Page 92 of The Blood Queen

This state of mind ain’t doing a thing to help Alyth. But there’s not much to be done now anyway, not until we head on the march tomorrow morning. So maybe I can take a few minutes of brooding, feel all sorry for myself, and then I’ll bounce back into smiles and optimism. Alyth’ll need it.

Something nudges my shoulder, and my eyes flare up.

Then widen.

The Green Lady’s towering over me. It’s strange to see her just here, among normal folk, and know that she’s not hidden behind a glamour like she was at the ball weeks back. The brownies practice sword fighting over by the hearth, and a few pixies flitter around. We’re all united now. Against the High Blade. For Alyth.

I swallow and straighten, arms snapping to my side. “Everything all right?”

The Green Lady is taller than humans. With a lower body like a goat and a top half like a woman, she’s got long, matted green hair resembling moss and horns that sweep up from her temples. A great cloak trails off her shoulders, patchwork decorated with red berries and lace-thin ferns, and she’s holding a mighty staff as tall as she is, the top filed to a sharp point.

She tips her head at me, hair shifting against her horns. Her cool green eyes study me intensely, from my hair to my throat down to my feet and back up. Silence holds so long that I swallow again, fidgeting, and glance past her, to Alyth.

Still not entirely sure of etiquette with fae creatures. At least ones whose good graces we want to stay in.

“Humans fear us,” she says suddenly.

My eyes snap back to her. “Yeah? If you’re concerned about fighting alongside them, the humans are staying in the castle to protect the queen. It’ll just be fae creatures facing the High Blade—”

“Not that. We are monstrous to them, Samson Calthorpe. To humans.”

“Uh—” I gape and point toward Alyth. “We can take your concerns to—”

The Green Lady sighs heavily in clear exasperation, and I freeze, feeling like I made a misstep, though I can’t even see what steps I took.

“They see us as monsters,” she says again and runs a hand along one horn. “For our shape, for our size. For some of our acts.” Her teeth flash, a cold, wicked smile. “Perhaps the monstrous title is earned, then. But overall, are we monsters, Samson Calthorpe?”

My jaw slips shut. “No. ’Course not.”

“What is a monster, then, but perception?” She shrugs. “To some, a monster is a horned beastie. To others, a monster is human. There is no one type of monster but monsters found in every group. You”—she leans toward me, piercing me in place with her green eyes—“are not a type of monster, Samson Calthorpe.”

The tension goes out of my shoulders. Tears prick my eyes at her earnestness, and I see everything she’s said through a new focus now.

“You know?” I whisper.

The Green Lady gives me a flat look, like don’t insult me.

I gaze around. No one’s closing in, so likely she’s the only one who’s guessed I’m a Red Cap.

You are not a type of monster.

“But what I am is monstrous,” I say, voice still low, eyes still overheated. “My very nature. Everyone’s right to fear me, to hate me.”

“Are they? Have you done terrible things?”

“I killed my father.” It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud. I’m not even sure why I say it now, but the words gush out of me, and I suck in a breath as they leave, air rattling around my aching lungs.

The Green Lady purses her lips. “Hm. Was it a bad thing?”

“K-killing him?” I stammer, aghast. “Was it bad to kill him?”

“Yes. Was it bad?”

She asks it so simply. Like it’s a valid question. Like it’s obvious.

Isn’t it obvious?

Killing’s wrong. Pretty basic delineation of monstrous or not. Monsters kill people. Especially their own relations.