Chapter Forty-Two

Astonished faces stared, but Rebel saw only one.

Hope had guided her here, and hope, it seemed, would trap her here. And as she peered up at Anjeline, she saw what her words did. Eyes as bright as the sun gazed at her with a dangerous glint of longing. She would’ve traded a wish to have them look at her like that forever. They radiated a pulse of light that reached her, sending an electric spark scorching a path in the air between them. It gave Rebel the jolt she needed, and she pushed to her feet.

Murmurs erupted with the weight of nefarious stares.

More noises arose from creatures hidden in the darkness. The earth-made grotto overflowed with terrifyingly gorgeous folk and treasures. It reminded Rebel of a painting she’d seen in one of her books. A garden of gems. Yet there, among the shadows, was the most magnificent of them all, Anjeline within a gold birdcage.

“Ah, the Fingersmith.”

The Prince leaned forward. He was like nothing Rebel had ever seen, paler than the whitest bones. Like a well-dressed devil before he ripped out your soul.

“Magician Nero’s offspring.” His tongue caressed the words as if he were drinking the sweetest wine. She wanted to close her eyes. Wanted to stop looking at him. “The escape artist who has fooled lycans, vanished from a witch, and hoodwinked the Siren. How will you writhe your way out of invading my Court?”

He stretched out a bloodless hand, and before Rebel could think, she was moving, taking a step toward him without her own control. The tang of her fear caught the lycans’ scent and growls called behind her. She dug her nails into her palms, her mind scrambling for a plan. Only three feet from the dais, from Anjeline and the vessel. Her heart spasmed, and she was sure it would leap from her chest and fling itself toward the cage. The quivers were beginning to intensify, but she fought for calm and focused on Anjeline, matching their breathing in rhythm.

Squaring her shoulders, Rebel looked from the vase to the pale Prince. “You have something that doesn’t belong to you,” she voiced.

The Prince’s lips twisted into a smile, his eyes like staring into the arctic. “Is that so? Allow us to offer you wine before you take to your task of stealing my treasure.” He reached between the bars of the cage to caress Anjeline’s leg.

Rebel lunged at him. “Touch her and I’ll burn you!”

A claw grabbed her shoulder, yanking her back.

“You will address the Prince as Your Highness.” Wulfram’s hand held her, narrow and hard with black talons. She struggled and whipped her head around, trying to catch his fingers with her teeth, but was shoved for her effort.

Piran crouched, readying to spring into the air, but another lycanthrope caught him, shoving him down with a paw. As Rebel looked up into the glacial gaze of the Prince, her rebellion blossomed, her fear obliterated by rage. That demon had laid hands on Anjeline, and she was ready to run a blade through him if he touched her again.

The Prince chuckled. “You should fear me, girl.”

“You should fear me much more,” she said. “Your Highness.”

The sound of his laughter snaked around her insides, squeezing. “You wish to go up against me?” He flicked a finger and a white blossom of pain stabbed her chest, waiting to rip it open. “Entirely too much bravery, you have. You should bow.” Shadows slammed into her from behind. Her knees hit the floor and she gasped in pain.

“Leave her!” Anjeline shouted.

Hissing laughter spread throughout the Court.

The wolf twins now held Rebel’s satchel, playing with her switchblade, rifling through the elemental spheres supposed to save them, and smashing the vials of elixir she needed on the ground. Her heart spasmed with each one. Piran nudged her. “The cage’s enchanted,” he whispered. “The key.” His eyes guided hers to the gold key dangling from the Prince’s belt, glinting in and out of the shadows. Just a few more inches. Plans whirled through her head, each one fizzling out uselessly. She’d thought she’d know what to do when they reached this point, but she hadn’t factored in being a prisoner.

The Prince’s gaze zeroed in on her. “Whatever plan you’re hatching in that head of yours, you’ll have claw marks in your chest before you can say please, little Fingersmith.”

She tried to stand, but the alpha gripped her shoulder harder, his claws digging into her skin. “My name is Rebel. As in Renata Eve Bell-erose LaFay—my mother.” As she said it aloud, it sounded foreign to her own ears.

“Don’t threaten me with a human’s name. Magician LaFay’s as slippery as you. For decades, magicians and Sidhe alike have passed through these caverns, and none leave, except at my pleasure.” The Prince etched a swirl in the air with his finger.

Before Rebel could stop herself, she was crawling toward him, his magic compelling her. Her chest tightened, and she felt the threads of darkness in her heart swell. She gritted her teeth, trying to push it down. He ran fingers through her hair, ruffling it and then smoothing it as if she were a pet, his enthrall pulling her in with a sickening feeling. His magic was everywhere. It caressed Rebel like a stranger’s hand, a cloying heaviness over her skin, and she wavered at its force.

Sizzling air streamed off Anjeline, thick enough to walk on.

The heat engulfed Rebel, and she waited for the sensation of spinning to fade. Her heart twitched, showing no sign of subsiding. She thought of her knives sitting useless in her room. And as she met Anjeline’s eyes, something clicked within her. Rebel didn’t need her switchblade. She had something better. A weapon inside her sharper than any blade.

“I am my own magician.” To Rebel’s surprise, her voice came out forceful and strong. She reached up for her pendant as best she could with bound hands and focused on Anjeline, calling out to her magic, wishing to summon it. The moment she touched the pendant, her breath caught, and an electric current coursed through her fingers. A spark of energy flared and surged within her.

Then it winked out of sight.

The Prince’s mouth crinkled in amusement. “You’re imperfect even with magic. A great magician would know better than to insult me.” He bent toward her. “You’ll always be a stray girl.”

The words stung like a thousand needles in her skin. But Rebel held up her chin against the looming shadows of him, unafraid. “Don’t mistake my humanness for weakness. Challenge me, and you’ll see how important I am.”

He licked his lips. “Then I shall look you in the eyes as I tear you open and see how much you bleed…”

“Like hell you will.” Anjeline’s eyes blazed in warning. “The term. The wish binds it, Sithchean. Harm her and your wish is no more.” Smoke flashed off her in violent ripples. None questioned her words or knew how false her term actually was.

Sithchean scowled, like a child deprived of his toy, though not wanting to challenge her. “Perhaps not. But let’s see how hard it is to kill the human spirit. Bring me the other one.”

Piran caught Rebel’s eyes, his expression turning to horror. Trembles rocked her body with what was to come. She struggled against Wulfram’s claws keeping her down and could only watch as the twins dragged Piran to the dais. He tried digging his feet into the floor, his wings beating frantically.

“It’s against the truce.” Anjeline’s expression remained steady, but Rebel could see her wince just slightly.

“So is invading my Court.” The Prince yanked metallic hair in his grasp, and Piran gasped as his throat was exposed. “What penalty shall I set for your redemption?”

Voices piped up in the ballroom, one after the other.

“Let him find us a ring of invisibility…”

“Weave a cloak of many wings…”

“Have him dance in iron boots…”

“Not enough,” the Prince said. As brave as he could, Piran beat his wings against the hands that held him. “This is what happens when you violate my Court.”

The feyrie guards turned their faces to the scene, preferring to watch the horror about to occur. Prince Sithchean smiled, cold and dead, his eyes full of reaping as Piran struggled. To him, they were just something to play their games with, a moth to be crushed. Sithchean caught a leathery wing in his hand, and as he stroked it with a finger, a ripping sound came—and the wing tore away with it.

Piran screamed as blood pooled down his back.

“Stop it!” Rebel yelled.

A burst of smoke filled the air, furious and red, but Anjeline’s magic wouldn’t move against her bonds. With a chuckle, Sithchean let him go. Dark threads of magic flicked at Piran as he leaped into the air, beating his one wing, before he tumbled to the floor. More laughter rippled through the cavernous walls, causing bile to rise in Rebel’s throat. She looked at Anjeline in desperation and saw, reflected in those eyes, her own rage. Years of watching darkness prevail, and she could do nothing to change it. Change the game.

Her plan shaped like spilled blood.

“I’ll make a trade!”

Her words caused a reaction. Spines tensed and heads tilted.

Rebel wished she had the good sense to keep quiet, but the only thing she had now was her silver tongue. She looked at Piran, sprawled on the floor with one wing, a puddle of crimson caked around him and now a hole in his back. Then she met Sithchean’s gaze and imagined propositioning a devil might be easier than him. But try, she must.

“I’ll make a trade.” Her words made him grin.

Good. She needed them to underestimate her.

“Rebel,” Anjeline said whisper-soft. “Don’t.” She spoke with urgency, her face gleaming in dismay, unable to release the wrath that was threatening to spark.

But Rebel gave her a wink. Barely noticeable, except to Anjeline. She glanced between her and the pale Prince, planning two possible outcomes. The lost girl she’d once been had crumbled days ago, taken over by the Fingersmith. She felt the metal of her pendant warming.

“A trade,” she told Sithchean. “How would the Sun Court feel if Nero’s daughter bowed down to you? Just release him.” With bound hands, she reached toward Piran’s arm. His hair was scraped back, severe streaks of red tainting it.

The Prince lowered his gaze, and the shadows caressed her cheek, sending a shiver up her spine. “There will be many ways you will bow.” With a sweep of Sithchean’s hand, whips of darkness rose around Piran—and within seconds, he was gone, leaving only smears of blood. “He’s been released. Leash her over.”

At his command, two guards came forward to do so. Rebel didn’t wrestle against them wrapping a collar around her neck. Sithchean yanked the rope tethered to her now, and she stumbled toward him, her bound hands grasping for stability. As though she’d planned it exactly right—he strapped the leash to the cage. Mere inches from Anjeline.

And the key.

A hand slipped through the cage, through Rebel’s hair to the nape of her neck, sending frissons through her skin. When she glanced up, meeting golden irises, she saw her own face reflected in them, right where she wanted to be. “What are you doing?” Anjeline’s voice was an angry whisper. But the gaze sweeping her face was tender.

Rebel smiled. “I’m changing the game.” She glanced at her palm, where the key now lay. The Prince really knew nothing about the magic of the human spirit, or the Fingersmith. Always underestimating the little guy.

All she needed now was a distraction.

As if her prayer had produced magic, from the Court’s doors came a commotion, a stomping rhythm of feet and a splashing of sounds—the Siren had arrived.