Page 6 of These Vile Hearts

Hope she likes cake.

2

Castor

It has been said that only fools make pacts with dryad royals.

It has also been said that I am the most foolish of fools. But what else is to be expected of a desperate dryad prince whose blood curse kills any soul who feels an ounce of love for him?

“I didn’t mean it!” a rather unlucky dryad who dared cross me calls out. “I’m sorry, Your Highness!”

Seems the dryad who hurled a glob of spit in my direction is now reconsidering his life choices.

Among birds’ nests and hanging moss, the Redwood Court resides in the treetops hundreds of feet above the forest floor. We typically avoid leaving the safety of the wooden paths strung between tree trunks. But sometimes I’m forced to remind my “subjects” how to show their prince the proper respect.

It’s either that or sob into my morning wine like the pathetic monster I am. And we simply can’t have that.

So now the expectorating dryad has found himself squatting on the end of a branch that juts out like a mortal pirate’s plank overhundreds of feet of nothing but air. I watch him from the safety of the path, drumming my fingers on the railing.

Looking obliquely over at my guard, I say, “What do you think? Is he telling the truth?”

A muscle jumps in Tamarind’s jaw as his copper eyes narrow. He’s not enjoying this. “I believe he is being truthful now, Your Highness.”

The dryad lets out a desperate yelp as his right foot slips a few inches. “Yes, he’s right. Thank you, thank you, sir.”

“I don’t.” I press my hand against the wood of the railing, darkness and rot spreading slowly from the tips of my fingers, traveling down the wood and over the edge of the path toward the branch on which the dryad stands. “Do you know what sorts of powers I possess, my salivating friend?”

“Please don’t, Your Highness. Please—”

“Do you?” I repeat.

The railing begins to crumble as the rot inches into the branch. “Yes! Yes, I do. I’m sorry. I swear. I will never do it again. I swear.”

I lift my hand before the rot makes it halfway through the branch. There is now a foot of space in the railing where the wood has disintegrated. “Good.” The dryad flattens, white-knuckled hands gripping a knob. “See to it that, next time our paths cross, you keep your curses and salivainsideyour mouth. Can you do that?”

The dryad begins to crawl along the branch back toward the safety of the walkway where Tamarind and I stand. “Yes, Your Highness. I’m sorry. I’m so—”

“No, you’re not,” I counter. “You aren’t sorry for what you did. You’re sorry I did something about it. You saw the cursed prince and thought that, just because I spend my nights venturing into the Nightshade District, I am nothing like my golden brother.”

“No—that’s not—”

He makes it to the pathway, and I reach through the space left in the destroyed railing, grasping his shirtfront and pulling him up. “It’s true,” I growl. “I am nothing like my brother.” My voice lowers to nearly a whisper. “I am much, much worse.”

Then I let him go, watching as he scurries up the pathway like a petrified rodent. I shove my hands in my pockets to hide their shaking. My heart thrums with anxiety, and a lump has taken residence in my throat. When I was younger, I couldn’t control the tears that came with people’s cruel words. But crying only made things worse. So I learned how to swallow them.

Wine and tears: a balanced royal breakfast.

“You are late for Court, Your Highness,” Tamarind murmurs.

I let out an un-princely snort. “Yes, what will King Durian do without me by his side?”

We make our way toward the citadel, a fortress built inside a ring of the grandest redwoods in our kingdom. In the center stands the Sovereign Tree, the most ancient in all the Sylveris woodlands. Legend says the prodigious first dryad to grow from this land sacrificed his physical body so his tree would live eternally, drawing on his magic, producing Sovereign heirs. The size of a dozen redwoods in circumference, the tree dominates the kingdom with its bloodred bark and candelabra branches housing the heartwood trees of all previous Sovereign dryads who came before my brother, King Durian Sempervirens.

And then there is my heartwood. Gnarled, black, and craning over the Crown District like a vulture waiting for an injured animal to finally die. It’s definitely the ugliest thing about me.

“Any luck in Arborfell today?” Tamarind asks in a monotone.

I can’t tell if there is judgment there or not. Once upon a time, Tam and I were close friends. When I was tired of being a prince, I would sneak over to the Nightshade District—back to my roots. Ifelt more comfortable there in the squalor and depravity than behind the pristine walls of the palace.