Page 81 of These Vile Hearts

“You seem rather tired,” Fern says, voice etched with concern.

“I’m fine, Fern. Don’t worry about me.”

She sets the tray of crystal chalices filled with cherry wine down on the mahogany table beside the front doors. “Mortals are meant to sleep at least eight hours a night, I believe.”

“Where did you learn that?”

Her dragonfly wings give an anxious flutter. “Just read it in a…a mortal medical book.”

I arch my brow. “Did you own that book before I got here?”

The skin of her cheeks turns a deeper shade of green, and she looks guiltily down at the scarlet rug. “No…”

“Where did you even get a book like that? Is there a mortal black market I don’t know about?”

Fern looks even more guilty about this. “No, but there is an egress that lets out into a mortal city where we…borrow things from time to time.”

Feigning horror, I press a hand to my chest. “Are you saying youstolethis book?”

“Well, we steal most things from mortals. It’s recompense for cutting down our forests.” She smiles guiltily. “I just wanted to be sure you were properly cared for.”

I stare blankly at her, blinking slowly. Then burst out into a fit of exhausted laughter. “Oh myGod, Fern.”

“I’m sorry!” she says, earnestly. “Please don’t be upset. I promise I don’t think of you as a pet or anything. I would never force you to drink tieg wine.”

This small gesture reminds me of something Javen would do. In fact, when we were paired with the same family again, he actually bought a book on type 1 diabetes so he could understand what I was talking about when I said things likebolusandhypoandbasal. He read that book two times through and covered it in highlights and notes. In fact, I think he knows more about diabetes—scientifically speaking, at least—than I do.

Sorrow weighs heavy in my chest, both at the memory of Javen and at Fern’s genuine concern. I get the strangest desire to somehow mesh these two lives together. Like trying to connect two mismatched puzzle pieces.

“I’m not mad,” I tell Fern. “Maybe Ishoulddrink tieg wine. All the mortals in this kingdom seem much more relaxed than I am.”

Her wide eyes grow rounder. “No. Don’t drink—”

“I’m not going to drink tieg wine.”

Suddenly, a crash is heard from within the theater, followed by a chorus of shouts and a high-pitched scream. Cursing, I push past Fern and dash through the feathered curtain.

Inside, a mass of chaos swarms in the back corner of the audience, where the normally shrouded stained-glass window is now shattered across the floor like confetti, the heavy curtain torn in half.

I trace the sound of the screams to one of the Magesté aerialistsheld down by a hulking fae with veined gray wings and a face that resembles the mask of a plague doctor. A needlelike appendage bursts out of its beak and punctures the aerialist in the neck. She immediately stops screaming, her head lolling back as blood pumps from the wound and into the needle. The veins of its wings turn from gray to bright red.

“Blood nymphs,” Fern whispers from behind me, her voice barely audible over the screams and stomping feet as nearby audience members scramble away from the bloodsucking fae.

My eyes track to the massive wings of the blood nymph draining the life from the aerialist and an idea strikes. I rip off my skirt, buttons popping from the movement, and unsheathe my throwing axe. Two seconds to take aim, and a third to let it fly. The axe buries itself into the invisible bull’s-eye, pinning the blood nymph’s left wing to the wall.

The needle retracts as the nymph lets out a high-pitched screech.

Silence trickles through the crowd. Heads turn my way, seeking the owner of the axe. I stand before them wearing only a scarlet bodice and matching bloomers, with my dagger and drawstring pouch of supplies still belted low on my hips.

The quiet fractures as the nymph rips its wing from the wall, blood spilling out of its veins like a stacked fountain. The creature drops the wounded aerialist on the ground and revolves to face me. A pair of sunken black eyes meet mine. Despite the blood nymph’s lack of pupils or eyebrows or any distinguishing facial feature…I can tell it’s fuckinglivid.

Leaving the aerialist behind in exchange for something spicier, the creature leaps toward me. Even with half of a wing missing, the nymph is surprisingly quick. I barely have my hand on my dagger when my back slams into the ground and a gush of breath leaves my lungs, refusing to return.

In my periphery, another blood nymph climbs through the holein the window, immediately spotting the bleeding aerialist and stooping over her. But this time Evodia and two other arborfae swoop toward it, pummeling the creature with a chair.

Magesté’s theater descends into bedlam.

Dancers leap from the stage, thundering to the aerialist’s aid as more winged arborfae swoop down. Evodia shouts for her orchids and dancers to get to safety, but no one listens. The crowd is a writhing snakes’ nest, and visitors either dive into the fray or back away slowly. I move to stand, but the blood nymph pins me before I can.