Page 107 of These Vile Hearts

“I have no money.”

“Mondo won’t want money. He collects things of great personal value. Things that may seem useless to others. He says these items are worth more than gold. Do you have anything like that?”

My eyes stray to the loft upstairs where my satchel sits on Castor’s bedside table. “Yeah, I do.”

All business now, Tam’s voice grows serious, like a doctor giving orders to a nurse. “When you get the poison, come straight back here. The guards change at midnight, so you must return before then. Durian will expect me to be dead, so I’ll have to be stealthy about it, but I’ll find a way to distract the next round of guards while you climb up to the king’s heartwood. There are vines outside of the throne room that lead all the way up to the candelabra branch.”

“Won’t the throne room be crawling with people?”

He nods. “The inside will. People will be drinking and talking and trying to win a moment with the Redwood King and Myrtle Queen. Just make sure no one sees you.”

“Poison. Midnight. Climbing ivy outside the throne room. Got it. Oh, and you should probably find Castor and tell him that his curse is a hoax.”

Tamarind grins widely. “That’s where I’m heading next.”

“Good. Okay, last thing: What happens if I’m caught?”

“You’re a good enough liar. I’m sure you can pull it off.”

“That doesn’t sound like a compliment.”

“It wasn’t one.”

34

Castor

The starlight courtyard is a flurry of activity. In the sprawling grassy square surrounded by arches of white flowers and evergreen vines, decadence drips from every morsel of food, gilded goblet, and unnecessary topiary.

At the top of the square is a wooden dais with a pair of golden seats meant for the Redwood King and Myrtle Queen. Neither of them sits there—a symbol of the true state of their alliance. Our two kingdoms stopped warring due to a reluctant peace alliance and common enemies. Not because we decided to get along. But I don’t really care about any of that right now. I just care about finding Durian, forfeiting this wicked game, and locking myself in the Bloodwood Tree before Maddox can tell me she loves me.

My mind is far from the swarming guests and the fountain of hazelnut liqueur; it’s in the bed with the girl with silver eyes. It’s in the petals of the rose I left on the pillow beside her before I slipped away. It’s tangled in a whirlwind of images from the past two weeks.

Stepping into my dazed line of sight is a woman dressed all in steel, a narrow cage of metal branches encasing her torso and spillingto the ground in the form of leaves. One side of her flaxen hair has been buzzed down, a braid dividing the two sections. She stands on the outskirts of the crowd with her protectors on either side. Across from her stands a man with stark white skin veined with silvery black tattoos that travel up his forearm and peek out again at the base of his neck. A pair of rough onyx horns stands out starkly against his slicked-back platinum hair. Trademark metallic ribbons run through the horns, telling everyone what he is—ironfae—but the crown of black quartz makes it abundantly clearwhohe is—Wolfram Tamerlaine, the Iron King.

Despite the Iron King’s rare appearance in the Redwood Court, I find him a fraction as intimidating as the woman beside him. Rumors of what the Myrtle Queen did to our forests when Cyperus was king have been told to Redwood saplings like bedtime stories. The battles she led—the unnecessary deaths. There’s a reason Redwood men fear her.

As if she can feel my gaze, the Myrtle Queen turns cold eyes on me—so golden I’m surprised Durian isn’t enchanted by them. But, then again, he’s only ever been attracted to women much less powerful than he. She raises the glass in her hands in a wordless toast. For once, I’m goblet-less. I haven’t had a sip of wine since the oleander concoction Maddox accidentally gifted me.

Oleander was a rather strange choice for an Aronia wine, now that I think of it. They typically only put out cherry varietals. In fact, most dryad wineries don’t include oleander, knowing how somniferous it is.

Durian’s voice jolts me from my distracted thoughts. “Where is your mortal conquest? I figured she’d be here, but perhaps you were too busy riding her to remember to pass on the invitation.”

I turn my neck to the side until it cracks.

“You have one more day to woo the girl,” he continues. “Time to pull out your best tricks if you wish to win our pact.”

“I don’t.”

He stills. “What?”

Despite my earlier conviction, the familiar feeling of shame settles around my shoulders like a cloak of self-loathing in my brother’s presence. I don’t look at him. “I’m done with the pact. Done with all of it. You win. Congratulations, Your Majesty.”

Silence settles between us, as if Durian’s favorite toy has just been shattered before his eyes. How un-fun I’ve just made this sadistic game of his.

“Giving up that easily?” His lip curls in mild distaste. “What would Cyperus think about his precious Castor capitulating without a fight?”

“He’s dead. No use wondering what he would think.”