Page 18 of These Vile Hearts

A green arborfae with iridescent wings greets me at the door, carrying a tray of cherry wine. Glimmering gauze is all that covers her thin, naked body, the color of a sprig of grass.

“Happy evening, Prince Castor,” she says. “Cherry wine for you?”

I take the goblet from her delicate hand. “Always. Thank you, Fern.”

Either Fern hasn’t heard the news of what happened to Dahlia yesterday or she is a fabulous actor. I assume it’s the former because when she found out I was the cursed prince, her eyes grew to the size of death caps. It’s unlikely Durian would have let the news spread quickly. It will arrive to this district as a trickle. Then, once it does, word will catch like an ember in dry grass on a windy day.

Evodia is nowhere to be seen, and I peek through the green-feathered curtain into the dark theater, which is only half filled.

“Unusually barren tonight,” I say to Fern, who is rearranging the glasses of wine so they don’t topple to one side.

“Everyone is preparing for the Crown Masquerade, I suppose.” She gives up balancing the glasses on her arm and slides the tray onto the desk, spilling papers across the floor. “I wasn’t here for the last one, so I’m not sure what to expect. Evodia tells me it is…quite a lot.”

“It is.Quitea lot of overdressed dryads toting around theirenchanted mortal accessories and pretending they’re important.” I lift my glass to her and duck through the black-feathered curtain to my right with Tamarind trailing behind. “Have a pleasant evening, Fern.”

I drain my glass and find a vacant chair in the corner of the parlor, the room where the sex is cheaper and the wine is plenty. Tamarind retreats into the shadows. A piano enchanted to play on its own sits in the center of the space, filling the room with a sensual melody. A pair of naked dryads straddle the bench before it, touching each other in ways most would deem inappropriate in public. But this is Magesté.

Immediately, I spot the mortal server Evodia recently hired. Her eyes have the trademark glaze of tieg wine, her lips curved in a subtle smile. She’s pretty, I suppose. Dark hair and light green eyes. There is an imperfect quality to mortal beauty I’ve always found captivating. The fae are practically flawless by mortal standards. It’s part of what draws them to us when we allow them a glimpse into our world. Even the ugliest fae are ugly in a breathless sort of way.

Spotting my empty glass, the mortal server flits over to fill it.

“Don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of making your acquaintance yet,” I say to her, laying on the charm thicker than honey on stale toast.

“I’m Daisy!” The girl looses a high-pitched giggle, then cups her hand next to her mouth. “That’s notactuallymy name, though.”

“Would you care to sit with me, Not Daisy?”

The girl laughs even louder this time. “Evodia told me I’m supposed to fill guests’ drinks.”

“Yes, but I am the prince of the Redwood Kingdom, so I outrank her in authority.”

She shrugs and plops into the seat across from me. “Okay!”

I take another deep drink of wine, smothering the encroachingmemories of Dahlia strutting around this place, of the realization that she never will again. Because of my curse.

My curse. My curse. My curse.

The words echo in my head like a heartbeat, temporarily drowning out all sound.

I drain the glass, and Daisy leans forward with the pitcher to fill it again. “You’re really thirsty, huh?”

“Extremely. So, tell me about yourself—”

“Daisy,” a stern voice interrupts.

My shoulders slump as Evodia enters my line of sight.

“Careful, Prince Castor,” she directs at me as Daisy hops up from her seat, still smiling that too-big, tieg-drunk smile. “If you don’t slow down, you’ll pass out before the night’s revelry truly begins.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Madam Debray. My tolerance is boundless.”

Evodia arches a brow at me before she snaps at Daisy, “Go check on the guests in the theater. They’ll be wanting more wine, I’m sure.”

“Okay!” the girl says in a dreamy voice, flouncing through the feathered curtain.

Evodia’s lilac skin glistens as she moves into the dim light emanating from the sconce on the wall. The embodiment of the very nightshade flowers that decorate her establishment. She leans straight-armed against the back of the empty chair opposite mine, assessing me.

“I know the deadline of your ridiculous pact with your brother draws near, but Daisy is off-limits.” She wags a finger at me like a disapproving mortal mother. Telling her about my pact was definitely a drunken—perhaps tearful—mistake.