Throne of the Fallen

If Camilla had sold it, Vexley never would have stolen it from her, and she’d not have one more chain wrapped around her now.

“Your father is really dead, then.”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “He really died a few years back.”

There was a slight softening in Synton’s features, like he understood what losing something irreplaceable meant. For a tense beat, Camilla thought he’d reach out, hold her hand, let her know she wasn’t alone.

Then he slammed any empathy down, his expression going carefully blank as he stepped back, putting distance between them. He was wholly unreadable now.

Except for his clever eyes, which seemed to indicate that his mind was rapidly sorting through puzzle pieces and riddles, figuring out his next move and whether this information changed anything.

He slowly dragged his gaze over her, a new spark entering those shrewd eyes.

“I’m hosting a masquerade ball in two nights’ time.”

Camilla drew her brows together, not immediately understanding the giant shift in conversation. “My invitation arrived earlier.”

He nodded, almost absently. “I will assist with locating the object that belonged to your father. I will also hold on to the forgery and keep Vexley on a tight leash, ensuring that he doesn’t cause any problems for either of us. If you agree to paint the Hexed Throne, I’ll return the forgery to you after it’s complete.”

He held up a hand, forestalling any argument.

“We both get something we want out of the bargain. Before you toss the offer aside, take time to really think it over, Miss Antonius. It’s a fair deal.”

It was a reasonable request, yet Camilla’s pulse roared in her ears.

She couldn’t paint that throne.

At least not without giving away one of her most closely guarded secrets.

But her choices were quickly dwindling.

“What is the true reason you want that painting?” she asked, knowing it was likely in vain. Yet if she considered giving him one of her secrets, he should return the favor.

“I told you. I collect intriguing art. Your talent is such that I’d like to own this piece.”

Synton’s expression abruptly shuttered, but she’d caught a glimpse of something desolate, something that seemed to span centuries, staring out from his emerald eyes. There had been no hint of humanity in that look, only coldness so impenetrable that she shuddered in its wake. She could easily imagine he’d lived lifetimes alone, tortured by something he’d never escaped.

“Very well,” she said, inexplicably moved. “I’ll give you an answer in two nights, at the ball.”

FIFTEEN

ENVY WAS SURPRISED that Goodfellow had been correct about the Fae.

The dark market on Silverthorne Lane was cleverly named for the creatures that sold curious wares and made cruel bargains with mortals either foolish or arrogant enough to believe they could deceive those who’d practically invented deception.

Most humans believed the Fae were incapable of lying—it was a tale they’d spun themselves, as they often crafted folklore that suited them best.

Only one myth held truth—iron did lay them low.

If mortals were half as smart and superior as they’d like to believe they were, they’d fashion their homes and prisons out of it. Envy knew for a fact that every dungeon in his brothers’ Houses of Sin was made of the material. Plenty of other lesser-known nasties roamed the realms, and iron did a pretty good job of holding them, too.

Shrewd vendors called out from the open-air stalls as he passed, trying to entice him to their tables.

“Memory stone?”

“Potion for never-ending lust?”

“Jacket to divert any foe and cheat death?”

Envy strolled along the cobbled street, glancing into each stall of questionable artifacts, hands tucked casually in his pockets. But inside, he was tense—sensing Fae magic pulsing all around, luring and tempting, like a song whose tune slowly sank into the listener’s subconscious until they hummed it without thought. It was subtle, a charge in the atmosphere, a scent that hung thick in the air like a heady mixture of spice and storm clouds, unmistakable: the Wild Court’s magic.

The Wild Court was the name given to the Unseelie kingdom, home to the dark Fae. As a species Fae were birthed into one of two courts. The Seelie—or the light court, who worshipped the sun and spring and summer—or the Unseelie court, the Fae who worshipped the moon and fall and winter.

Part of the island chain where both the Seven Circles and the Shifting Isles were located, Faerie loomed in the west, divided down the middle by an invisible boundary. The Seelie had settled in the east, where the sun shone the brightest, while the Unseelie had set up their court in the west, where the moon reigned supreme.

Of course, there were solitary Fae and exiled Fae as well, and each faced their own unique challenges. Being a member of a court was ingrained in their very beings, so parting from it willingly or unwillingly was difficult. Or so he’d been told.

Fae time moved differently even from other Underworld realms, too. A few days in the mortal realm could equal a few months in Faerie, though a few days in Faerie was only a week or two in the Seven Circles. Envy knew that personally, from a time he’d prefer not to think of. Yet, despite his ignoring the tricky Wild realms, over the years, rumors had reached the Seven Circles of discord in the Unseelie court.

It seemed that decades before, Prim Róis, the Unseelie Queen—legendary for her wicked games—had abdicated her throne for a time, delighting in the chaos her absence wreaked.

Mostly, she did it to needle the king. She was Discord, he was Chaos. Both as inconstant and changing as the moon they worshipped. Together they had ruled over the Unseelie, culling a court of nightmarish Fae for several mille

So Envy and his brothers had kept a close eye on them, especially once the witches and vampires began circling Faerie like sharks, drawn to the scent of spilled blood. Malice Isle—home to the vampire court—was a mere stone’s throw from the southeastern shore of the Seven Circles, granting them easy sailing to Faerie once they traveled west past the Shifting Isles.

Luckily, the Seelie at least had shown some sense, turning their attention to their own matters, unconcerned with their wicked brethren.

Envy drew himself from his dark thoughts, glancing around to be sure none of these strange, lone Fae might have deciphered where they’d gone.

Luckily, a stall on his left drew his attention. Paintbrushes made of gemstones glittered in the moonlight. One was carved from a single flawless emerald. Beautiful.

Envy plucked it up, feeling for any trace of magic or trickery, intrigued when all was as mundane as it appeared.

“Bag this up.”

Copper eyes flashed. Sharp teeth gleamed.

“A fine choice, Your Highness.”

His true title was nothing but a mere hiss on the wind, yet several pairs of ancient eyes turned to him. Before the Fae could spill any other secret, Envy’s dagger was at the Unseelie’s throat, the tip digging deep enough to draw its sparkling blood.

Envy’s blade glowed, pleased with the offering.

“Tell you what. Give me information and I may be persuaded to keep your head attached to your body. Lie and I’ll piss on your corpse’s pyre tonight. Deal?”

A demon blade was indiscriminate as to who or what it killed. No immortal could withstand a strike. Except for his brothers.