Chapter Forty-One

Something hopeful and secret twisted inside Anjeline. She swayed in the birdcage, watching the scene before her act out like a badly written play. Within the underground ballroom, guards stood over the Prince’s treasure trees, and others satisfied their thirst on blackened wine, but eager gazes never left sight of the jewels dangling from branches.

A figure approached the dais.

As the magician Skinner bowed, the dragon eyes upon his coat blinked. She impassively watched as the magician reminded Prince Sithchean it was he who had first alerted the Court of the Wishmaker being in the human’s possession, and if anyone deserved compensation it was he. But another figure rose. The witch’s crow-like face narrowed in disdain, and Gramone reminded the Prince it had been her who first captured Anjeline.

Neither had a chance to finish their argument.

The mass of shadows encircling Sithchean pushed, flicking them back like flies. As if Anjeline could have pinpointed the exact moment, a daring guard with hungry eyes for the jeweled fruit lunged his dagger at the Prince.

Shadows surged forward.

With a sweep of Sithchean’s staff, the dark mass took the shape of a hand, swallowing the guard up like a wave of scorching oil—leaving only the dagger clattering to the ground. Anjeline shuddered. There were several more blood streaks and black burns on the stone floor. It had been the sixteenth time one had tried pilfering from the trees of now endless gems, coming at the Prince with blades, and he grew aggravated from devouring them.

She smiled. Endless riches weren’t so desirable when it came with those who would kill for it. “Nero knew this would happen,” she told the Prince. “He desires your throne.”

A hiss rose from Sithchean’s throat. “Don’t seduce me with your words, jinni. I’ll not be tricked. There’s more magic in my thumb than in your consequences.”

“Magic can’t protect you from what’s coming.”

“’Tis why I have you, Wishmaker.” His finger trailed over the bars of her cage. “Time for my second wish…”

Anjeline scowled, though pleased at his request. Above all else, she sensed the Prince’s ultimate desire, what he believed would make him more powerful than all others. Nero had planned his entire existence on obtaining it, but he’d witnessed the price of what came with a wish of such magnitude. Sithchean opened his mouth, on the verge of casting his wish.

The Court shook, stealing his words.

Lycanthropes barreled open the metal doors, and an uproar of several more followed. Voices snapped to silence as all eyes centered on the alpha. Wulfram transformed in one fluid step and stood as a man. Though, not quite a man. Anjeline grinned. He looked different now. Absent of a beard, his face was smoother, and he’d decreased in height. Younger still. Nearly as youthful as his offspring.

As the alpha proceeded to the Prince, whispers arose, noticing the two prisoners who trailed behind him. A pair of red-furred wolves were nudging along the ginger twins. Except these pair were captives, their hands bound with rope. In another stride, the red wolves altered their form. Standing there, were now double sets of twins.

The Prince’s face turned sharper. “What is this?”

“Your Majesty,” Wulfram spoke with difficulty as if his voice were altering from low to high. “There’s been an incident. We’ve seized these two attempting to invade the Court.” He flung out a stiff arm, pointing at the roped doppelgangers. “You’ll want to unglamour them, My Grace.”

Anjeline’s gaze swept beyond the lycans, and like a magnetic force, her eyes landed on the glamoured female. A feeling swelled inside her. The girl’s head was bent low, lines of strain around her eyes looked like bruises, and her breaths came out in short gasps. Her jeans were clawed to shreds at the ankle and drops of blood welled up from a wound.

Sithchean crooked his finger. “Bring them here.”

With a shove, the prisoners stumbled forward, landing on their knees. The bound girl lifted her head, her cheeks smeared with blood, but where there should have been fear, there was none. Then the girl’s eyes caught Anjeline’s. The prisoner smiled a roguish grin. A triumphant one that said she was exactly where she’d schemed to be. She looked like a wild shining thing in the Court. Anjeline bit her lip. Only one person smiled like that.

All eyes watched in expectancy.

“Let’s see what we have here. Why they have come.” Sithchean conjured his shadows, tipping his ivory staff toward the prisoners.

Darkness enfolded them, wrenching at their glamour. Their faces distorted, shifting in pain as the magic was rent from their bodies like an invisible blanket being pulled away. Anjeline shuddered, feeling his viscous shadows clawing at every part of them. When it broke contact with the prisoners, the glamour lifted—and they appeared in their true forms.

There knelt one winged boy and the girl with the hungry eyes. The girl who walked with feet like wings, as if she drifted in from another world.

“Rebel,” Anjeline whispered. A glimmer of hope breathed into her chest, and smoke flared into her core as the world around her shrank. She lunged forward, grabbing at the rods of the cage. The runes upon her arms set ablaze, and up through the weaves of her sweater, feathers sprang visible. Her essence surged, wanting to climb out. Waiting for her Rebel to speak.

Then she winked one twinkling eye at her.

“I’ve come,” said Rebel, “to get back my heart.”