vest. “The Nobles and royal guests are here, gathered for the formal reception tonight. The festivities go well into the morning ending in the outdoor theatre. As the sun rises for the dawning of the new day, you and your sister Eligibles will be presented on stage and wed.”

“Gods, this is all such a nightmare.”

The expression on Elani’s face was far too old for a girl so young. I had seen the same look in too many faces since I came to Attalos.

I looked at the spot where I’d found Tham’s body and closed my eyes. I could still see every stab wound, every score of his ivory flesh, every bruise. What if that was done to Coal, Terran, and Rowan. This was so much bigger than me.

So many others had it much worse than I. If the only way to evoke change in Attalos was through the Noble Council then I needed to get access to the people on that council. With a sickening dread, I solidified my resolve.

Marrying Zale had become the option of necessity.

Mrs. Lir-Dickhead.

“Princess Grace.” A voice from the doorway had me turning. It was Stitch. Pale green hands fidgeted with the tie of his cloak and freed the knot. When he tossed it over the back of the sofa, his hair swayed like a baby duck’s down in a strong breeze. The sight of his mourning band sucked the air from my lungs.

He rushed across the floor. “Thank the Fates you are well. When you failed to return to my shop and I heard about the killings . . .” He pulled a kerchief from his pants pocket and rubbed his face.

“I’m fine.” With an arm across his back I helped him to the sofa and away from prying ears. “I’m sorry you worried. Things happened and I—”

He touched the soft black choker on his throat. “I know what happened.”

Thankfully, before he made reference to Tham, the wedding makeover team kicked into high gear. It seemed, my mother wasn’t convinced a couple of illusionists could whip me into any shape worth presenting to her royal ass-kissers. I ranked having the entire flock swoop in, squawking and flapping like geese. Ordinarily I would have ejected the whole gaggle but as long as no one was safe, I couldn’t make waves.

First came the acid peels, foot scrubs and all manner of spit and polish, thankfully minus any actual spit. Next came the pluck and primp. My put-yer-eye-out hair-spikes were replaced by downy soft curls while my skin was conditioned and my follicles scraped, shaved, moisturized and then massaged. The man was gifted. After stalking the streets on my assassin spree the past two nights, I could have suffered through that kind of torture all afternoon. I even managed an hour of sleep while he worked on my back.

The final makeover brought on the artistry. My nails and face were painted and then two supercilious teenage girls with iridescent wings went to crazy-town gluing tiny purple gems in intricate patterns of filigree down my right side. Their little Bedazzling trek moved across my forehead, down my neck and then headed south, decorating the modest curves of my breast, ribs, hip and thigh.

“I don’t recognize myself,” I said once they finished.

“Success,” the giggle twins chimed in perfect unison, “that’s what we were going for.”

Allrighty then.

In the end, every pore was breathing, every bruise was concealed and with all the customizing of my girl parts I was starting to panic. “Attaloseans don’t get married nude or anything kinky, do they? I will be wearing something at this reception, right?”