Protect the Prince (Crown of Shards #2)(21)

I ground my teeth to keep from sniping back at him. I would never win a war of words with Felton, despite his current situation.

“You should be nicer to your queen,” Serilda snapped, her voice taking on a hard edge. “She’s the only reason you are enjoying your current accommodations, instead of bleeding from every orifice.”

She waved her hand at a table in the corner covered with swords, daggers, and tools. I could smell the stench of old, dried blood on them all the way across the room. Curiously enough, more blood coated the tools than the weapons. Or maybe that wasn’t curious at all, considering where we were.

Serilda wandered over and picked up a small hammer. Then she started flipping it end over end in her hand, as though she was getting a feel for the tool the same way she would a sword. The motions made a small pendant glitter in the hollow of her throat—a swan made of shards of black jet with a blue tearstone eye and beak. Another one of Alvis’s designs, just like the bracelet on my wrist and the sword and the dagger belted to my waist.

“Surely you haven’t forgotten how quickly I can make someone talk,” Serilda purred. “After all, you stood here many times and watched me work on those who would have done Cordelia and Bellona great harm.”

Felton’s gaze locked onto the hammer. He swallowed and scuttled away from the cell bars, as if remembering just how ruthless she had been in defending her queen and kingdom.

I knew that the palace guards had nicknamed Serilda the Black Swan years ago because of all the death she’d brought to Cordelia’s enemies, but I hadn’t realized that she had tortured those enemies for information too. I wasn’t surprised, though. Once Serilda gave you her loyalty, it was yours for life. Even though Cordelia had thrown her out of Seven Spire for daring to suggest that Vasilia would one day kill the queen, Serilda had kept on helping Cordelia as best she could from afar.

“There’s no need for threats,” I said. “I know how to loosen Felton’s lips.”

“You?” He sneered at me again. “Break me? Please. You’re even more delusional than I thought, Everleigh.”

I walked over so that I was standing on the opposite side of the bars from him. “You seem to forget that I spent the last fifteen years being tortured by you every single day. Don’t you recall all those boring teas, recitals, and charity luncheons you took such obvious, gleeful delight in ordering me to attend? Because I certainly do. I also remember all the nasty things you said to me. All the times you mocked my appearance or lack of magic or whatever else you found fault with.”

The sneer slipped from his face, and he gave me a far warier look. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I spent a lot of time at those events daydreaming about how I would get my revenge on you, if the chance ever presented itself.” I held my hands out wide. “And that fortuitous day has finally arrived.”

Felton shook his head, as if pushing away his fear. “And what are you going to do, Everleigh? Unlike Serilda, you don’t have the stomach or the spine for torture.”

I slammed my hand up against the bars. Felton jumped back at the sharp bang, ruining his attempt to remain cool and unconcerned.

“And that’s where you’re wrong, you vicious little weasel,” I hissed. “I would happily cut you to ribbons for what you did to Isobel. Not to mention all the other people who died during the massacre. Part of me wants to do it anyway. Not for any sort of information, but just to make you hurt, just to watch you bleed, just to hear you scream.”

Felton swallowed again. He saw the cold rage on my face and heard the icy fury in my voice. Good. I might be a pretender queen, but I wasn’t pretending when it came to this, and these weren’t empty threats.

“But luckily for me, I don’t have to bathe in your blood to make you talk. I don’t have to cut you with a sword or dagger. I have to do only one simple thing.”

“And what’s that?” he whispered.

I smiled. “Take away your boots.”

Felton’s black eyes widened, and his gaze dropped to his precious boots, the last remaining vestige of who and what he had been.

“Vanity is a weakness, Felton,” I said in a soft voice. “And I have never, ever seen you without those boots. When I was younger, I used to think there was something wrong with your feet. In my kinder, more fanciful moments, I imagined that you were a merman, or some other fairy-tale creature, and that those boots were your way of hiding your webbed toes. But as I got older, I realized that you simply didn’t like being the shortest person in the room. After all, that makes it so much harder to look down your nose at other people. Either way, I think it’s finally time to satisfy my curiosity, don’t you?”

“You wouldn’t dare,” he protested.

I leaned forward so that he could see exactly how serious I was. “I don’t have to dare anything. I am the queen, and I will slice you to shreds for fun.”

He stared back at me, and I saw something in his eyes that I had never seen before—fear.

“Your choice, Felton. You can either tell me everything you know about Maeven, or you can lose your boots. And if that doesn’t make you talk, well, we can always try Serilda’s bloodier methods. I’m quite eager to give them a go.”

He wet his lips and opened his mouth, but no words came out. I gave him another moment, but he still didn’t speak, so I turned around, as though I was going to leave, and winked at Serilda. Her lips twitched, but she held back her smile.