Chapter Twenty-Six: Zerian

I rushed up the stairs and into my suite, shedding my dress and stepping into the scalding hot shower. I felt filthy, but it wasn’t the outer grime that disgusted me.

His blood. His blood had been mine and yet I could not bring myself to capture it. I’d wiped it with the rag and tossed it at the young male, keeping him safe for another day.

I’d dreamed of this moment often—the day I would fulfill my purpose. The day Charles would become thrall to my father and our people, dashing Naberia and Finvarra’s plans in one stroke. I’d believed Father was right, that we’d suffered enough under both realms, and I’d felt no guilt.

Until this tall young male with an aura the color of a spring morning told me he understood what it was to be the child of a monster, that he’d thought himself to be a monster too. He’d given me the gift of his truth without guile, and now I could not take his freedom. I would not, no matter the consequences.

Although the stakes were high indeed, and I was desperate.

I’d thought of little else the last year as I languished here in the Faerie palace, pretending to be seelie, when I knew the High Seelie saw me only as unseelie—as less no matter what they said. All except perhaps for Grandfather, who loved me more for my uniqueness as he called it, for my intelligence, for my supposed innocence. Whether the King of Faerie saw the darkness in me and chose to ignore it, or did not delve deeply enough to see its depths, I did not know. He was kind and curious, fascinated by how on the outside, I so resembled my mother, yet on the inside I was quite a different species. He seemed to delight in the differences, in the variety or treasures the Realm of Faerie was capable of producing.

Finvarra’s powers are equal to my father’s and to Naberia’s, but he uses them in such a different way.

He envisions his realm, the land and the people, as an extension of his body and spirit, not as an outside energy source from which to draw the power necessary to rule. If his body is unhealthy, he does all he can to heal it. My mother, Fionna, left the Realm of Faerie in dire straits, some of it, perhaps unsalvageable. Increasing her personal power was her goal, the idea not only springing from her greed but also her fear. Fear that she would be killed, or worse, in the war with Naberia.

My mother was a coward of the worst sort, fascinated by death and pain but terrified of her own mortality. She liked to share her worst moments with Kennet who would step in and take charge of the procedures. Kennet was a sadist, worse than Fionna because he was not simply a voyeur. Causing pain aroused him.

Bile rose in my mouth at the thought of what I’d almost done. At what I might still be forced to do. If King Finvarra knew I’d attempted to enslave another of his grandchildren, his favorite, he would lock me away somewhere much less pleasant and declare war against my people. Thousands would die, and then Naberia would step in and destroy both our realms.

I dressed and called for a servant to help me with my hair. The curls were sometimes unmanageable, and the female servants seemed to enjoy combing and arranging it. As I waited for them to finish, I breathed in the magic-infused air of Fairie, allowing the beads of power to soak into my skin, my bones, my organs. Some seelie took this gift for granted, but I could not, having lived so many years where magical power was given out as a gift for good behavior. There were always conditions, the most recent one the most challenging.

I thought again of the tall young male with the engaging smile and the magical power of a king. Charles. I liked that name. I liked the boy. The man. I did not like to think of what I may yet have to do.