35. Nora

35

NORA

T he springtime breeze that floats through the open window feels wrong on my skin. Casimir teases us with the rebirth of nature without allowing us to experience its death. The only reason the balminess of spring soothes us is because we fight off the sting of the winter wind before it.

Without that biting chill, I find myself at the mercy of my memory.

The nightmares love to harvest the field of my subconscious, plucking, like daisies, the worst moments of my life to replay while I slumber. Imogen lies tangled in the sheets next to me, chest rising soft and steady.

You can trust me, Elenora.

I stare at the ceiling.

You'll want to hear what I have to say.

Benevolence's words echo in my head, a record scratching on repeat.

What could he possibly tell me that I don't already know?

The ache in my gut hasn't eased since this morning, and it worsens now, pulling me from our bed. I tiptoe to the bathroom and lean against the porcelain sink, the cool surface icy against my palms. Staring into the mirror, I get lost within the tempest raging in my irises, a swirling mass of sea-storm green; I see myself, but I don't really see myself.

I see the past and the present, colliding with the severity of a bomb.

I see my father naively turning an enemy into a lover.

I see my mother betraying, and in turn being betrayed by, the older brother she once trusted.

I see both my parents trying to make a half-hidden life work for a daughter whom they loved, all to have that same child lure disaster to their doorstep.

I was deluded to think confronting my secrets would be easy. A niggling of regret worms its way between my ribs, the thought that maybe I shouldn't have come here. That I shouldn't have poked the bear that is Patience and instead kept my head down.

But then I take a deep breath and steel my shoulders.

No .

Nothing worthwhile in this life is easy.

I've been traumatized and abused. My mind's been invaded and combed through like it was a stack of paperwork. And my wings have been shorn from my back without a care for the pain it would cause.

I deserve to take every little piece of power I can back.

And that starts right here, right now.

With killing my cousin.

I somehow manage to sneak on a dress without waking Imogen, which is a blessing. The last thing I need is her asking questions, or worse, asking to come with me.

The halls are quiet as I stroll straight through the double doors of the shared ballroom and to the Seelie side of the castle.

It's no wonder the sprites were confused when I first explored the halls. They didn't know where I belonged. They stare at me now, with their heads cocked and their wide, curious eyes drinking me in. Each step I take towards the Seelie revelry feels like an act of rebellion under their scrutiny.

They're smart enough to let me pass, simply pointing me in the right direction with their taloned fingers.

Music grows louder as I climb the steps to a second level of the castle, a sultry cacophony of acoustic instruments. A deep drum holds a steady beat to which strings pluck a melody. Laughter floats alongside the music, a unique harmony.

When I crest the final bend of the spiral staircase, I'm met with a smoky den of debauchery.

You have to give them credit, the party is one out of a storybook.

Where the Unseelie have adapted to modern music, clothing, and social habits, the Seelie have doubled down, embracing more traditional versions of each. Half the dresses are sheer and flowing panels of fabric, draped and tied in a series of intricate designs unique to each wearer. The other half are in garb similar to the queen this morning, crafted with glittering shells, pearls, or beetle wings. The men are mostly shirtless—which makes my eyes roll internally—and sport outdated embroidered trousers.

I am sorely out of place in my simple black frock with beaded tassels that swish past my knees.

The room is decorated with fabrics draped across the ceiling in long strips; smoke curls up to the swaths, but it smells more of herb than tobacco. Some fae dance, some lounge, and some fuck in the darker corners of the room—all of them glowing under the floating Seelie fae-lights that bob across the room.

And of course, there are the wings. They are everywhere, glittering and fluttering and making my back itch with phantom pains.

I didn't have mine for long before Pride decided it was best to "not take any chances" and shear them. It was pure luck that House Pride used the barbaric practice as a test of loyalty; it made it all too easy to explain why a freshly turned sixteen-year-old had such horrid scars on her back.

It was the right decision, in the end.

How do you convince anyone you're Unseelie when you're sporting a pair of green and black butterfly wings?

The gods surely laughed when they gifted me those.

A tanned hand waves over the crowd of fae.

Benevolence .

My eyes narrow on the bare muscular arm that leads to the man. He's sat in the corner on a low chaise lounge with a gaggle of Seelie women draped across him—it's not hard to imagine why, with his dimpled smile and honeyed voice.

Seelie side-eye me as I walk to him, but when I shift my cutting glare their way, they quickly avert their gazes. The Seelie courtiers lack courage.

"Pride," Benevolence croons. "I'm glad you decided to come."

I cross my arms over my chest.

"You wanted to chat. So, let's chat."

His smile falters.

"Excuse me, ladies," he says, oozing with fake charm as he extracts himself from the lounger.

Benevolence leads me between the Seelie revelers, the scents of their sickeningly sweet perfume wafting into my nose as we pass. With his back to me, I'm able to appreciate his wings—there's no denying their beauty, despite what they represent.

They are tucked low, but the design on the four-pronged wings is clear. A deep swath of blue-black expands from between his toned shoulder blades, followed by a band of bright blue and a stripe of white dots. A lacelike pattern of black and white lines the edge of the wings.

As we walk through the side halls of the castle, I hike up my dress, pulling free my knife from its thigh strap. And when Benevolence opens the door to an empty room, I waste no time in kicking it shut behind me. I yank him by his brown locks and press the knife to his throat.

We're the same height, so my mouth fits perfectly against his ear to snarl my command.

"Talk."

"Well, you went to violence quicker than I thought you would." He winces when I dig the knife harder into his throat, pulling a trickle of blood from his veins. "Sorry, sorry. Jeeze, Elenora, they weren't kidding when they said you were ruthless."

"You throw my name and story around like you know me. You don't," I snap. Benevolence's ribs brush against my body in short bursts; his body betrays his panic. "You're stupid for admitting it out loud. At least before, you could feign ignorance, and I could look the other way. Now you're a loose end I have to clean up."

Benevolence raises his hands placatingly.

"Listen, Pride ." His brittle smile falters as he pauses, gauging my reaction to the use of my title. "We were kids when everything with our parents went down. I have no ill will towards you. In fact, I want to help you."

Part of me wants to slide the knife across his perfect skin, let the floors stain red from his blood. The idea of Patience walking in and seeing his firstborn as a lifeless husk on the ground is more alluring than I thought it would be.

But the other part of me needs to know what he knows. What they all know.

And needs outweigh wants.

"I will kill you. Cousin or not," I snarl. "And I don't need magic to do it."

I pull the knife away and shove Benevolence forward. He stumbles a few paces but catches himself on the back of one of the armchairs in the room.

"Clearly," he says, rubbing at his neck with a grimace.

He pulls his fingers back, sticky with blood, and searches the room for something to wipe them off on. The room is devoid of anything but a few chairs around a fireplace and walls lined with bookshelves, so he opts to wipe them on his brown britches.

Silence lingers between us.

Benevolence twitches under my intense gaze.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" he finally asks.

"I'm waiting for you to explain yourself."

"Oh." His throat bobs. "Do you want to sit and talk?"

"No."

"I'd prefer to sit."

" Benevolence ," I growl, taking a step towards him.

He backs up in turn, again raising his hands in front of him. He treats me like I'm a rabid dog.

He's not wrong to.

"Fine," he says. "Fine." He takes a breath, then on a whisper, he says: "I want you to remove him from power."

My eyes narrow. "Who?"

"Who do you think?" Benevolence runs a hand through his locks, tugging at them. "My father."

"You want me to kill your father?" I deadpan.

This has got to be some kind of twisted fucking joke.

His jaw feathers as he glances away, unable to meet my eye. "Yeah."

"Why can't you do it?"

"Because I can't ."

"That's not a real reason."

"I've already tried ," he admits, rushing forward but stopping a foot away from me. He ticks off his fingers with each example. "I've tried poisons: they don't affect him. I've tried hiring hitmen: they failed. He's extremely paranoid, and he's really fucking hard to kill."

"Then what makes you think that I can do it, or would even want to?" I shrug, twirling my knife in my hand.

"C'mon," he huffs. "Everyone wants to kill my father. I would think the niece he exiled and orphaned would be at the top of that list. And a soul-stealer? I don't know a single fae in history that could stop that magic."

I frown.

Benevolence's chest puffs with confidence, but his face shines with sincerity as he speaks.

"Look." He levels with me, licking his lips. "I was only a child back then. All I ever knew was that my aunt was taking a trip, and then I didn't see her for years. Then, one day, my dad came home angry as all hell, cursing her name. He was never a good father, but he was much worse from that day on."

He swallows, eyes glazing over with the memory; it's a look I know all too well. He reaches out. A shaking, tentative hand grips my shoulder. I let him, seeing the peace offering for what it is—his skin on mine, his life in my hand.

It's submission.

"It wasn't until he started grooming me for his position that he told me what happened. I wasn't lying when I said I was jealous of you guys. I didn't know what it meant for you to live out there. I thought it was the grandest thing, to be so free." Benevolence's lips tremble with bittersweet emotion. "You might have escaped him then, but he's been obsessed with you ever since."

"Then why has he waited so long to make his move against me? I've been working human-side for years for my House."

Benevolence's fluffy brows knit.

"He's embodied his title," Benevolence says. "He's not afraid to wait for a better opportunity."

He's dancing around his words, but I need him to cut the bullshit.

"Explain," I demand.

"Can I put my arm down?" he asks. "Was this a good enough trust exercise for you to at least hear me out?"

I bat his arms away.

" Explain ," I repeat.

"He hasn't told me what he has planned. But there are far more fae here than usual," he says. "It feels off."

He runs his hand through his hair—that's twice now during this conversation, as if he can't help himself. Is it a nervous tick or one that shows he's lying?

I should have made Josie come with me .

"I only wanted to warn you. I don't think he deserves the element of surprise," he says. Then he grimaces. " And I wanted to put in that little request because I can't help but be a bit selfish."

"That's it?" I ask.

He marks an X over his heart. I shake my head.

This was fucking pointless.

"I will consider it," I say.

The grin that spreads across his face could blind a fae with one glimpse.

"Thank y?—"

"But you need to answer one question," I cut him off. I stride to him, stopping when my face is inches from his, so that he cannot mistake how deadly serious I am. "Who else knows?"

His smile falls, leaving lips that quiver with pity.

"Nora, the only ones in Casimir who don't know who you are traveled here with you."