Fey Regency (Fey Lords #3)

2. Chapter 2

Chapter two

M y palms are sweating. Really, really sweating. Any minute now, this dagger is going to slide right out of my hand. It is going to fall on the floor and make a loud thunk, and then everyone is going to look at me and it is all going to be over before it has even started.

Holy smokes. I have to get a grip. Literally and figuratively. Okay, I’ll do that therapy thing I read about where you focus on stuff around you instead of your own spiralling panic. What was it again? Oh yeah, find five red things.

I look around the rapidly filling town square. Grey buildings, grey flagstones. Grey sky. A temporary stage made out of large black blocks. There are no flags or bunting. Nobody even has a red coat. It’s all black, white and grey with an odd dash of navy thrown in.

People are so dull. Though I can’t exactly talk, I’m hardly standing here dressed in vibrant colours. I’m just as drab as everyone else. The only difference is I’m dirtier. Grimy and tatty. Probably stinky too. Oh well, at least that will stop people from getting too close.

I’m standing right at the back, leaning against a wall. I’m in the shadows and I look homeless. My hood is up. Nobody is paying me any attention. They aren’t going to notice the only reason I’m holding the plastic carrier bag in front of me is so I can hide the fact that I’m holding a dagger in my other hand.

But even so, people keeping their distance is still helpful. For my anxiety, if nothing else. So, yeah, on this rare occasion, I’m actually not bothered about smelling bad.

Alright, it seems that even though I can’t find anything red, it still worked. I feel calmer now. Ready to assassinate a fey prince.

Oh my stars. How has my life come to this? Why am I believing someone who appeared in an alley, and not only claimed to be a werewolf necromancer, but also that I have enough fey blood to get through magical shields with a fey dagger?

I must be crazy. Completely and utterly bonkers. A few spanners short of a toolbox.

The intelligent thing to do would be to back out. To not go through with this. But my mind is set. The decision made. I am nothing if not a stubborn bastard. And whatever happens in the next half an hour, one outcome is certain. This miserable existence of mine will be over. The rest is merely semantics.

That thought flows through me, leaving calm, clarity, and determination in its wake. I can do this. I want to do this. This is my chance to go out in a blaze of glory.

I close my eyes and replay the move the crazy werewolf guy taught me. One that will enable a short-ass like me to tackle a larger man. The fey I’ve seen on TV do all seem to be tall, lanky bastards. It would have been nice to get some of those genes, but no, I’m short, even for a human. Tiny and skinny and funny looking. Too pale hair and too green eyes, in a face that is entirely too pointy. Fucking fey, couldn’t even do me any favours with their ancestry.

Suddenly, my heart pounds as the sound of hooves on concrete reaches my ears. I look up just as a carriage sweeps around the corner. An ornate carriage pulled by creatures from a nightmare. Shadows in the vague form of horse-deer things with glowing red eyes.

I shudder and tighten my grip on the dagger. Around me the crowd gasps and steps back, away from the uncanny beasts. I can’t blame people for wanting to see their new overlords in the flesh, but they have to be regretting their curiosity now.

The carriage sweeps right up to the temporary stage. The beasts stop. The door opens and two fey step out. They are dressed in matching brown leather, and they are each holding a spear. They stride up to the stage and position themselves, one in each front corner.

Goosebumps erupt over my skin. They are tall and thin and their very pale hair is tied back in a severe style. The first fey I have ever been close to. It is making me want to puke my guts out.

I’m presuming they are guards. They look like guards. From a fantasy film or a game of Dungeons and Dragons brought to life. I will never, ever get used to this shit being real. And I won’t have to. I’m going to kill their fucking prince and then I will be free of this place.

I eye the guards uneasily. Will I be able to get past them? I watch them closely. Their expressions are bored, disinterested. They haven’t even scanned the crowd. They are acting far more ceremonial than precautionary. It is exactly like the crazy werewolf said. They are relying on their magic to keep their prince safe .

Smug, arrogant bastards. Looking disdainfully down at the humans they have conquered. Believing with all their heart that humans are far too weak and feeble to do them any harm. Well, I’m about to show them.

A flash of colour catches my eye. Someone else is emerging from the carriage. A shimmer of red. The very colour I was looking for a moment ago but could not find. How ironic.

The prince glides up to the stage. His clothes are flowing layers of silk. Crimson, scarlet and vermillion. His hair is like flames, long tendrils licking at his hips, while most of it coils in braids around the base of his antlers. Yep. Antlers. This dude has antlers.

He is on the stage now, standing at the front, midway between his two guards. He is smiling out at the crowd with what I am sure is supposed to be benevolence, but just looks creepy and menacing.

This is it. This is my moment. If I hesitate, if I linger, I might never do it. It is now or never.

I suck in a breath, drop my carrier bag, and lunge forward. I sprint through the crowd, that is thankfully not too thick. I leap up onto the stage and right onto the fey prince. The speed and momentum causes him to topple backwards. He crashes to the ground, with me on top of him. My dagger finds his throat, and then my eyes find his.

Ruby red eyes. Slitted like a cat’s. Staring up at me in shock and surprise. Intelligent eyes. Sentient eyes. Kind eyes.

Time pauses. It holds its breath while the universe waits.

“You’re so pretty,” he says.

His words rip through me. They blast my thoughts apart and decimate my guts. My very soul reverberates from the impact.

Strong hands seize my arms. I’m yanked off of the prince but kept on my knees. I struggle, but it is like trying to fight gravity or stop the tide. Impossible. Pointless. I might as well admit it. I fucked up. I hesitated. I missed my one and only chance.

The prince jumps to his feet in a move I’ve only ever seen in action films and games like Assassin’s Creed. In real life, it is frigging hot, I’m not going to lie. Be damned if I ever admit it, though.

I quickly snatch my gaze away and stare at the floor. No way in hell am I going to let this motherfucker catch me admiring him.

I focus on the toes of his booted feet and try to act like I don’t give a fuck that I’ve failed. I hate that I’m kneeling before him, but these asshole guards are holding me in place, so there is not a lot I can do about it. Except pretend to be unbothered by that as well.

Suddenly, cold metal is pressing against my chin, forcing my head up to meet his gaze. This son of a bitch is using the dagger I just tried to kill him with. Fucking using it to make me look up at him.

“Where did you get this from?” he asks.

I give him my very best glare and spit as best as I can with my head held at this angle. Thank fuck it lands somewhere and doesn’t splat right back on my face. That would be embarrassing.

The prince stares down at me. The corners of his lips curl up into a smile. It suits the sharp bones of his face and looks good on him. Bastard. Fey blood has done him all the favours. He makes that shit look gorgeous.

He called me pretty.

Angrily, I shove that thought down. It’s stupid. What a fucking ridiculous way to die. Fail an assassination attempt because nobody has ever called you pretty before. Fucking tragic and humiliating.

One of the guards speaks. “Are you ready for us to release him so that you may kill him with honour, Your Highness?”

Oh my stars! He is speaking Fey, I am sure of it, but I can understand him! It is like a strange, strongly accented version of Welsh. But I can decipher it well enough. Certainly the bit about being killed.

Even though I was fully expecting it, hearing it spoken out loud sends a jolt of adrenaline coursing through me and I swallow audibly.

“No, not yet,” says the prince calmly, still holding my chin up with the dagger.

His gaze slowly tracks down my body and then all the way back up again. It is an appreciative look. As if I am someone desirable. Someone wanted.

“What is your name?” he asks, in English.

Fuck it. There is no reason not to tell him my name. I have nothing to hide and I’m not ashamed of my actions, only mortified that I messed up. If I give him my name, I may still make it into the history books. And the news. Someone else might be inspired and succeed where I have failed.

“Oleander Evans,” I say proudly.

A look of delight gleams in his ruby eyes. “Oleander? As in the beautiful and deadly flower? I like it. It suits you. ”

The look he gives me is positively flirtatious, and damn it, I can feel my cheeks heating. He is still holding me in place with the dagger, so I can’t look away. I can’t escape. He can see me blushing.

His grin intensifies. It is definitely a smirk now.

“You really are a pretty little flower.”

Oh for fuck’s sake. I don’t think I’ve ever hated my absent, bat-shit crazy, hippy mother more. She could have at least left me with a normal name when she dumped me with Granny.

“But what is your real name?” asks the prince, as he tilts his head to the side and regards me even more intently than he did before.

Huh? What the hell is he talking about? I just told him my stupid, embarrassing name. The abomination that is on my birth certificate.

“What do people call you?”

I blink.

“Ollie,” I blurt in surprise. How did he know that no one calls me Oleander?

The prince’s smile turns into something truly devilish and the look in his eyes is doing strange things to my insides. He really is absurdly attractive. It is unnatural. But I guess that is fey for you.

He straightens up and squares his shoulders. Is this it? Am I about to die? Are these my last moments on earth?

“I, Prince Tristan Y Mabinogi,” he calls out clearly. Probably loud enough that everyone in the square can hear. “Claim Ollie Evans as my pet.”

Wait. What? Oh god. Did he just say pet?

This can’t be good.