Page 50 of These Vile Hearts

“Ohh.”Then she laughs. “Dryads and arborfae don’t carry human diseases like that, though there is the occasional occurrence of genital mold—all the moisture, you know. Easily dealt with, though. Also, we don’t procreate. Dryads are born from the trees and arborfae from the flora.”

Now it’s my turn to blink. “So you just have…pregnant trees and flowers that spit out tiny saplings every now and then?”

She nods with a pleasant smile. “Yes, precisely.”

My brows couldn’t lift any higher, I don’t think.

“How does that…work exactly?”

Blinking, Fern frowns. “Well. Seedlings are made in the heartwood, develop there for a bit, and then sprout and grow until they are mature enough to detach and live among their siblings, who carefor them until they are fully grown. Isn’t that how it is with mortal seedlings?”

“Um. Well—”

I’m saved from analyzing the intricacies of human versus dryad birth and child-rearing when a tall, slender dryad steps inside the front doors. A cloak of oil-slick feathers hangs from his shoulders. Atop his head, between curling charcoal horns, sits a black top hat made of velvet with a bloodred silk band that perfectly matches the color of his nails and pointed snakeskin boots. Upon closer inspection, I note thin ribbons of metal running through his horns. That’s new.

He takes my measure, seemingly unimpressed. Without a word to me, the dryad waits for one of our male orchids to free up, then slips away for a mere fifteen minutes, leaving behind a mound of gold far too valuable for the time spent.

“That’s Mondo. The drug lord of the Nightshade District,” Fern informs me, noting my curious eye as the dryad ducks out the door.

“Does he grow nepenthe or something?”

She barks a laugh and then blushes a deep shade of green. “Nepenthe is a bit tame for him.” Her voice lowers about twelve decibels. “Mondo sellsdeadlythings. He’s one of the only ironfae in the Redwood Kingdom, so he’s rather popular in this district.”

“He’s ironfae?” There are a couple of notes in my dad’s journal about ironfae. Offhanded comments, like he already had knowledge of them. Nothing like the detailed notes on dryads. I always wondered if he’d encountered any when he lived in San Francisco.

“Yes. They typically like to live among mortals, but Mondo is an exception. Rumor has it he was banished by the Iron King.”

I lower my voice, leaning in like a schoolgirl telling secrets over the lunch table. “For doing what?”

“He hasn’t said outright. Of course, some around here claim they know, though, because I heard—”

A swarm of dryads fills the front room, and Fern immediately stops speaking, as if she was telling some forbidden secret.

The visitors before us are all male-presenting dryads with thick horns wearing extravagant, split-cloaked uniforms of gold and scarlet. On each of their left lapels is an emblem of a hawk with open wings. Fern warned me about these people: the Crown courtiers.

“Gentlemen.” I offer a sultry smile. “Welcome to Magesté.”

The man in the front of the group steps forward, smugness oozing from his pores. “Evodia finally got a mortal orchid, huh? About time.” He looks back at the others, offering a wink.

Rather than respond, I offer over the list of orchids’ names. “Who do you desire tonight?”

He ignores the paper, reaching into his pocket and dropping a pouch of coins on the desk. It lands with a heavy thunk. “The best you possess.”

Earlier, Fern informed me the highest-priced orchid is Jade, a rarity even in the arborfae world. She’s a huldra—an arborfae who can induce the most intense of tree-shattering orgasms with just a brush of her fingers. Can’t say I’m not intrigued myself. I could use some unwinding.

Plucking the key to her suite off the wall, I hand it over. “Enjoy your night.”

Each man asks for the “next best” thing. No specifics, just the next most expensive, whoever that may be.

The last dryad steps forward as I’m scanning the list of orchids left. Nearly all the suites are taken. The only vacant room is saved for special requests. “How much for you?” he asks.

My eyes don’t leave the list. “I am not for sale.”

“I am not seeking a sale,” he says. “Rather an investment.”

This time I look up, dark smoke of repugnance filling me like the top floor of a burning house. A man with pine-green hair and irises the precise color of tree sap stands before me. Immediately, Irecognize him as the dryad who whisked me away onto the dance floor last night. Archer, the king had called him. Suddenly, I don’t just see a disgusting pig. I see an opportunity. A potentially dangerous one.

Anytime the king leaves the citadel, he is shadowed by his grim reaper guard, who is highly suspicious of me—rightfully so, but still annoying as fuck. And if I can’t find a way into the citadel without being spotted, a citadel worker like this man would certainly have one or two secrets to spill, if coerced.