Page 43 of The Blood Queen

He pouts. “How dull. I thought this was going to be interesting, Drest.”

Alyth’s father frowns at me as he swirls a wine goblet in front of him. He looks bored. “I thought he would be interesting. Do you do anything? Look, my daughter gave us a show. What are you, Samson Calthorpe? What have you to offer us?”

I could go into a murderous rage and paint the floor with your blood.

That probably wouldn’t be too effective at winning them to our side. And I doubt my Southwark slum methods of playing on sympathies will work; they don’t seem the type to be taken in by sob stories and heartbreak.

It’s not me that’ll win them over though. It’s Alyth.

Right now, she’s holding court on the dance floor, half a dozen fae gathered ’round her. Their faces are a strange mix of shock, horror, and interest, all of ’em flicking rapidly through those emotions like they can’t decide whether she’s entertainment or a warning. Regardless, they’re hanging on whatever she’s saying, hanging on her certainty and determination.

“You boys know of a witch named Moyra?” I ask, watching Alyth still. “Lives in a bog.”

Drest and the two princes eye each other, but none speak. Didn’t expect them to.

So I dive into the tale of how Alyth helped Moyra get a bunch of kelpies out of her favorite grove, relocated ’em to the pond where Alyth then led the High Blade and her army.

“The High Blade,” I add flippantly. “You know. The one what eviscerated that queen of yours. Anyway—”

And I carry on, going into gory detail about the vicious horse beasts gnawing at the Red Caps, describing how Alyth outsmarted them all.

Even the fae prince who’d been disgusted by me is listening raptly by the end.

Would this audience care about the way Alyth looks after every creature in Scotland? Would they care how much the brownies at Stirling Castle love her, how the glaistigs respected her?

Doubtful. So I slide into another story about how Alyth got the Winter Queen Beira to help us. I might embellish a bit, conjuring a full blizzard and mountains of snow, but other fae drift over, and soon I’m enthralling my own little group, same as Alyth.

Wine’s flowing and jaws are gawping as I tell how a Red Cap item cursed me—which is close enough to the truth—and Alyth agreed to help, leading me to Moyra’s cottage and having her free me from the wicked magic.

I list out all the great, glorious things Alyth’s done in our short time together, going as wild and epic as I can. And honestly, most of the things are wild and epic on their own.

As I wrap up the story about Darnley blowing up and Alyth saving me from the explosion, I spot her across the room, near the doors.

She’s watching me with a curious smile on her face.

Someone handed me a glass of wine a bit ago—I haven’t drunk it—but I lift it at my listening group in a dismissal. “If you’ll all excuse me.”

Ness, the fae prince who’d tried to trade for me, moans. “Don’t stop there! Where’d the powder kegs come from?”

Albin, the fae prince whose nose seems stuck in a permanent scrunch, nods in agreement, listing possibilities with another prince. The rest of the crowd starts murmuring their own ideas, and as I peel away, Drest blocks my path.

He takes a gulp from his wineglass, one that’s been filled and refilled all night.

“Do you tell the truth, Samson Calthorpe?” he asks in that same almost bored affectation. But interest flickers in his eyes: Alyth’s eyes, dark and deep. “It is dangerous to lie in the fae realm.”

I smile, keeping it smooth. “Your daughter’s great deeds leave no room for lies.” A few details left out, yes, but not lies.

He nods slowly, studying me.

And, without warning, kisses me full on the lips.

I go rigid, fighting hard to keep from barking out “What the hell?”

“My blessing,” Drest explains. “Go now. Partake of my daughter.”

My eyes flare wide.

Partake of—