Page 58 of These Vile Hearts

He takes another step back.

Reclining in her chair, Maddox gestures toward the bottle. “Why not take a sip yourself if you are so concerned?”

“If I’m poisoned, the king would be left unguarded,” Tam snaps without sparing a glance her way.

“I’m fairly skilled with a few choice weapons,” she tells him. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect the king.” At this, Tamarind bares his teeth at her, snarling like a cornered wolf. She rolls her eyes. “It was in asealedbottle. And I’m mortal. I can’t magically poison shit with my tree powers.” She holds up both hands and wiggles her fingers in mockery.

“Then why not drink a dram yourself?” Tamarind challenges. “Prove me wrong.”

Irritation laces her words tightly together. “Because mortalscan’tdrink dryad wine.”

Both Tamarind and I look at her now, taken aback.

“Who told you that?” I ask.

She shrugs. “It’s just part of the local lore. You know, step inside a ring of mushrooms and you’ll be whisked away by vindictive fairies, ask the Myrtle Queen for a wish and she’ll grant it for a price, mortals can’t drink the wine, it will drive them mad.”

I throw my head back in a laugh, sinking into my seat again. I lift the half-empty glass. “This is just cherry wine. It will only lower your inhibitions, as will nightshade tea and nepenthe. Your mortal lore is probably referring to tieg wine, a deep green liquid that few dryads drink due to the raging hangover that accompanies it. Though the high is almost worth it.”

A look of understanding passes over her face. “Don’t drink the…tiegwine, he meant.”

“Who meant?” I ask.

She shakes her head, blinking. “No one.”

Clearly sensing the absence of immediate danger, Tamarind takes another step back from me, fists clenched tightly by his side.

“So.” I take up the unpoisoned bottle. “What you said at the masque about not being a drinker, is that true? Or was it to protect you from our dangerous libations?”

Drumming her fingers on the table, Maddox appears to be weighing something in her mind. She looks from me to Tam to the wine. Instead of answering, she swipes the bottle from my hands.Bringing it to her lips, she breathes in. I imagine the heady aromas of cherries and autumnal spices filling her airway, intoxicating her the way they intoxicate me.

Tamarind watches with laser focus. She winks at him. Then she takes a drink.

19

Maddox

Six days go just like this one. Coffee and breakfast wine. Share just enough about myself to let the king believe I’m genuine but not enough to damn me. Repeat.

No daggers pulled. No blood drawn. No pact won.

Just coffee and wine and a grim reaper guard.

Every day Castor shows up to Magesté with a carafe of coffee. Every day I bring out a bottle of wine and whatever pastries I can find in the kitchen. Every morning I strap my dagger to my thigh, and every night I take it off, hiding it once again beneath my mattress, shiny and unstained. Sometimes Castor leaves and returns late in the night. Some days he stays from sunup ’til well past sundown. Either way, we talk and drink and flirt while his guard looks on. An ever-present nuisance.

I try to use the time to my advantage, to learn how the king ticks. To catch his tells, uncover his weaknesses. He has many, it seems, but not the kind I’d expect. He’s casually self-deprecating and terrible at hiding his feelings. They flicker across his face like a theater marquee. Despite his kingly status, he pulls out my chair, pours mycoffee before his wine, and waits for me to take a sip before drinking his own.

When I’m talking, he locks in so intensely that he appears to forget his surroundings entirely. I told him about the time I ran away from my second foster home and tried to hide out on what I thought was an empty sleeper boat in the harbor only to find myself at sea with an old fisherman. Castor listened with such focus that he spilled his wine all over the table when Fern popped around the corner to tell me it was time for Magesté lunch.

The worst part is that I’m actuallyenjoyingthis. Castor is regrettably funny, his clever words laced with the dryly dark humor I appreciate most. Some days our witty quips bounce back and forth like Ping-Pong balls, each trying to outwit the other. It’s rare that a man is able to keep up with me in that way. In the mortal world, my dates are filled with long, awkward silences, mansplaining, or lewd comments about how much they like to fuck redheads.

But I’m not here for riveting conversations. I’m wasting time. I only have six days left.

Less than one fucking week.

I keep telling myself this is preparation for the big event. The best hunters are those with the most patience. Castor has to trust me in order for me to get close to him—away from Tamarind. Which has proven rather difficult when his guard trusts me only as far as I can throw him. Which is…not far at all.

I wonder if my dad had this much trouble fulfilling his side of the bargain with the Myrtle Queen. Was it effortless for him? He was forever tied to her, and a week of this is already doing me in. If she ordered him to murder the Redwood King, what else had she made him do? And why didn’t he write about it? Every night after my shift at Magesté, I stay up an extra hour or two combing through his journal, trying to find something I might have missed, trying to find a map or directions or guidance through this murderous plan.