Page 77 of These Vile Hearts

Light emanating from the candles and fireplace—which seems like a hazard in the middle of a tree kingdom—has dimmed considerably, bathing everyone in a dull amber glow. Aside from the bizarre conversation with the king and his brother, I’ve spent much of the evening scanning the room for an exit strategy. Beneath the mismatched furniture that’s clearly been stolen from wealthy mortals is a floor of solid oak covered by claret rugs woven with threads of gold. Could be trapdoors beneath those, but it would be a bit obvious for me to peek under them. There is a pair of double doors, guarded on both sides, and a multicolored stained-glass window I’d have to shatter and likely fall to my death from.

My hope of escape was just about gone until I sat on the pianobench and my eyes caught on a painting spanning the wall behind the king’s head. The scene depicts a beautiful woman plucking the strings of a harp upon a rock surrounded by a tempestuous sea. A dolphin’s head can be seen peeking out of the waves, suggesting it is listening to her play. The harpist’s gaze is on me—and likely anyone else in the room who is looking her way, as paintings are wont to do.

Funny how life circles back around. If I had not had foster parents from hell in eighth grade, I wouldn’t have spent so much time studying all of the Greek gods and goddesses after school and during homeroom. Ms. Brem had been my safe space and refuge. I’d spend hours staring at the student-made posters on her wall, one of which depicted the nymph Calypso, whose name literally meant “to hide or conceal.” If I ever see the kid who loved to point out,We are literally never going to need this information in life, every class, I will gladly correct him because, on the left side of the painting, I can clearly see hinges hidden just behind the lip of the frame.

To hide or conceal, indeed.

The king leans against the wall beside his grim reaper guard, exchanging muted words in his magic sound bubble and pretending not to watch me and Durian out the corner of his eye. A mountain cat staring down another predator who caught the prey first.

It’s clear from our earlier conversation that the two brothers have some kind of buried resentment toward each other. And it seems the sight of the cursed prince speaking to me is making King Castor feel some kind of way.

Hopefully, it is making him feel some kind of jealous way. The kind of jealous way that makes you want to drag a person into your room and tear their clothes off—with no guards present, thanks.

“Your singing voice is unlike any I’ve ever heard,” Durian tells me, resting his chin on his forearms propped atop the piano. “I’ve a mind to steal you away from Magesté and hire you as my own personal music box.”

I tamp down a sneer. He sounds just like every other entitled mortal man—like he deserves me because he wants me. But Castor is still watching, so I flash Durian a coy smile. “Have you heard many mortals sing?”

“A fair few. But the tieg wine usually distorts their voices, makes them slur their words a bit or sound more dazed than anything. You sing with awareness and power.”

I frown down at the keys, moving as though pressed by phantom fingers. “Perhaps you could trynotgiving mortals tieg wine?”

“Mortals can’t handle the stupefying reality of magic without glamours or mind-altering substances. It would drive them to madness. Tieg wine is a kindness.”

“I’ve handled it.”

Suddenly, his fingers are running along the edge of my jaw, lifting my chin. I resist the impulse to pull away, meeting his gaze instead. “You are nothing like other mortals, Maddox.”

You’re not like other girls, I hear.

He moves closer now, hand sliding from my jaw down my neck to bare shoulder and trailing farther south. “Your mortal scent is overwhelming,” he breathes in my ear. “Would you risk the threat of death to let me see if you taste as sweet?”

My body tenses, readying to flee or attack just as Castor’s voice booms out, filling the room. “Thank you, gentlemen, for your presence this evening, but I am afraid the end of our merrymaking has arrived.”

The cursed prince pulls away with a wicked grin, stepping back enough for me to catch the rage in the king’s eyes from across the room. The press of the blades hidden beneath my full skirt calls to mind my mission as I slide off the piano bench, stepping out of Durian’s reach.

Castor approaches, avoiding eye contact with his brother. “Allow me to escort you out.” His voice is perilously calm.

“How very typical of you, Your Majesty,” Durian murmurs. “Always taking my toys away before I’ve even begun playing with them.”

Okay, no. Cursed and lonely or not—I whirl around to face the prince. “I am no one’stoy.”

“Sure you aren’t.” Durian flashes a contemptuous smirk, then he slides his hands into his pockets and strolls out the door behind the stream of drunken dryads.

The room is nearly empty, save for the grim reaper. I fold my arms, donning my invisible mask for the performance that is about to go down.

Get the king alone. Get him close. Kill him.

Then I can figure out how to bust out of here with his horns in tow. After that, I can worry about passing them off to the Myrtle Queen, being cured of this damned disease, and getting the fuck out of this forest.

“Can I speak to you alone for a moment?” I ask Castor. My heart rate spikes higher and higher, making my head spin.

He nods stiffly, glancing over his shoulder at Tamarind. His favored guard begins to close the doors on the others, remaining inside the room with us.

“Alone,” I grind out in his direction.

Tamarind tenses, fixing me with a face that clearly says,Never in your wildest dreams, you mortal plague.

I fling my arms wide, gesturing at my gown. “What am I going to do, slay him with my mortal beauty?” I snap. “I would just like to speak to the king without feeling like a wanted criminal.”