Bring Me Their Hearts(3)
There’s a silence, and then a shock wave ripples through the room, carrying gasps and frenzied whispers with it. The celeon guards grip their halberds and narrow their catlike eyes, their tails swishing madly. Any one of them could rip me in half as easily as paper, though it wouldn’t kill me. It’d just betray me as a Heartless—a witch’s servant—to the entire noble court, which is considerably worse than having your insides spilled on the marble. Witches are Old God worshippers and fought against humans in the Sunless War. We are the enemy.
I’m the enemy, wearing the mask of a noble girl who’s just said something very insulting about her king in the foolish hopes of catching the prince’s attention.
The queen clutches her handkerchief to her chest, clearly offended at my words. The king raises one eyebrow. The prince, on the other hand, smiles. It’s so slow and luxurious I barely see it form, and then all at once his face is practically gleeful. He’s handsome, I think to myself—handsome enough when he isn’t being a hateful dog turd. He tames his expression and clears his throat.
“Are you going to elaborate, or should I have you thrown in the dungeons for slandering the king right here and now?”
The celeon advance, and my unheart quivers. The prince is enjoying the idea of throwing me in the dungeon a little too much for my taste. I raise my chin, carefully keeping my shoulders wide and my face passive. Strong. I will make an impression here, or I will die for my loose tongue. It’s that simple.
Except it isn’t that simple.
Because I can’t die.
Because unlike the girls next to me, I’m not here to impress the king and win a royal’s hand in marriage or a court position for my father.
I’m here for Prince Lucien’s heart.
Literally, not figuratively. Although figuratively would be easier, wouldn’t it? Making boys fall in love is easy, from what little I remember of my human life before—all it takes are compliments and batting eyelashes and a low-cut dress or five and they’re clay putty in your hands. But I’m here for the organ beating in his chest, and it will be mine, by gambit or by force. In order to get that close, I must earn his trust. The prince expects idiots and sycophants. I must give him the opposite. I must be brilliance itself, a diamond dagger between the flesh of his stagnant noble life.
“To the common people of this country,” I press on, “one potato can mean the difference between starving in winter and making it through to spring. A single potato means life. A single potato is a saving grace. To the king’s people living in his villages, in his kingdom, nothing is more precious than one potato.”
The murmur that goes around the room is hushed, confusion written on the nobles’ faces. They have no idea, I’m sure, of what it’s like to starve. But it’s all I’ve ever known.
I lock eyes with the prince once more. His face, too, is confused, but in a different way from the crowd’s. He looks at me like he’s never seen a person before, as if I’m some odd specimen kept in a cool cellar for later study by a polymath. The boredom in his gaze is gone, replaced with a strange, stiff sort of shock. I should look away, act modest or shy, but I don’t. I make my eyes sing the determined words my mouth can’t say.
I am no flower to be ravaged at your whim, angry wolf—I am your hunter, bow cocked and ready. I am a Heartless, one of the creatures your people fled from in terror thirty years ago.
I let the smallest, hungriest smirk of mine loose on him.
If you were smart, you’d start running, too.
The queen smiles, squeezing the king’s arm, and the king laughs. Nothing about it is bland or subdued; it leaks with the hoarse edges of unbridled amusement. For the briefest moment as he smiles at me, he looks ten years younger.
“What is your name, clever little Bride?”
My mind says, Zera, no last name, daughter of a merchant couple whose faces I’m starting to forget: Orphan, Thief, Lover of bad novels and good cake, and indentured servant of the witch Nightsinger, who sent me here to rip your son’s heart from his chest.
I dip into a wobbly curtsy instead and spill my lie with a smile. “Zera Y’shennria, Your Majesty; niece of Quin Y’shennria, Lady of the House of Y’shennria and Ravenshaunt. Thank you for having me here today.”
Thank you, and I’m sorry.
As sorry as a monster can be.
Five days earlier
I’ve been stabbed.
This is, unfortunately, nothing new to me.
“Kavar’s teeth.” I swear the New God’s name, twisting my arm behind me and fingering the dagger’s handle. “This was my favorite dress.”
One moment I’m walking on the forest road back home, and the next I’m skewered like a village pig. I make a mental note to mark this night in my nonexistent diary as the best one ever.
The willowy figure that stabbed me stands in front of me, a dark, hooded cloak obscuring his face and body. I have no idea who he is—but he moved too fast to be human, and he’s too tall to be one of the pale Beneather race that lives underground. The swishing blue tail tipped with fur is a dead giveaway—definitely a celeon assassin, a member of a catlike race that thinks quick and strikes quicker.
“Are you just going to stand there?” I pant, my fingers meeting the slick river of blood running down the laces of my bodice. “If you want to kill me, I’d prefer you make it quicker than this.”