The Fae Princes (Vicious Lost Boys #4)(10)

I don’t disagree.

“That work for you?” I ask him.

“That works just fine.”

Thick clouds roll in, stealing the light from the town square. I turn back for the road.

“I hope god spares you, old man. It would be a shame to lose these tasty nuts.”





The guards at the gate to the fae palace let me through with no trouble at all. In fact, they seem rather despondent.

I suppose it’s not entirely unexpected, considering how inept they are at their jobs.

But when I walk into the palace at the southern gate, I get a better sense of why they may be misfiring on their duties.

The palace is in chaos.

Not the kind of chaos you can see, like a tornado or a severed head. The quieter kind. Like the buzzing energy of a crowd gathered round a bomb waiting for it to go off.

No one is shouting, but I get the distinct impression everyone is silently screaming.

Cup of nuts still in hand, I make my way to the throne room, passing clusters of fae as I go. Most are in their regal daywear—coats embroidered with gold thread or dresses sewn with jewels.

Also not unusual in and of itself. I’ve spent a lot of time in royal courts and some are always dressed to dazzle. The Remaldis never went anywhere looking less than filthy rich.

The last time I was in the fae palace, there was more restraint, as if they were accustomed to dressing casually on a daily basis and only brought out their finest when they needed to impress or celebrate.

And if they were not interested in impressing a visiting island court, then what are they dressed for now?

I stop a passing fae with wings the color of pearls and a dark emerald dress stitched with thread to match. “Where is your queen?” I ask her.

The girl is in a rush somewhere and the first emotion to hit her face is annoyance. And then she takes in my bloody and tattered shirt and clenches her teeth into a deep grimace.

And then her eyes catch my face.

On a good day, my face can open doors and legs.

A startled breath escapes the girl’s throat, and her feet try to carry her away.

I snatch her by the wrist and drag her back to me, and the startled breath turns into a loud gasp.

“Not so fast, little faeling.”

I don’t know how old she actually is. The fae age in mysterious ways, just the same as me. She could be seventeen or half past seven hundred.

But I’m guessing closer to the former by the way her body trembles in my grip.

She’s old enough to have heard of me, young enough to fear me.

“Where is your queen?” I repeat.

“I believe she’s in the throne room, my lord.”

My lord. Good god. So old-fashioned. Technically, I am a baron on Winterland because I ate the enemies of the king and he gave me the title as a gift. But this little faeling doesn’t know that.

“Crocodile is fine,” I tell her and then lean in and lower my voice. “Or Beast.”

Several servants rush past, arms burdened with baskets of fruit. I look past the girl to take in the rest of the activity filling the great hall. Everyone is doing. Hardly anyone is gossiping, the true currency of any court.

“Are you preparing for a celebration?” I ask.

The girl nods and her wings flutter quickly behind her. “Tonight. Yes, my…I mean…Crocodile, sir.”

I let up my grip. “Carry on, then. Perhaps I will see you tonight.” I flash her my teeth, and she squeaks and darts away.

A celebration explains the finer clothing, but what the fuck are they celebrating?

Nothing has changed in the great hall. The tapestries are the same—several depicting their fae gods in various vignettes. Battles and feasts and revelry. The carpet lining the hall is the same as it was when I visited with the Remaldis.

Something is amiss.

I follow the bright red carpet several lengths down the hall until I come to the closed double doors of the throne room. There are no guards here manning the door, protecting the queen.

The handle is oversized and heavy. Bronze, if I had to guess. It’s cold in my grip. When I press down on the lever, the mechanisms inside clank loudly, and then the door groans when I push it in.

I find the throne room empty except for the queen.

“I said to leave me!” Her voice echoes around the cavernous space. The room may descend below ground, but it’s a giant dome with a ceiling of webbed vines and glowing lanterns.

With her back to me, she must think I’m some lowly servant or guard.

I close the doors behind me and then take a step.

The queen swivels around, her wings beating at her back, lifting her slippered feet off the stone floor.

“I said to—” Her shout fills the space again, the words coming back in an echo when she abruptly cuts herself off.

Wings slowing, her feet return to the floor. “Crocodile.”

“We need to talk.”

“Not now.” She turns away from me and goes to the bar. There is already an uncorked bottle of fairy wine on the top and a glass beside it with a swill of liquid inside.

Fairies love their wine but their queen never partakes.

She fills the glass halfway and upends it.

I come down the steps.

“For a queen about to host a celebration, you don’t seem in a genial mood.”

She snorts, filling the glass again.