I finish my makeup with care, dusting extra bronzer across my cheeks and the upper curves of my breasts, mimicking the gold-dusted skin of the Fae.
My yellow dress clings to a body toned to perfection by marathon sex with Barrons. My shoes and accessories are gold.
I will look every inch his princess.
When I kill him.
He stops talking when he sees me and looks at me for a long moment. “Your hair was once blond like hers,” he says finally.
I nod.
“I liked her hair.”
I turn to the nearest guard and tell him what I need to change my hair. He looks at Darroc, who nods.
I toss my head. “I ask for simple things, yet they question me. It’s infuriating! Can you not give me two of your guards for my own?” I demand. “Am I to have nothing for myself?”
He’s looking at my legs, long and sleekly muscled, and my feet, pretty in high heels. “Of course,” he murmurs. “Which two do you wish?”
I wave a hand dismissively. “You choose. They’re all the same.”
He assigns a pair to carry out my wishes. “You will obey her as you would obey me,” he tells them. “Instantly and without question. Unless her orders conflict with mine.”
They will become accustomed to obeying me. His other guards will become accustomed to seeing them obey me. Tiny gains, tiny erosions.
I join him for breakfast and smile as I choke down food that tastes of blood and ashes.
The Sinsar Dubh is rarely active during the day.
Like the rest of the Unseelie, it prefers the night. Those who were so long imprisoned in ice and darkness seem to find the sunlight jarring, painful. The longer I walk around with this grief inside me, the more I understand that. It’s as if sunshine is a slap in the face that says, Look, the world’s all bright and shiny! Too bad you’re not.
I wonder if that’s why Barrons was rarely around during the day. Because he, too, was damaged like us and found comfort in the secrecy of shadows. Shadows are wonderful things. They hide pain and conceal motives.
Darroc leaves for the day with a small contingent of his army and refuses to take me with him. I want to push, I feel like a caged animal, but he has lines that I know better than to cross if I want him to trust me.
I pass the afternoon in his penthouse, fluttering around like a bright butterfly, picking up things, flipping through books and looking in cabinets and drawers, exclaiming over this or that, searching the place under guise of curiosity, beneath the watchful eyes of his guards.
I find nothing.
They refuse to let me in his bedroom.
Two can play that game. I refuse to let anyone in mine. I beef up my protection runes to keep my backpack and stones safe. I’ll get into his bedroom one way or another.
Late in the afternoon, I color my hair, blow it dry, and style it into a tousle of big, loose curls.
I’m blond again. How strange. I remember Barrons calling me a perky rainbow. It makes me long for a white miniskirt and pink camisole.
Instead, I slip into a blood-red dress, high-heeled black boots that hug my legs all the way up to mid-thigh, and a black leather coat with fur at the collar and cuffs, which I belt snugly at my waist to show off my curves. Black gloves, a brilliant scarf, and diamonds at my ears and throat complete my ensemble. With most of Dublin dead, shopping is a dream. Too bad I don’t care anymore.
When Darroc returns, I know by the look in his eyes that I’ve chosen well. He thinks I picked black and red for him, the colors of his guard, the colors he has told me he selected for his future court.
I chose black and red for the tattoos on Barrons’ body. Tonight I wear my promise to him that I will make things right.
“Isn’t your army coming with us?” I ask as we step from the penthouse. The night is cool and clear, the sky glittering with stars. The snow melted during the day, and the cobblestone streets are dry for a novel change.
“Hunters abhor the lesser castes.”
“Hunters?” I echo.
“How did you expect to search for the Sinsar Dubh?”
I’ve ridden one before, with Barrons, the night we tried to corner the Book with three of the four stones. I wonder if Darroc knows this. With his clever mirror hidden in the back alley of Barrons Books and Baubles, there’s no telling how much he knows about me. “And if we find it tonight?”
He smiles. “If you find it for me tonight, MacKayla, I will make you my queen.”
I give him a once-over. He’s dressed richly, in Armani tweed, cashmere, and leather. He carries nothing. Is the key to merging with the Book knowledge? A ritual? Runes? An object? “Do you have what you need to merge with it?” I ask point-blank.
He laughs. “Ah, it’s to be the full frontal attack tonight. With that dress,” he says silkily, “I had hoped for seduction.”
I lift a shoulder and let it fall in a carefree shrug that matches my smile. “You know I want to know. I don’t see any point in pretending otherwise. We are what we are, you and I.”
He likes that I classify us in the same category. I see it in his eyes.
“And what is that, MacKayla? What are we?” He turns slightly to the side and bites out a sharp command in an alien tongue. One of the Unseelie Princes appears, listens, nods, and vanishes.
“Survivors. Two people who won’t be ruled, because we were born to rule.”
He searches my face. “Do you really believe that?”
The street cools and my coat is abruptly dusted with tiny shimmering crystals of black ice. I know what that means. A Royal Hunter has materialized above us, black leathery wings churning the night air. My hair stirs in an icy breeze. I glance up at the scaled underbelly of the caste specially designated to hunt and kill sidhe-seers.
A great Satanic dragon, it tucks its massive wings close to its body and drops heavily to the street, narrowly missing the buildings on either side.
It’s enormous.
Unlike the smaller Hunter that Barrons managed to bend to his will and “dampen” the night we flew across Dublin, this one is one hundred percent undiluted Royal Hunter. I get a sense of immense ancientness. It feels older than anything I’ve seen or sensed flying the night sky. The hellish cold it exudes, the sense of despair and emptiness it radiates, is intact. But it doesn’t depress me or make me feel futile. This one make me feel … free.
It takes a delicate mental jab at me. I sense restraint. It doesn’t have power, it is power.