Chapter 33: The Dark Prince - The Shadow of a Vicious King

POV: MAX

The stranger is Fae through and through—and incredibly handsome. Dark ringlets fall over his forehead in an unruly way that doesn’t soften his scowl, and the hollows beneath his high cheekbones give his youthful features a severe, masculine edge.

A dark coat, finely made and fitted close to the torso, finishes just below his hips. The collar stands high, framing his jaw, the edges worn just enough to suggest use, but not neglect. Subtle patterns catch the light when he moves, texturing the fabric, the pants and shirt beneath, draping him in layers of black. The ensemble commands attention, yet there’s no flourish or extravagance, nothing that might catch or drag.

Ink crawls over the back of his knuckles in intricate lines that disappear beneath the cuff of his sleeve. Rings snake around his fingers, dark and pale stones set in heavy metal, either reflecting the light or swallowing it every time he moves. They climb too far, past where rings should sit, and I realize they’re not rings at all.

The jewels are embedded in his skin, and nothing about them feels ornamental. Mabel’s explanation about Mist jewels and how they amplify one’s power comes to mind, but I thought only the Mist Fae were able to use this technology.

The Fae’s mouth is set in something just shy of a smirk as he raises his arms in greeting, the movement accompanied by glints from the precious stones, and the room falls silent. “Brothers and sisters, welcome.”

He looks young, but his bite of power—and the way the room yields to it—says otherwise. There’s nothing loud about him, nothing excessive. He doesn’t need to raise his voice to command silence.

When he speaks again, every hair on my body rises to attention.

“I’m glad to see you in such good spirits because tomorrow, we take the fight to our enemy.”

There’s impatience rumbling beneath his words, as though this is a diluted version of him—a mask meant to contain the storm underneath.

“Let’s go! Kill the Reds!” the crowd booms.

The man paces the elevated stage, drawing every eye in. When his gaze catches Nick’s, then mine, it lingers there.

His irises are gray at first glance, heavy with the promise of torrential rain. Flecks of violet are buried within the clouds, catching the light in a volatile manner, and a burst of static electricity prickles my neck before he finally looks past me.

“The Reds have captured a group of witches and intend to put them to death at midday tomorrow,” he says.

A ripple of anger moves through the room before it quiets down.

“Now, we can’t let that happen. This night, the Lord of the Tides will be joining us. Expect to be briefed at dawn. Get ready, because tomorrow, we strike!”

Loud approval erupts through the tavern, and fists punch the air. The crowd's fervor grows with each passing second, transforming scattered conversations into a volatile roar.

“Kai vael?” the man asks his audience in a clipped, rough accent that naturally fits the words.

My ears buzz. When Nick spoke a phrase from the Tidecallers’ language earlier, he wasn’t speaking it right. There’s violence in the syllables, and I freeze.

The dark Fae is using the Voice—that tone Mother used when she needed me to obey. I haven’t heard it in decades, and tears sting my eyes.

“Why do we serve?” Nick translates under his breath.

“Threnis vel’kai terren,” everyone answers in unison.

“Because the tides keep the earth in check,” Nick says quickly, but to my horror, I already understand.

The language crawls out of some dusty crack in my brain, my lips moving along with everyone else’s. I sink my nails into my palms, the aftertaste of the realization leaving me breathless.

Luther raises a fist to the sky. “For the Tides!”

“For the Tides!”

The way everyone answers perfectly in sync shudders through me. It’s powerful, all those voices rising as one.

The crowd begins to disperse, and almost immediately, E’s hand finds my waist. “Are you alright?” he murmurs in my ear.

I nod silently, staring at Nick, my head full of questions. Was Mother part of the Tidecallers? How? I want to grill my brother—when did he figure it out, and why didn’t he breathe a word of it to me?—but there’s no time.

Luther approaches, and the tavern rearranges itself around him. The remaining warriors clear out of his path, and even the loudest voices taper off as he passes.

The pressure of his magic builds like thunderheads gathering on the horizon. By the time he reaches us, the atmosphere is charged enough that I expect sparks to jump between his fingertips.

“What have the tides washed ashore on this auspicious day, Lysandra?” he asks in such a charming, aloof tone that I nearly gawk.

“Nick, Maxine, I want you to meet Luther Storm, the Lord of the Tides’ right-hand man. He’s in charge of this whole operation. Luther, this is the man I spoke to you about—Nickolas Morgan Bloodsinger—and his sister.”

A hint of purple flashes in Luther’s eyes. “Bloodsinger? Are you related to Mabel Bloodsinger, by any chance?”

The way he asks the question sparks an itch between my shoulder blades, and I open my mouth to answer, but Nick beats me to it.

“Not by blood, but the Old Queen saved us from the Reds,” Nick says. “We lived with her as children in the new world and took on her last name.”

I nod emphatically at that. For whatever reason, it feels important to set the record straight.

“What’s your birth name, then?” Luther asks.

He’s acting nonchalant, but that’s hardly the kind of question that can be asked casually in Faerie.

“We don’t know. Our mother passed before she could tell us,” Nick answers.

“And your father?”

“A mystery.”

“Mm,” Luther grunts.

Nick is playing fast and loose with our secrets, and my brows furrow. I’ve never known my brother to trust anyone, let alone answer truthfully to a flurry of questions from a man he’s meeting for the first time. Does Lysandra know he was born here, in the Red Forest?

Fear pools in my belly. A man born on Red soil would be of apocalyptic significance to the Reds. If Nick revealed his true identity to the wrong person, it could cost him his life.

Luther squints at me, but not like a man interested in my body—no. He peers into my eyes as though he’s trying to see past my flesh and bones, down to whatever sits underneath.

Nothing about that stare makes me feel human.

He finally takes my hand and brings it to his lips, and I stand there pretending it’s perfectly natural to be greeted that way.

“There’s something about you, Lady Morgan.” His lips linger on my knuckles, as though he wants to dissect me with that one touch. “Have we met before?”

I wonder if Luther is not picking up on E’s bite of power, and not mine.

With so many Fae and witches crammed into one room, I wouldn’t be able to track E if he weren’t standing right behind me, and that’s with weeks of practice. Luther might be able to sense his bite of power without being able to pinpoint exactly where it’s coming from.

“No, sir,” I answer with confidence.

He tilts his head to the side. “Well, I’m looking forward to introducing you to the Lord of the Tides tomorrow. You two are new here, so we won’t expect you to fight⁠—”

“I want to fight,” Nick shoots back.

Luther’s eyes grow a little clearer, a hint of violet sunlight breaking through thick clouds.

“He’s a good fighter. We can use him,” Lysandra says proudly.

“What about you, Lady Morgan?” Luther asks.

“I’m a doctor. I can take care of the wounded,” I offer.

The dark Fae smiles as though mortal medicine amuses him, but he quickly sobers up. “That can come in handy. We haven’t got enough healers as it is. Good, then. Meet me in my tent before first light, Lysandra—and bring them along.”

Lysandra dips into a quick curtsy. “At your service.”

The way her eyes track Luther on his way out, I get the sense she wouldn’t mind serving all of him, if he asked—which cools my enthusiasm for her and my brother’s romance.

After Luther exits the tavern, she corrals us over to the bar and hails the bartender. “Herb. Three bloodroot specials, please.”

Nick and I drop our backpacks to the floor, tucking them under the counter, and I check on Lady, but she’s sleeping.

We all sit on the stools as a burly man with brown hair and a thick mustache serves us each a mug of a rooty, tangy, beer-like concoction. The honey and dill taste sticks to the roof of my mouth, coaxing a grimace out of me. It’s warm, though, and eases the ache in my muscles.

“You had quite the journey here, I bet,” Lysandra says. “There’s plenty of food if you’re hungry. Herbert makes a mean stew.”

“Thank you, that’s very kind, but I’m not hungry.” Not after the snake, and Luther’s scrutiny. “That language Luther used sounded so familiar… What is it called, exactly?”

I meet Nick’s eyes. He blushes, that fiend, and averts his gaze.

Lysandra beams with pride. “It’s the language of the Tides—the tongue of his ancestors.”

“Are there many Fae who speak it?”

“Not anymore. I’m almost fluent myself, but it would take me years to reach Luther’s mastery.” She lowers her voice in a conspiratorial manner. “He’s actually a prince of Faerie, though the Tidecallers relinquish their titles. We don’t believe in royal hierarchy, so Luther has left the Storm Court for good.” She hails the bartender again. “Gods, I’m famished.”

“What do ye want, hun?” Herbert asks with an affable smile, polishing the counter in front of her with a rag.

“Bread and stew.”

“Make that two, please,” Nick says politely.

“Ye got it,” our host replies, but he comes back almost immediately, spinning on his heels before entering the backroom kitchen. “Want a thick slice of rye from Eterna? I’ve got a handful of spring-yeasted buns in the back if ye prefer.”

Lysandra pouts, bringing a hand to her stomach. “Don’t tempt me, Herb. I’m fattening up as it is.”

“Nonsense!”

I take the opportunity, while Lysandra chats with Herbert, to kick Nick’s shin and whisper, “Mom was a Tidecaller?”

He fucking shrugs. “I think so.”

“And you hid this from me because…” I scold him.

He gives me a sheepish smile. “I wasn’t sure you’d believe me.”

By the time we’re done with our little aparté, Lysandra has settled for the rye, and Herbert serves us all a bowl of steaming stew.

Meeting my inquisitive gaze, he lays a spoon beside the bowl. “Eat, hun. We all have a big day tomorrow.”

I offer him a quick smile, and he goes back to polishing his counter, humming a quiet tune.

I pick up the spoon not to insult anyone. “So, Lysandra, you’re a Tidecaller and a witch?”

She tucks her hair behind her ears and nods. “In a sense. I’m originally a witch from the Bloodvale coven. We had almost completely assimilated to mortal life before the Lord of the Tides opened up our world, and very few of us were still practising. I’ve been recruiting lost, abandoned witches from the new world ever since, trying to regrow our numbers so we become strong enough to unseat the Reds. Luther’s men are here to help, but it’s not their homeland. They don’t understand the forest the way we do.”

She picks apart her bread and dumps it into her bowl. “When I met Nick, and he told me how you two were born in Scotland⁠—”

So he didn’t tell her the whole story of his impossible birth.

Phew.

Nick and I eat as she goes on about her childhood, about growing up in the New World, and I listen intently, sharing bits of our past as well, surprised by how similar our stories are.

Lysandra recounts their first meeting, and there are no half-truths, no red flags. She’s as transparent in her crush on him as she was in her lust for the dark Fae prince.

“I knew Nickolas had to see this.” She gestures to the tavern and beyond in a circular motion, her expression softening. “We’re more than rebels—we’re family. Witches and Tidecallers, whether Fae or seed, and from all courts, we don’t discriminate. All we want is to end the Red Queen’s tyranny over the Red Forest—all kings’ and queens’ tyranny—and put the power back into the common folk’s hands.” She rests her hand over Nick’s and sighs. “We’ll make them pay for what they did to us. Together.”

Nick flips his hand over to link their fingers. “Absolutely.”

The look they exchange is all heat, and I bite back a smirk. My brother, holding hands with a girl… I never thought I’d see the day.

She scrapes the bottom of her stew and pushes the empty bowl aside. “Well, I’m heading upstairs. Herb is right, we need as much rest as we can get. There’s an empty room available for visitors.” Lysandra stands, her eyes never leaving Nick. “Just ask for the key when you’re ready to turn in, Max.”

She shoots Nick a smoldering glance as she leaves, and he stumbles to his feet.

“I’ll see you later, Maxie.” He hesitates, then raises a palm between us in a halting gesture. “Don’t—don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. I’ll meet you back here before dawn.”

Lysandra smiles as Nick runs after her up the stairs, and I roll my eyes. Rest. Right.

I sit at the bar, my fingers curled loosely around my mug. To Herbert, it looks as though I’ve just been ditched by my brother and his lover—but I’m not alone.

The cook-slash-bartender heads for the kitchen with our dishes.

“Well… I know what those two will be doing, that’s for sure,” E whispers, and a quiet laugh rumbles through me.

He’s close enough that I can feel the heat of him, and the steady press of his hand at my waist draws a shaky breath out of my lungs.

After the snake, I nearly didn’t make it here at all… The thought of a quiet room, of being alone with him after a day like this, stirs something reckless in me.

I lean back and feel him solid behind me. The heat of his body brings me back to this morning in the tent, to all he promised to do to me when we were alone.

“Me, I’m actually tired,” I whisper, closing my eyes.

“You almost died today.”

“And you still won’t tell me what happened?” I ask, half-teasing.

“Nope. Take it up with your brother.”

Nick still owes me an explanation, but I couldn’t bring myself to cock-block him.

I thank Herbert for the stew and ask for the spare room key.

The burly bartender hands it over without question. “Night, hun.”

“Oh.” I hesitate before walking off. “Can I get another bowl? I can eat it upstairs, if that’s alright. It was delicious.”

Herbert chuckles. “Found yer appetite, did ye?” He throws his rag over his shoulder and comes back a minute later with a fresh bowl of stew and a piece of rye sticking out of the side. “Enjoy it, hun. Do you need help carrying ye stuff upstairs?”

“I’m okay. Thank you.”

I thank him again for the extra portion and head for the stairs with all my things. To my relief, my assigned room is on the opposite side of Lysandra’s, either by chance or by design.

I fumble with the key while E holds the stew, freeing me to open the door for us.

“Thank you. I was famished, and now I get to eat you for dessert,” he says.

There’s a joy to him, a lightness I’ve rarely heard, and I follow him inside the room, feeling both elated and nervous.

Whatever happens, I’m never going to sleep tonight.