Page 48 of These Vile Hearts

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Behind the curtain of the main show stage is a row of mirrored makeup stations surrounded by bright fae lights. Orchids and dancers alike dab at their faces and wind ribbons, jewels, and feathers through their hair and around their horns. Soft piano music plays from somewhere in the wings.

Pulled by the hand to one of the stations to prepare for my first night on the job, I’m painted and primped like a human doll. Dramatic smoky eye shadow, liner, mascara, and deep red lips. Blues, blacks, and silvers make my eyes look absolutely piercing. Now I get why Javen harped on and on about me experimenting more with makeup. He was right; it does have the ability to make you into a whole other person. I don’t even recognize myself.

I’m fitted in an ocean-blue corset with pewter chains and clasps, matching bloomers, a garter belt with garters clipped to sheer black stockings, onyx kitten heels, and a black gossamer peignoir. I only know what any of these things are because of Javen’s constant costume brainstorming sessions. If I didn’t recognize a garment, he would spend at least an hour showing me pictures online and another hour showing me sketches of his own. If he could only see me now.

Wonder if he’s moved all his things into his fancy San Francisco apartment yet. Bet he’s already forgotten about his diabetic best friend. Too busy soaking in his new, free life as a former foster kidwho actually beat the system. If I pull this off, maybe I could join him. Just show up at his place like,Hey! So, I took your advice and made a deal with a dryad. Killed a king. nbd. Wanna get sushi? My treat.

Fern watches my transformation like a hovering dance mom, adjusting my costume and tucking back a stray curl.

“Is it like this every night?” I ask.

“Every single one.” Fern flashes a proud grin. “It’s why wealthy dryads and arborfae drop sacks of gold just to step through our doors. The costumes, the makeup, the dancers. Thespectacle. Magesté is not just a brothel. It’s a transcendental experience.”

One of the dryads completes my look with pointed silver ear cuffs to hide the mortal curves of my ears, as if they are something ugly that needs to be covered. She pats me on the head and moves on to the next orchid. I smooth my hands down the boned corset, eyeing my reflection. How is it that I can look like a completely different person and feel more like myself than I have in years?

Fern takes my hand. “Come on, Oleander. We have much to do.”

She leads me to the front of the establishment and shows me the “books,” which consist of piles of jagged-edged papers with orchid and visitor names, time spent in the rooms, and the payment amount. Orchids get to keep most of what they make, paying Magesté a small percentage.

I flick through the papers, swallowing the slow-building anxiety. “Is there a particular organization to all of this that I’m not seeing?”

Fern shrugs. “Not really. I work best in chaos.”

“I can see that.”

There are also books filled with the orchids’ stats and “special skills.” Evidently, it’s customary to ask what visitors are in the mood for: sultry and rough, soft and sweet, acrobatics, even cuddling. I guess dryads aren’t unlike mortals in that sometimes they just needsomeone to lie next to for a while. I know what that’s like all too well. Loneliness was the flint to all my old flames.

Fern and I comb through each of the bedrooms, straightening the bedspreads, lighting the candles. She uses whatever forest magic she possesses to fill the air with the subtle scent of roses and cinnamon.

“How long have you worked here?” I ask.

Fern’s slender shoulders tighten at the question. Every inch of her is visible through her sheer gown of glittering organza. But, somehow, she manages to make it look romantic rather than risqué. “A little over a year.”

“Are you from the Redwood Kingdom?”

The frown on Fern’s dark green lips deepens. “I’m not, no. I was forced to relocate…”

“Why?”

She avoids eye contact. “My forest lands were cut down by mortal axmen.”

Guilt writhes in my stomach like a serpent. A flash of my dad’s company truck enters my mind, sprinkled with memories of him teaching me how to hold an axe properly, explaining how his team brought down hundreds of trees in a day with their feller bunchers. I never made the connection between what he did and what that might mean for the dryads and other forest fae I could see. Ignorance on my part, I suppose. It never occurred to me that my dad would be the villain in their history books.

Images of screaming arborfae fleeing from their homes as they’re cut down darken my previously bright reverie.

If he could see dryads and other fae…how could he cut down forests filled with them? It seems almost immoral. Cruel. Then comes an image of one of the many videos I watched before I was rejected from the army. People killing people. Mortals gunning down mortals. Killing is fine as long as it’s for a good cause, right?At least, that’s what I told myself when I marched up to the recruitment center, ready to sign my life away in exchange for some semblance of security. Maybe that explains the relief I felt when they told me type 1 diabetics can’t enlist.

“I’m…so sorry,” I murmur, looking down. And I really am. Dryads have been nothing but cruel murderers in my eyes since I lost my parents. But arborfae like Fern have never done anything to earn my distrust.

“Thank you, Maddox. It’s not so bad anymore. The Nightshade District has a reputation for morally corrupt dryads and heinous monsters.” She smooths her green hand over the comforter. “But they are also the only district in this sprawling dryad court who will accept arborfae who’ve lost their homes, adopt dryad saplings with no family. Evodia gave me a job and a room when she had no need for me.”

“Sounds like foster care,” I mutter.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing…I’m glad you were able to find a home.”