Page 42 of These Vile Hearts

“Same to you,Your Majesty.” She offers a dramatic curtsy before following Fern out of the room.

“Poor girl.” Evodia rests her chin atop her hands. “She has no idea she’s the chosen victim of the cursed prince.”

“Let us hope it stays that way.”

13

Maddox

Moans, grunts, and warbling screams of ecstasy reverberate off the walls like an auditory kaleidoscope of pleasure. I can’t tell if I’m terrified or turned on.

“You are not supposed to be up here!” Fern scolds a pair of masked, nude dryads with thin, multipronged antlers taking up half of the topmost stair. “This isnota free sex space. Go back downstairs to the first floors. Shoo!”

The two dryads laugh, ignoring her as they clumsily move from one position to another.

Fern huffs, shaking her head. She takes me by the hand and maneuvers around the writhing bodies, descending the staircase. “It is not usually so chaotic here, I promise. We are already understaffed, but then with the Crown Masquerade, it’s simply…urgh, and I feel like I am doing theworstpossible job. New visitors donotknow how business is conducted here. Anyway, I will find you a room. Follow me, Oleander, darling.”

“It’s actually Maddox, but—”

“Oh, we don’t use our given names here,” she whispers. “Safest that way.”

“Because of the Unseelie, yeah.” My dad never told me anything about the Seelie vs. Unseelie fae, but I’ve read enough fairy lore to know I don’t want an Unseelie knowing my name.

The weight of the past few days presses on my shoulders and the top of my head; it pulls at my hands and feet as if trying to drag me down into the pits of hell. As it always does, the maddening thoughts of the state of my blood sugar crowd my mind. The tarts were likely overkill. The sugar-crusted berries, the carb-filled crust. Each tart was probably thirty carbs at least. A low blood sugar typically only needs fifteen. When I had a CGM and insulin pump, the roller coaster of this disease was at least something I could monitor. But now I have to wait until I’m able to prick my finger and jab myself with an insulin-filled needle. Anxiety hums beneath my skin. I clench my fists more tightly.

The more stairs we descend, the louder the sounds become. I act as though it doesn’t faze me. I’m no prude, far from it. But even the illegal brothel Javen and I once visited in San Francisco was a convent compared to this place. There is sex happening everywhere, on every available surface. And some unavailable surfaces.

I try to look away, but it’s sort of like a car crash situation.

When the arborfae and dryads aren’t licking or grinding on one another, they’re taking a break for a drink or puffing on what look like thin joints. Billowing milky clouds hang in the air, smelling of burnt sugar and dead roses.

I sidle closer to Fern. “What are they smoking?”

“Nepenthe. It calms everything down. Settles nerves, you know. I am not one to smoke usually, but tonight I may have to change that.”

We descend all the way to the main floor, walking past a new couple taking up residence on the piano, this time bent over thekeys. The continuous music is punctuated with rhythmic crashes of the highest-pitched notes, like a serial killer movie.

The extra bedrooms are located just beneath the theater stage, which is now occupied by at least ten dryads with various sizes of horns, antlers, and other appendages. One of the horned ones looks up from the thighs he’s sandwiched between and calls out for us to join.

“Maybe later,” I say, following a petulant Fern into a stairwell tucked beneath the stage.

The lowest floor looks nothing like the dazzling spectacle above. It has a cabin-in-the-woods feel, with an open layout and a massive kitchen with an island and two long wooden tables. Tragic nostalgia twists in my belly as I run a hand along the back of a leather sofa, flares of memories burning like a thousand bee stings. This place reminds me of the only real home I knew as a child—the one with my mom and dad. Small and cozy and warm. When my dad was home, that was.

Fern’s voice lifts me out of my reverie. “The orchids take turns cooking lunch for everyone. It’s our family meal, I suppose.”

“That’s wholesome.”

It really is, to be honest…But also, how the fuck am I going to stealthily take insulin to cover all the things I’ll eat here? I could tell them of my disease, but who knows if they would understand? If they would believe it wasn’t just some mortal drug I’m shooting up? Even some humans have thought that after seeing me inject insulin.

“The extra bedrooms are this way,” Fern continues, stepping into a darkened hallway. “We’ll give you the biggest one.”

Inside, a simple bed covered in a downy white comforter takes up half of the space. The only other furniture is a small bureau and a cherrywood desk with a stack of blank parchment, a single quill, and bottle of ink. Maybe I’ll write letters to Javen that I’ll never send,like a sad character in a Jane Austen novel. Though the weight of the dagger at my thigh might suggest this plot belongs to Poe.

A round, clouded glass window lets in a lavender glow from the nightshade blooms outside. On the left is a latch. Perfect escape route.

“Everything is clean,” Fern assures me.

“Are these rooms…used? By the orchids, I mean.” How else can I say,Will people be fucking in my bed when I’m not sleeping in it?