It can’t be.
When I look down, I find myself staring into the silver eyes of a prince who is supposed to be dead.
Twelve
SENAN
Shadows clingto every corner of this place, ethereal and cold, lurking behind, beneath, and above. There’s a way to get rid of them, but until my guard decides to stare at something other than my face, that can’t happen.
“You can stop watching me like a fucking hawk, Bell. I already told you, I’m not going anywhere.” At least not with him being so infuriatingly diligent.
Bell’s frown deepens, and his eyes narrow, as if he can glue me to my stool through sheer will alone. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe you.”
No one believes me anymore. Not that I can blame them when my promises aren’t what they used to be. Then again, I wouldn’t have to lie if they’d stop asking so many damned questions.
I tuck my twitchy hands beneath my thighs so Bell doesn’t notice, but of course he does because he’s stillstaring. My own gaze drifts past him, toward the front door. “Does that man look familiar to you?”
Bell’s stare hardens before he twists on his stool.
I ease to my feet and am about to take a step when a different guard in silver leathers appears in front of me like an iron gate slamming closed. As if I need another fucking shadow.
Bell gets up and nudges the nameless guard aside. The man returns to his fellow guards sitting at a table devoid of drinks and conversation. Don’t they get bored? I’ve only been here an hour and already it feels like my brain has melted into one of the sticky puddles on the floor. I could’ve asked the women at the table beyond my guards to join me, but from the hungry looks they cast my way, I have a feeling they’re not interested in idle conversation.
“Where are you going?” Bell asks.
“To take a piss, oh observant one.”
In a blink, he starts patting my arms and chest and legs as if I’m some sort of criminal headed to the pit instead of a fucking prince.
“You’re welcome to come and watch if you don’t believe me. I’ll even let you hold it if you want.”
He ignores me, jerking the leg of my trousers up to my calf, revealing the hilt of the dagger hidden in my boot.
Other guards have forgotten to check there. But Bell, he’s a different breed. The only reason he and the others agree to accompany me to this place is because I bribe them with gold. As high and mighty as Bell is, he isn’t above lining his own pockets. None of them are.
I blink innocently at the dagger. “Now, how did that get there?”
Does he smile? No. That isn’t in Bell’s wheelhouse. He’d sooner stab me with my own blade than let his lips drift north. Just because he can’t seem to smile doesn’t mean I’m not allowed. Unless the king has outlawed that as well and forgot to tell me.
Bell tosses the dagger onto our table next to my four empty pint glasses and tells me to hurry up.
“Why? Are you anxious to return home to the little wife?” I give his bearded cheek a pat. “You know, I’d love to meet the woman who fell in love with that frowny face.”
Bell flushes but doesn’t try to follow me again. Nothing deters that man like a conversation about his missus.
“Just hurry the hell up,” he grumbles, returning to his stool to watch me stroll across the barren dance floor. Women huddle at shadowed tables tucked between velvet curtains. Some pretty. Some plain. One pale, gray face stands out in particular. A petite, silver-haired Tuath sitting next to a scowling mountain with a scarred forehead and a thick black beard. My left eye thinks it’s a good idea to wink at her. The drinks I downed when we first arrived urge me to flash her a smile.
I pass Mikel behind the bar—another scowler who always looks as if someone pissed in his boots. I nod and wave. What does he do? He scowls.
When I shove the privy door aside, the stench of shite clinging to the rancid air makes me gag. I suppose I’d be scowling too if I had to clean this revolting room at the end of every shift.
My boots stick to the tiles as I make my way forward, searching the three stalls for signs of life.Empty. Just like my soul. Chuckling, I lean my hip against the sink to keep myself from falling over and unhook the purse from my belt. There just happens to be a razor blade tucked beneath the handful of gold coins.
Not as sharp as the dagger, but it works in a pinch.
Tendrils of excitement surge through my chest as I press the blade to my right palm and slide it toward my wrist. I watch my blood drip into the sink before smearing my wound against the cinderblock to the left of the cracked mirror.
The block vanishes, revealing a vial of glittering golden stardust.