10. Dancing with Ghosts

Chapter 10

Dancing with Ghosts

LORI

T he Winter ballroom is four times as big as the Shadow Court's banquet hall. Tall, checkered windows open to the gardens, and the frosted glass panes give the whole room a dramatic flair. Crystal chandeliers twinkle about our heads, and a dizzying spark of wonder steals my breath as my eyes latch onto the vaulted ceiling.

By the spindle… The fall of the Mist King.

After the Mist Wars—deadly, decades-long wars that had reduced the Fae population by half—each of the first kingdoms commissioned a mural to commemorate their victory over the scourge of the Islantide.

Sheets of precious metals have been chiseled, carved, etched, or burnished to create an incredibly detailed mosaic. My jaw hangs open, my eyes bulging from the effort to take it all in, but I could spend an entire week in this room and only grasp at a fraction of what the artist immortalized here.

While the Winter King made us revel in the wait for his royal behind, Byron instructed us to trade in the cheap plastic masks for masquerade ones, and the accessory soothes my nerves, its weight similar to the one I use to travel through the sceawere. Lost in the beauty of the mural, I graze the mask's feathery edge with trembling fingers and hold on to my hood, the thick fur threatening to slide down. My neck reprimands me for the strain, but it's just so monumental…

The mural ebbs at the edges, no trim framing the mosaic so the story can continue to be written as it unfolds. History's never finished , my father used to say.

"Are you a history buff, Sixteen?" Poppy asks, jolting me back to reality.

She was in the last batch of blind dates—number 48—and I haven't seen her since the welcome speech.

Aster wrinkles her nose as she searches the ceiling for an explanation. "What is that?"

Poppy quiets down and chooses her words carefully, but not the way you whisper when you don't want anyone to hear, no. The vibrant shade of her flushed cheeks and the rush in her breaths hint that whatever she's about to speak of is forbidden—or taboo. "Back then, there were not two but three types of Fae. Light Fae bloomed from the Sun, Spring, and Summer Courts. Darklings brewed from storms, winter, and shadows and out of blood-drenched, red soil." She takes a measured pause. "Last but not least—beads of mist coalesced over the tropical mountains of the Islantide. The Mist Fae worshiped Kahlee, the goddess of chaos, destruction, and transformation. They were incredibly fast learners, mind readers, and engineers that could merge disparate seeds of magic."

Aster wrinkles her nose. "But High Spring Fae can often yield darker magic."

Poppy lowers her voice even more. "I'm not talking about the way a talented High Fae can become proficient at two or three schools of magic. Not like Seth, who's an amalgam of light and dark. No, the Mist Fae created technology that allowed them to melt down magic in its purest form and forge it into jewels, bestowing immense power upon their wearers. At the height of his power, the Mist King had so many of these jewels embedded in his skin that he rivaled the Gods themselves."

"What happened to them?" Aster asks.

"All the Mist Fae were slaughtered after the war, and their jewels were supposedly destroyed. But legend says a handful managed to avoid execution and went into hiding. And now, their descendants walk among us, waiting for a chance to strike back." Poppy races through the last part for effect, her fingers extended in front of her like claws.

Daisy huffs, clearly not buying Poppy's story. "That's fantasy. Mist Fae have been extinct for centuries. The only remnants of their religion were the Tidecallers, and even they must have died out by now?—"

"Mm. Ladies?" A staff member motions for us to hand off our stuffy cloaks, his arm outstretched.

While the four of us were chatting in a huddle, the other brides switched out their winter boots for heels and touched up their appearance, and we quickly do the same. The distraction leaves us at the back of the pack, the others now much closer to the stage, a sea of strangers now standing between us and the hosts.

I squint at the Fae men and women that streamed in while I was admiring the ceiling. "Who are these people?"

"About three hundred courtiers have the honor of attending the Yule ball in person to get an exclusive first-look at the contestants," Poppy says. The rumples of her blood-red gown lick the floor, her figure enhanced by the steep bustier.

I finally shrug off the heavy fur cloak, and Daisy snickers. "A wedding dress, really?"

The white dress Seth forced me into earns me frowns and grimaces from my peers. He insisted on this specific dress, the halter neckline and laced train perfectly ordinary, and I thought everyone would be wearing a similar one.

But that's not the case. No one else is wearing a vintage wedding dress, and I press my lips together.

"She's certainly bold, that one." Poppy shoots me a baring look from beneath her long lashes, her voice still full of intrigue. "I wonder if this has anything to do with her resemblance to the dead queen?"

"What are you talking about?" Daisy asks a little too loudly, the courtiers around us now ogling my dress, too.

Poppy wiggles her perfectly plucked eyebrows, her cheeks rosy and glowing. "Oh, yes. Lori here is a ringer for the dead woman we saw this morning."

Aster shakes her head. "Really? I didn't notice."

"Of course you didn't," Poppy says. "So, spill. Are you related to her or something?"

Before I can tell her it's none of her business, Paul taps his microphone and smiles widely at the crowd from the little stage in front of the DJ. "Esteemed guests. Lovely brides. The time has come to kick off the Yule ball—sorry again to everyone watching us at home for the delay." He slides a scroll from his jacket and raises it in the air. "I have here the names of the brides that didn't make the cut. If you hear yours, please exit the ballroom through the left. Members of our staff will be ready to escort you home."

My fist curls at my side.

"Heidi Clyde. Michelle Solinsky…"

Paul reads from his parchment, and whispers explode across the ballroom. It's a humiliating way to deal with eliminations. The discarded women are forced to walk off under the watchful eyes of the cameras. A recipe for drama. The names are read in no particular order, which means none of us is safe until the very end.

"And the last bride to be eliminated before the Yule ball is…My-Loc Huynh."

In the end, Daisy, Aster, Poppy, and I are all safe, along with two other Spring seeds.

Sarafina joins her fellow host on the stage. A sparkling white Charleston dress with long fringes and silver sequins hangs from her slender body, a feathery headpiece tied around her head. "Now, let's admit love isn't all that blind, and welcome the Winter King to the inauguration ball," she says on a mischievous grin.

A spotlight sparks to life to reveal the location of the Winter King. He leans casually against the wall at the back of the ballroom with his hands tucked in his tuxedo's pockets. The perfect image of jaded youth—completely different to the poised army leader I saw—but it's a dangerous illusion.

His irises shine with the resplendent glow of seawater caught in crystal, hinting at the immense power brewing beneath his royal facade. His platinum-blonde waves combine runway-chic with the nonchalance of a royal who knows he's the most powerful man alive, and the devil-may-care glint in his eyes could turn me to ice if he so desired.

The silk lapels of his navy tuxedo offer a scandalous glimpse of his naked chest, his skin white—yet not pale. It glows from within, the attractive luster interrupted only by a few blue freckles at his neck.

He pushes off the wall and approaches the small stage with the swagger of a movie star. The front of his jacket hangs open, offering a jaw-dropping view of his chiseled abs and the Fae runes tattooed over his left pectoral muscle. Darker ink stalks from the mass of intricate drawings to form the shape of an eyeless skull as the corner of Elio's mouth curls up in the shadow of a smile. "Thank you, Sara."

The boom of his chilly voice riddles my arms with goosebumps, and my gaze trips over the hem of his tailored pants to reach the ground, my cheeks too red for my taste.

Jeez… That dude definitely spends way too much time in the gym.

Sarafina beams at him with a wide, enamored smile. "The public will vote for their favorite brides all night, and tomorrow, only twenty of them will start their travels with us."

Elio offers the cameras a wink as he buttons up his jacket with long, nimble fingers. "Choose wisely, please."

My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, and I'm reminded why women flock to his contest every year of their own free will. It's not just about the apples, the money, or the clout. The Winter King is fucking gorgeous.

Death wrapped in wolf's clothing.

His raw charisma angers me, especially knowing how heartless and dangerous he actually is.

Elio raps his fingers on the speaker next to him. "Now… let's dance."

Music pounds through the gigantic ballroom, and nightlights freckle the dance floor.

Seth leans into my ear, speaking loudly for me to hear him over the music. "As long as he sees you, you're good. So make sure to catch his eye."

The relief at getting past the blind dates challenge is short-lived, the roil in my stomach back in full-force. "You're awfully sure of yourself. What if he sees me and doesn't care?"

"Don't worry. I'm not about to stake our victory on the whims of that ice cube. The next two rounds will be decided by the public, and if Elio loses his shit when he sees you as dramatically as I think he will, your resemblance to his dead queen will make sure that we stick around." He pushes me toward the bar. "Go and grab a drink now. And remember to look pretty."

"I hate you," I grumble.

"You're welcome."

I elbow my way across the dance floor, trying to peer over the crowd and see where the king is, but I'm shorter than most of the other guests. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth as I head to the bar, thirsty for some liquid courage. "A Spring tonic, please."

The entire bar is made of ice and stretches the length of the ballroom. Rows and rows of bottles add a splash of color to the set-up, the lights shining through the orange, pink, purple, blue, and green shades of hard liquor.

I play with my fingers as the barman shakes the cocktail, my stomach coiled in a hard knot.

What the fuck am I doing here? I snatch the drink from his hands after he's done and gulp it down in a few swigs. I usually steer clear of sweet drinks, but I'm not supposed to be familiar with Fae cocktails.

"Do you have anything stronger?" I ask.

"Eager to get drunk, eh?" he asks in a thick Irish accent.

"You could say that."

A small chuckle escapes him as he shakes together a shadow mule. "The wedding dress's a little much, don't ye think?"

"My sponsor's a big ass." I lick my lips and grab the classic drink from the glossy countertop—about ready to turn on my heel and storm to Seth's room for my mask so I can get the fuck out of this frozen kingdom.

The smokey, bitter aromas of the familiar drink melt on my tongue. I can do this. For Ayaan.

The Winter King leans on the other end of the bar and hails the barman, stealing him away, and my heart booms. No other bride has elected to get shit-faced, which leaves the counter mostly empty, but the horde of women hovering around Elio forms a shield between us.

He orders a drink and answers a few of their questions with a perfect air of boredom. The brazen way they encroach on his personal space coaxes a wince out of me. Can't they read body language? The guy looks annoyed , not charmed.

It's not the vibe I expected. Most men would jump at the opportunity to bed as many of these beautiful women as possible. Elio certainly didn't seem shy or introverted earlier.

I tilt my head back and gulp down the rest of the shadow mule, tethering on the edge. I've almost made up my mind to leave when his characteristic ice-blue gaze crosses mine.

The loud conversations, the raucous commotion of the dancers… everything fades under Elio's scrutiny. His ungodly eyes widen, and his brows pull together in a deeper and deeper frown.

A cold, slithering sensation laces up my spine.

The serene face of the dead woman exposed under his Hawthorn tree flashes in my mind. How shocked he must be to see a fragment of it amongst the guests—a living ghost of his beloved.

A man sits at the bar between us and blocks my line of sight, breaking the spell. Ragged breaths quake my ribcage as I grip the skirt of my dress. Magic bubbles beneath the surface of my skin, but I desperately rein in my shadows not to blow my cover and wade back into the crowd gathered on the dance floor.

I skirt around a boisterous Fae couple, my fingers clenched around the modest train of the dress. Behind them, a pair of double doors beckons.

First a sharp left to avoid a burly man.

A quick right to slip between two Winter brides.

Tiny shadows drape over my shoulders, followed by a burst of speed.

Almost there.

My pulse throbs at my temples as I dash to the exit and risk a glance behind me. From the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of platinum-blond hair, and my heart screeches past my feet.

Just when I think I'm going to make it out of the ballroom unscathed, a confident hand shoots out of the mass and curls around my lower arm. Thorns of ice scatter along my skin at his touch and force me to a halt, blue lines creeping over my wrist.

I stifle a gasp and spin around to face the Winter King.

With a puzzled look—perhaps the madness-induced confusion of a man who doesn't know if he's dreaming—Elio Lightbringer peels the masquerade mask off my face and lets go of me with a start.

The sting of frost melts from my arm as his lips part, and the muscles in his neck tighten in ropes of emotion, flicking in and out of view.

My neck hurts from the effort to look away, but my body is not listening to my commands and glares right back at him, the way no one should stare at a stranger. He looks about to pass out.

I open my mouth to speak, but the storm passing over his immortal face short-circuits my rational thoughts. For a brief moment, the ice in his eyes vanishes, revealing a deeper turmoil—an ocean of turquoise waters, endless and cold. An abyss of regrets.

His tortured gaze finally drops to my dress, and his jaw clenches. He balls his fists and scouts the ballroom for an answer, looking about ready to murder me.

Seth slithers to my side and offers a quick, fake-as-hell bow to the Winter King. "Ah, Elio. How do you find my favorite candidate? She's exquisite, isn't she?"

The king punches my sponsor without a shred of warning, and Seth is shoved about five feet back. The storm prince tumbles to the sleek white marble tiles with a loud thump , bringing an unlucky guest with him on his trajectory.

In the background, I hear the commentators reel at the violence of the blow, and the music actually fades away this time, all eyes on us. Disappointed whispers and questions buzz through the brides and courtiers.

Paul raises his voice. "By the spindle, did you all see what just happened? The king picked a fight with one of the sponsors. Who's the girl standing between them, Sara?"

"Let me see. Her name is Lori, and she's a Spring seed presented today by Seth Devine."

Paul rushes through the crowd. "Seth Devine… Why am I not surprised? But what is she wearing? A wedding dress?"

As if on cue, the fabric of my dress ices over. The Winter King holds my incensed gaze as he rips the skirt and train to shreds. The frozen silk crumbles in his grasp, and I'm left gasping for breath in my corset, unable to speak, run, or fight—a first for me.

The old-fashioned undergarments and fishnet stockings shield me from the prying lenses of the camera zooming in on my awestruck face.

The Winter King freezes all the nearby electronics like they're weeds defiling the beauty of his pristine gardens, and the eyeballs rain down in a cacophony of metallic thuds around us.

"I don't know who you are, where you come from, or how Seth managed to get you here, and I don't care," he whispers in a low growl that ices the heart, his chest heaving. "You drop out, and you drop out now, or I will turn your life—or what little's left of it—into a very special kind of hell. Is that clear?"

"Crystal."

He spins on his heels and stomps beyond the roped off section, leaving the ballroom in four strides.

Paul sticks a microphone under my chin. "What did he say, Lori? What did the king say to you, and why did he punch your sponsor?" He glances away from the cameras and meets my gaze.

Sara skids to a stop behind him, her jaw hanging slightly agape.

I blink at the two Fae hosts and chew the insides of my cheeks. Stabbing one or both of them is probably a sure way to get eliminated.

"My oh my… You look just like—" Paul stops short of saying Iris's name, and silence falls over the ballroom. The two hosts exchange a worried glance.

"Don't just stand there in shock. Tell the world." Seth grips the microphone from Paul and grins from ear to ear. "Lori here is a ringer for my dear cousin Iris, is she not?"

"Where are you from, Lori?" Sara asks in a queasy, muted tone. "And where did you find that dress?"

I open my mouth to speak, to play the game, but the Winter King's horrified grimace is still imprinted in my brain.

And I did that.

The darkness in his eyes when he ripped away the skirt of my gown shivers through me once more. "I—I can't…"

"That'll be all for tonight. Excuse us," Seth pulls me toward the exit, his body shielding me from the vicious glares of my fellow contestants.

Blood returns to my cheeks and brain once we reach the gardens. My heels sink deep in the snow, the sudden pain in my calves slapping me back to reality.

I slip out of the nonsensical shoes and throw one of them at the prince's smug face. "What the fuck, Seth?"

He veers off the projectile's path with a feline smile. "Don't fret. You made an impression. That's all that matters."

I chew on that for a moment and feel my resolve sharpen. Seth is right. The Winter King's threat has reminded me of who he truly is—the King of Death. He snagged my father's soul—just as he takes all mortals—and used it to increase his own power. I can't allow myself to be swayed by his grief when he cares so little for mine.

"Seth!" Sarafina half-runs toward us, a cloak and a pair of boots bunched in her arms. She dumps the items at my feet without a single look. "What kind of sick game are you playing?"

My feet are already half frozen, and I cower inside the winter clothes with a low hum.

Sara slaps my sponsor straight across the face, and the sound echoes in the quiet gardens. "I spoke out for you, you dipshit! And you use some weak-ass enchantment to turn one of your candidates into Iris? I will kill you myself!"

"Easy, Sara." Seth backs away from her with his palms up in surrender. "She's real."

"Pfft! No way."

"See for yourself." He motions in my direction, and the pale-skinned woman walks all the way into my bubble.

Hands tucked deep in the pockets of the fur cloak, I summon my daggers, ready to fight if she strikes first.

"Well…" she licks her lips. "Just because I can't figure out how you did it doesn't mean she's real. I should throw you and your Spring seeds out tonight."

Seth's face softens the way it does when he's trying to reel me in. "The citizens of Wintermere are losing interest in the pageant. Elio's popularity with the masses has never been this low. Don't pretend this won't help your cause. The more they watch, the more they feel connected to him, the less likely it is for him to be overthrown."

"Because you have his best interest at heart, of course," Sara says on an eyeroll. "I won't join forces with you. Not at Elio's expense. A doppelg?nger is one thing, but to have her wear Iris's actual wedding dress? That's just cruel."

Byron flies in, his wings flapping so fast, I can barely see them. "Mistress, I need you inside. Now. "

The guard running to catch up with him isn't a reaper, but he's wearing a similar uniform without sleeves—only gray instead of white.

Jaw clenched, Sarafina shakes her head and walks away. "Excuse me."

I dismiss my shadow daggers, the pockets of my cloak shredded to bits, and my heart in a similar state of disrepair. If I'd known, I would never have worn the damn dress. I look down at my fishnet stockings, happy to be rid of it.

"I can't believe you made me wear a dead woman's wedding gown. That's seriously fucked up."

Seth scratches the back of his neck. "I'll go back inside, but you go ahead and rest. Your early departure will only add to your mystery."

"Elio wants me to drop out. He was very clear about that," I croak.

His eyes dart to the guard before he returns to my side and lowers his voice. "He can't force you to drop out. The scene he just made assures us an easy win in the polls. People here crave drama and entertainment over a happy ending, and you are now the embodiment of both."

Arms crossed over my cloak, I scoff, and a puff of white smoke rises in the air between us. "You should have at least warned me."

Seth pats my shoulder in a soothing manner. "Don't lose sight of our mission. The end justifies the use of an old, creepy wedding gown. Trust me. We have him now."