Page 38 of These Vile Hearts

Yes, Dad, what the fuckaredruids? And why did you leave so many of your own questions unanswered?

The farther we travel, the darker the shadows become. All the decorative twinkling lights and sparkling gemstones adorning the citadel fade away. The wood of the walkways below shifts from polished and gleaming to dull, dark, and decrepit.

Soon the only illumination comes from clusters of incandescent purple flowers hanging like streetlamps. There’s a general smell of decay in the air, something sickly sweet.

The pathways grow steadily more crowded, swarmed by masked individuals wearing cloaks and hoods, like we’ve just entered a city of scytheless grim reapers.

I’ll bet the king’s guard loves it here.

A high-pitched scream sounds within an unlit home we pass over. My right hand immediately reaches into my pocket for the hilt of my dagger.

King Castor leans toward me, lowering his voice. “Scared yet?”

“Do youwantme to be scared, Your Majesty?”

“Does it matter?” he responds. “You are immune to fear, after all.”

The samara lands in the center of the Nightshade District. Castor offers the pedaler a handful of coins, and I step out of the flying carriage. The glowing purple flowers hang beneath every establishment and wind around gnarled branches. The district’s center is oblong rather than circular and comes to two points sprouting off into a dozen darkened streets, like an eye with lashes coated in too much mascara.

A latticed black windmill covered in iridescent green stonestowers above. It doesn’t rotate or spin, though it seems like it should, as if it’s been frozen in time. Nightshade flowers crawl up the rounded charcoal walls surrounding the tree at its core. Above the doors the glowing blossoms form the wordMagestéin swirling cursive script.

The king opens a door, holding it for me and Tamarind.

I’m engulfed in white tendrils of opalescent smoke, the smell of burnt sugar and dead roses hanging in the air. The front room is cramped and empty save for a heavy pedestal desk covered in mountains of paper and open books. The low beat of drums, plinking piano, and jazzy horn instruments can be heard from the room beyond a curtain made of emerald feathers.

A raven-haired arborfae with light green skin and dragonfly wings rushes through the curtain, sweat glistening along her brow and narrow shoulders. Given how sheer her ivory gown is, she might as well be nude.

“Greetings!” the girl says in a nervous, reedy voice. She speaks so fast all her words are pushed next to one another like passengers on a crowded San Francisco light rail. “We are rather understaffed tonight, and all the available orchids are taken. Most of our dancers are working at the masquerade. There is an abbreviated version of the show, of course, but…” King Castor takes off his mask and the arborfae stops speaking, taking a deep breath. “Oh. Your High—”

The king cuts the nearly nude girl off with a nod, not a trace of blush on his cheeks. As if he sees practically nude women all the time. Probably does. “Pleasant evening, Fern. I’m here to speak with Madam Debray.”

Fern looks to me and then back to the king. “Madam Debray is upstairs interviewing someone right now.”

“She will see me.” There’s something rigid and careful about his words.

Wringing her hands, Fern looks from the king to another curtain of oily black feathers before nodding resignedly.

From what I’ve heard about him, I wouldn’t expect the girl to even pause before obeying. But the way they speak seems almost familiar. Evidently, he is a regular visitor at thisentertainment venue, as he’d called it.

King Castor doesn’t make eye contact with me. “I will return shortly.” Then he follows Fern through the black-feathered curtain, leaving me alone with the guard, who had a blade to my throat less than an hour ago.

Tamarind stands with his hands clasped before him, back rigidly straight. He’s rather handsome with his dark umber skin, elfin features, copper eyes, and locs gathered atop his head like a homemade crown. His horns are not unlike Castor’s in color but are smoother and slightly smaller. They don’t twist or curve back but sit higher, like a fawn’s.

The scythe in his hand, though? Not so cute.

I pace the room, arms folded across my chest, trying to slow the whirlpool of thoughts drowning my mind. Clearly, I overestimated my abilities and underestimated the difficulty of the situation. Guess I have no choice but to play the king’s little game until I can get him alone again.

Passing by the front desk covered in papers, I crane my neck to read the topmost sheet. It’s a messy grid with prices, names, dates, and time frames. I move the top paper to see the one beneath. Same names on the left row, but different names on the right. Different times. Some fifteen minutes. Some two hours. Some just sayfull night.

I revolve on my heel to face Tamarind. “This is a brothel, isn’t it?”

He opens his mouth, takes a long, slow breath, then closes it.

“Tamarind. Is your king selling me to a whorehouse?” I grind out.

“He is notsellingyou. He’s—”

“No, of course not.” My words choke his. “He’s just allowing me to repay my debt to him by forcing me to sell my body for sex. You’re right. That’s completely different.”