Page 36 of These Vile Hearts

Her brow lifts. “Must beveryentertaining to earn the frequent presence of a king.”

There is a shadow of judgment in her tone. Lovely: Even this vile mortal doubts my leadership abilities. “Where else should a kinglearn about the desires of his people than at the place they go to enjoy themselves?”

The words leaving my mouth are complete and utter nonsense, but I pretend to believe it nonetheless. A skill I imagine most rulers have in spades.

“Of course…So, what now?” Maddox folds her hands before her. “Shall I hang out with your friendly guard awhile so you can enjoy the rest of your masquerade?”

Tamarind gives an imperceptible shake of the head.

“That won’t be necessary. I am bored of this party. I’ve gotten all I need out of it.” I hand over her dagger, presenting the hilt. My first card to play. For her to trust me, she has to believe that I trust her. “Take it. You’ll need to be able to protect yourself in the Nightshade District.”

Slowly, she reaches for the blade, as if she thinks I may change my mind and bury it in her sternum. Can’t say the thought hasn’t crossed my mind. But I need her. For a fortnight, at least.

She weighs the weapon in her hand a moment before sliding it into her pocket. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“Please. Call me Castor.”

And, to set off the beginning of our imaginary love story, I offer the girl a reluctant smile, as if I want to trust her but am afraid to. As if I want to take off my mask for her again.

She returns it, the corners of her lips lifting slowly like they’re attached to marionette strings controlled by a puppet master. The silver of her eyes sparks. “Thank you,Castor.”

My name disintegrates like poison on her tongue.

I hope it tastes bitter.

11

Maddox

The king and his guard sneak me out of the masquerade through a back door. I’m not sure why he’s going through all this trouble to keep me concealed. It isn’t like his mortal dalliances are a secret if even the Myrtlewood dryads know about them.

I keep my hand on the hilt of my dagger, a foolish thing for the king to return after what I almost did. With every footstep, I envision all the ways I could stealthily bury the blade in the side of his neck. But each imagined assassination ends the same: with his grim reaper guard removing my head with his massive scythe.

Even now, the guard—Tamarind—walks a foot behind me, his shoulders tense as if he’s ready to throw me from the platform if I move too quickly in the king’s direction. For now, I clear my head of all murderous thoughts. I’m supposed to be a dryad-obsessed mortal in a treetop kingdom, after all. I should be staring wonderingly around, struck with awe by themagic.

Fuck magic. Fuck dryads. And, most of all, fuck me for not killing the king when I had the chance. Now his guard is never going tomake the mistake of stepping away again, and I have only myself to blame. My hesitation.

If my dad’s journal were a how-to book for dryad regicide instead of vague notes and warnings, maybe this wouldn’t be so hard. Maybe I would have a plan that isn’t just:Get the king alone and stab him.

I send a resentful glance skyward.

Thick branches hide the moon and stars. When I pictured dryads as a child, I always imagined them prowling around the forest floor like predators, carrying spears and roasting animals on a spit. Lounging on low branches and sleeping in hollow trunks. I never imagined fully functioning treetop cities with wooden paths, dining establishments, and storefronts built around tree trunks.

The Myrtlewood was closer to my imaginings, down to the metatarsal chandeliers.

King Castor leads us to a platform with a line of what look like wooden pedicabs topped with a single helicopter blade.

“It’s a samara,” he informs me after instructing the pedaler where to go. “Meant for traveling between districts.”

I climb inside and adjust the full skirt of my gown as the king sits beside me. His guard takes the seat across from us, laser-eyed gaze on me.

The samara lifts into the air, sending my stomach into an uncontrolled flip. I make the mistake of leaning over to peer out of the open window. The view of nothing but wide redwood trunks and blackness forces an involuntary tremor across my shoulders. I hope it goes unnoticed.

As is my luck tonight, it does not.

“Afraid of heights?” the king drawls.

I squeeze my bedazzled clutch full of diabetic supplies more tightly. “I’m not afraid of anything.”