Page 110 of These Vile Hearts

“Oh, the pact was indeed real. If Maddoxhadtold you she loved you, I would have been forced to stop killing your lovers and friends—after I killed her, of course. But the pact doesn’t matter anymore, does it? After all…you practically begged to be locked in here. What sort of king would I be if I denied my brother’s only desperate request?”

“Please, Durian.” My voice shakes as I clutch the bars, willing them to rot away. They don’t. Instead, they heat up until I can no longer bear to hold them, hands coming away raw and charred. “Leave me in here forever if you want, just let Maddox go.”

“You aren’t exactly in a position to barter, now, are you?” He steps closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Don’t worry, Castor. Maddox will be taken care of. You know how well I treat my mortal women.”

Then he disappears from my view, leaving me with only the company of my echoing cries.

35

Maddox

When I first visited the Nightshade District, all I noticed were the dark and decrepit things, the dangerous creatures lurking in the shadows of forgotten buildings and distant trees. Foster care was a lot like that. Every new home and family had monsters, whether real or imagined. It took time for me to see them for what they really were. I didn’t let them grow on me; I never gave them the chance.

But, here, I was so focused on my task, on killing the king, that I forgot to see the worst in everyone else.

Now I notice the women dancing barefoot in the street to the haunting music played by satyrs and pixies. I hear laughter, unrestrained and free. I feel safer here, walking through the neglected streets, than I do in the gilded Crown District with a million golden guards.

That is, until I turn down the rickety road leading to Mondo’s Mausoleum.

No one dances here. No one speaks, as if it’s understood that a whisper could draw the wrong person to his door. Now, as I steponto the damp wood of the bridge leading to Mondo’s home, I see why. Black vines slither between the slats in the wooden planks like dread slithers in my gut.

The mausoleum is a lone turret of black stone enrobed in gray lichen. Spiderwebs drip from the branches like Spanish moss. It’s darker in this part of the forest. And here I stand, hair loose, a splotch of red in the monochrome. A bloodstain on a gray dress.

I reach the bottommost step leading to the entrance, and the door slides open, disappearing into the stone wall. Out steps Mondo, tall, thin, and dressed in a cloak of oil-slick feathers, with nails painted deep maroon and pointed red snakeskin boots. Between his curling charcoal-and-iron horns sits a black top hat made of velvet with a bloodred silk band.

“Miss Oleander.” His voice is like wind pushing through a narrow opening, high and reedy. “Audacious of you to come here all alone.”

“I’m not known for my prudence.”

“You are known for very little around here, I am afraid.” Mondo clasps his hands before him. “Given the short time you have graced us with your mortal presence.”

Rather than sneer, I smile. “I prefer it that way. May I come in?”

Given the ice in his dark stare, I almost expect to be turned away, but instead, he steps aside. “Most certainly.”

The interior of the mausoleum contrasts starkly with the outside—warm earth tones, soft upholstered green-and-brown armchairs, and a crackling fire. Mondo sinks into the chair closest to the fire.

Behind him stands a wall of wooden bookshelves filled with hundreds of seemingly random trinkets. A mortal watch, a small doll with brown skin and pink hair, an opal tiara, a broken teacup, and a withering snake’s skin.

“What brings you here, Miss Oleander?”

I hand him the paper Tamarind gave me.

Mondo reads it a few times over and then presses a long indexfinger against his chin, assessing me. “Poison of that sort will cost an item of great personal value.”

Though I’m not moving an inch on the outside, anxiety flutters in the depths of my chest, the locks on my metaphorical windows and doors straining from the pressure.

“Do you have anything like that?” he asks.

I dip my head in a nod and let out a long breath. My hand slides to my weapons belt, to the pouch filled with supplies. My meter. My test strips. My insulin. I wriggle my fingers farther over to my sheathed dagger, bloodied by almost everyone but the king.

Without a word, I pull the dagger free and offer it to Mondo. He beholds the blade with an art collector’s eye, plucking it out of my hand and bringing it closer to his face.

“This is not payment enough,” Mondo says after a moment. “I said an item of great personal value.”

“Thatisof great personal value.”

“A blade is a blade, and this one is no different. I see value in objects—value greater than gold and silver—and this is worthless, I am afraid.” He returns the dagger to me and waves toward the door. “If you have nothing else to offer—”