Page 146 of Nightshade

“I specifically ...” He frowned, as if losing his train of thought for a second time--a rarity, I’d come to learn. His gaze trailed over me again. “You are not going into that ball wearing this,” he hissed, his grip tightening over my wrist.

“Look, this wasn’t my first choice, either, but you’re wrong. I’m getting inside that ball, one way, or another. With, or without, you.”

“You will return back to the cathedral with Garic.”

Wrenching my arm was futile in his grasp. “I will not. I’ll make a huge scene, if necessary. I need inside of that ball. You need a companion. We’re practically a match made in Heaven.”

“That ball is crawling with men who would …” His jaw clenched, eye burning with fury as if he were imagining what they’d do right then. “You’re going back to the cathedral.”

“Jericho, listen to me. Please.” Perhaps it was the pleading in my voice, or the sound of his name that had his eye softening, his grip loosening. “I won’t make any trouble. I just want to talk to this woman, is all. I’ll leave and wait in the carriage after. I promise. Please don’t make me go back. I’m begging you.”

He made a snarling sound and threw my hand away from him, as he set to pacing in front of me. His steps came to a halt, and he rolled his shoulders back. “I am weary of--” His jaw ticced, and he growled. Clearly frustrated. “Fine.” Stroking a hand over his jaw, he raked his gaze over me once more. “But know this, little fairy. If someone is foolish enough to lay so much as a finger on you, their blood is on your hands.”

“Blood? You’d kill someone for touching me?” It was then that the something shiny fully caught my eye, and I glanced at a long, silver sword cloaked beneath his coat. “Is that a real sword?”

“Yes. Do not proceed to test the validity of my words, Miss Ravenshaw. I can assure you, my threats are never idle.”

* * *

Brisk, autumn air seemed to dance around me, as I stood staring up at the enchanting entrance to the ball. The silvery blue cloak draped beneath my wings and snapped at each shoulder offered only a small bit of warmth against the frigid temps, but as we neared the entrance, the crackle of flames held inside what looked like giant glass hurricanes radiated enough heat that I no longer felt the sting of cold.

An archway weaved out of gnarled branches and twigs held tiny glass ornaments suspended by red ribbons, which contained thoroughly melted wax candles inside. Hundreds more red candles in glass jars lit a path through the woods and to an enormous dome of trees, through which I could only see small patches of the night sky.

While I certainly didn’t look out of place in my costume, I still felt compelled to cover myself and all the exposed skin the skimpy fairy dress didn’t quite conceal. While I awkwardly tugged and shifted the fabric, I mentally cursed Anya.

Dozens of guests had arrived in elaborate woodland-themed costumes of gold and silver, some masked, some not. A woman who passed me wore a white winter stag headdress, with silver horns and a long silver gown. Her date wore a much more prominent headdress in black.

In awe, I took in the enchanting wonder of the place, momentarily forgetting the dark undercurrent about which Anya had warned me. The danger that lurked in the shadowy corners.

As if reading my mind, Van Croix reached back for my hand, and the moment I gripped his, something fluttered in my stomach. The sound of laughter echoed from some distant memory in my head, and I recoiled my hand, taken aback by the unbidden visual.

Swinging his dark gaze back toward me, he reached for my hand again, as if he thought I’d meant to escape him. His face remained concealed behind some kind of mask, or scarf, that he wore beneath his hood, the sight of which left me feeling uneasy. And yet, his palm was warm, and something fuzzy and nostalgic filled my chest, like he’d held my hand a thousand times before.

He led me to two men, also dressed in winter stag costumes, who stood at a podium. “Havenash,” Van Croix said, and I felt a tight squeeze of my hand, signaling me to remain quiet.

I didn’t utter so much as a single word, while one of the men drew his finger down a list and tapped on the name. His gaze fell on me next. “Your plus one?”

“Yes.”

With a wave of his hand, Stagboy then gestured for the two of us to enter.

Stepping just inside the dome, I trailed my gaze over the splendorous decor. The sylvan ceiling was lit with even more suspended, baseball-sized candle baubles, above tables scattered throughout the dome upon which food overflowed from gourds. Embellished garlands hung from the trees and decorated the tables and chairs, while the sound of music drew my gaze toward a woman, painted head to toe in silver, who wore a white chiffon dress and sat playing a harp.

Once clear of the gatekeepers, I leaned into my escort. “The costume makes sense now. My hope is that the sword is still only a prop.”

He leaned into me. “Did you honestly think I came here to dance and drink?”

“You’re telling me you intend to use that sword? Like, on someone?”

“Yes.”

A cold sensation spread beneath my skin as I waited for the punchline. The laughter that would dismiss his response as a joke.

He deadpanned, and the unsettling caress of shock that creeped over me sent a rush of nausea straight to my gut. “I think I’m going to be sick.” I looked around at the masked and painted faces, wondering which one would be his target. Which one would have arrived that night unknowing they’d end up dead. By a sword. A freaking sword.

“You’re to stay where I can see you at all times.”

“Who is it? The one you intend to kill.”