me like lightning.
Once upon a time, I would have screamed. Perhaps a scream would have saved me. But my voice is locked away, too deep in my chest to access. Not the smallest sound can leave my closed throat.
I stare at death. At my death.
And I don’t even know its name.
“Dance with me!” cries the figure as he reaches me.
My feet won’t move. But my arms do. I slice at the hands coming toward me. He dodges my knives, instead catching me around the waist and dragging me against his chest. One of his palms cups my cheek.
“How long it’s been,” he says, white teeth gleaming, “since I’ve played with a human.”
I stab toward his chest and neck as I bring my knee up to kick him, and duck to dodge his grip on me. But he moves far too quickly, inhumanly fast, evading my killing blows. Then, something snatches hold of my knives—and wrenches them from my grip.
I gasp.
“Don’t spoil my fun,” he chides, laughing. “We will play nicely.”
My elbow coming for his face shows just what I think of that. He catches it, pins it behind me, and drags me back to his chest.
“Naughty human,” he tsks, patting my face just before I attempt to bash my head into his mouth. He dodges and pins my other arm. He’s much, much too strong for me. I’ve never fought another man this fast or this strong.
Except one.
“Relax, sweet human. Don’t be afraid. I play very nicely with my things.”
Then he swings me around the hallway like we’re dancing, a pitiful imitation of how the Neverseen King danced with me. He either doesn’t notice how much I’m struggling against him, tears slipping out between my eyes, or he doesn’t care. He moves so quickly that my feet stumble and trip over one another until I cannot catch my balance enough to attempt a kick. His grip on my arms is so tight it’s like they’re bound behind me.
My vision goes black.
Just for a moment. When my eyes come back into focus, the shadow is swinging me so violently my knotted stomach threatens to unwind and spill forth its meager contents on the floor.
I cannot fight him and win. Neither will my voice cooperate to scream for help.
I need to change the game.
The figure rips my hands between us, holding them like iron shackles, and then starts spinning with me down the hallway at a dizzying speed. I gasp for air, losing my balance and sense of direction, until all I see is darkness and a gleaming set of grinning teeth.
Then pain flares so shockingly bright, red-hot and burning, that my vision goes black again.
When I open my eyes, the world spins like stars around my head, and when I draw in a breath, my body screams in agony.
“Whoops!” the figure is saying. “I wasn’t watching where we were going! Silly me!”
He bashed my rib cage into the banister, I realize belatedly. If the pain of my swelling lungs is any indication, at least one of my ribs is broken.
He doesn’t stop. He pulls on me so violently, so painfully, a cry wrenches from my throat. That one cry unlocks my voice, and desperately, I croak, “Want to play a different game?”
The eternal spinning stops. My brain rattles as pain throbs through my body. I almost stumble to my knees.
“What different game?” the figure asks, head cocked.
Each breath is sheer agony, but somehow I manage to say, “Kiss me.”
His whole face lights up. “Kiss a human? I’ve never kissed a human before!”
“Kiss me,” I gasp again.
He slips a hand around my waist, pulling me to him. I flinch at the pain shocking up my spine. Why is everything he does so rough? As if in answer, his fingers slide into my hair, digging into my scalp. “Human hair is so soft,” he murmurs.
He’s released my hands. I reach up slowly, wrapping my arms around his neck to draw him closer. He smells like sour wine.
“I’ve never kissed a human before,” he says again, still grinning. “My first time.”
“Your last time,” I gasp against his lips.
Then I’m kissing him. His disgusting mouth molds to mine, tasting like rot, his hands tightening their grip on me—
I twist my fingers. And plunge the dagger I’d hidden in my sleeves into the back of his neck.
He yanks my hair back, wrenching my mouth from his as he gurgles. “That was not nice,” he says quietly.
Then he roars, blood and spittle spraying my face. He grabs me by the throat, my knife still protruding from his, and slams me into the wall. Stars burst across my sight. My ribs scream in pain. I choke against his hold, tears streaming down my face.
Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe.
I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to die.
No, no, no, please no. I cannot die like this. I’m not ready. My life has been nothing but murder. Even if it’s fitting that I die like this—no, please, no.
The darkness closes in.
Can’t breathe. Can’t—
The darkness flares a fiery crimson. The hand on my throat loosens, the silhouette of his leering face twisting to look to my right. It’s enough for me to make out the hard-angled profile of my attacker, and to catch a glimpse of the sconces along the wall that burn with a strange kind of fire. A fire that makes me think of pure, unadulterated rage.
I try to breathe. Can’t. Everything in my body is sheer agony. My eyes start to roll back in my head.
Then, a familiar voice thunders from down the corridor, “Unhand my wife.”
The sound that emerges from my throat is a rattle. The figure releases me. I fall to my knees gasping and pressing my hand to my throat as I desperately try to breathe. My broken rib screams when I cannot.
But somehow, I manage to look up.
The sconces lining the hallway flare a deeper, more vengeful red as a tall silhouette storms down the corridor. With the light at his back, I can see him. Not enough to make out the features of his face, but rather the furious set of his broad shoulders, the strength of the arms thrown wide as shadows swirl around his palms. His cloak billows behind him, and for once, he wears his crown. His knee-high boots seem to make the ground shake with every step. Or perhaps I’m the one who is shaking.
The Neverseen King is a mighty, terrifying sight.
Perhaps most terrifying of all, however, are the two severed heads that he holds in one hand by their hair.
Women’s heads.
I vomit. The pain of the violent motion nearly makes me black out again.
“I wasn’t going to hurt her!” says the other shadow, backing away and holding up his hands in a placating gesture. “I was just playing with her! It’s been so long since I’ve had a human to play—”
The Neverseen King reaches him, thrusts out a hand, and grabs the shadow by the throat. He smashes him into the pillar across from me, knocking the sconce to the ground in a burst of crimson fire. The shadow’s feet dangle above the ground as he scrabbles against the Neverseen King’s hold on him.
“Do you want me to play with you?” the Neverseen King says, his voice deadly calm. “Get out of my House.”
The shadow goes limp. The Neverseen King lets go—and the shadow falls to the ground in a crumpled heap. A glint catches at his throat.
My knife.
The sultan throwing him against the wall must have plunged it deeper than I had been able to drive it. He pauses, staring down at the shadow, and then bends. In a swift motion, without releasing the heads he carries, he yanks my knife out of the creature’s neck.
Then, he turns to me, holding the knife out to me, hilt first. “Your blade.”
With my hand still pressed to my burning throat, I stare at him, at the heads he holds, at the blood dripping off my knife. A sob wracks my shoulders. I lower my gaze, burying my face in my hands. Every bone in my body quivers, each shudder eliciting pain.
Then warmth surrounds me. I peer through my fingers as the Neverseen King kneels in front of me. He shoves my knife into his belt, deposits the heads on the ground, and lays one giant hand on the back of my head.
“What has he done to you?” he demands, his voice low. “Tell me, and I will do the same to him.”
“He’s dead!” I burst out.
“So he is. And I will desecrate his remains for every injury he’s caused.”
I glance sidelong at the heads. The sparse light of the angry flickering torches and the last threads of dying sun illuminate the face of the one closest to me.
Fathuna.
And the other, I can tell from the jewels still woven into her hair. Dabria.
“Night is falling. We must hurry,” says the Neverseen King. “Can you stand?”
I press a hand to my ribs, and even that slight pressure makes me moan. But for whatever reason, words form on my tongue, and then I’m speaking. “I’m not your wife.”
“Too much nuance I didn’t want to get into.”
“Nuance? This isn’t nuanced. I’m not your wife.”
“Can you stand?” he asks, not bothering to answer me.
Squeezing my eyes shut against the pain, I mutter again, “I’m not your wife,” and then I try to get my feet under me—
The Neverseen King’s arm catches me beneath my waist and my knees, lifting me up against his chest. I suck in a sharp breath, blinking back tears at the movement.
“Lift your arm around my neck. I don’t want to touch your injury.”
I obey, wrapping my arm around his neck and holding tightly, leaving my other arm limp across my stomach. I press my forehead just beneath his jaw, and for the span of the breath I take of his smell, I don’t feel pain. Then it’s back with a vengeance, and I cling tighter to him with every step that sends pain radiating through my whole body.
“Eshe?” I croak.
His throat tightens. “Safe. In her room. Mostly unhurt.”
“Mostly?”
“She split her lip taking a blow to the face from Fathuna. But I’ve told you before, your friend is more capable than you give her credit for. She held her own until I got there.”
Relief sings down my spine. I relax against him. His jaw clenches and his arms tighten.
Safe, my soul breathes. Safe with him. My heart knows the truth, however, and it throbs a broken rhythm. There is no such thing as being safe with the Neverseen King.
His steps move faster and faster through the hallway. He keeps looking out the windows we pass at the setting sun, which is barely a sliver on the horizon. With a growl, he redoubles his pace.
And then we’ve reached my room.
He shuts the door behind us quickly. Bolts it. Only then does he let out a great sigh of relief as the sun dips below the horizon, casting the world—and my room—in utter darkness.
A few more steps, and he reaches my bed. When he bends, about to lower me to the mattress, pain shoots up my side. A whimper slips between my lips, my grip tightening on his neck as I bury my face in the folds of his collar.
“Let go of me.”
“I can’t! It hurts.”
Slowly, he lowers my legs to the mattress, keeping his hold on my torso. My skirts glitter in the darkness, like I wear a gown of stars. He takes his free hand and lays it gently against my rib cage, right against the break. I hiss, my nails digging into his shoulder.
“Two breaks,” he growls. I’m not sure how he knows that without prodding. He’s barely touching me. “I can heal it, but I’ll need direct access to the skin.”
“The skin?” I say stupidly, giving a short cough. I must have quite the collection of bruises ringing my neck.
“Yes. The skin.”
We sit there in silence for the span of a few heartbeats, as though he’s waiting for me to understand something I’m not. At last, he clears his throat and looks away.
“I can cut some of the gown away. Just enough—”
“You mean my skin?”
He gives me an arch look. “Whose skin did you think I was talking about?”
I only cough in response. He carefully unwinds my arm from his neck and lays me down flat on the bed. I try to focus on each painful breath, and not on the knife he takes out of his belt. My knife. Still stained with blood.
He could kill me. Take off my head like Fathuna’s or Dabria’s. He could—
I reach up, catch his sleeve as he starts reaching over me with my knife in hand. “I’ll do it.”
He hesitates, and even in the dark, there’s a glitter where his eyes should be. They seem to study me. Then he pries my hand off his sleeve, places the hilt of the knife in my palm, and draws back.
Now begins the painful process of me attempting to cut off part of my own bodice.
I take a deep breath and hold it lodged between my teeth as I twist to angle the bloody knife. The bodice is tight against my skin, and I suddenly regret having to ruin the beautiful garment. The garment he selected—ordered made?—for me.
My hands tremble, but after fumbling, I make a clean slice down the side seam. More fumbling while the Neverseen King kneels by my bed, waiting as I manage another slice, this time parallel to the waistband of my skirt, creating a flap that can be pulled back. It bares just enough of my lower ribcage and part of my waist for him to heal it.
I set the knife down and lay back, finally releasing my held breath.
He bends over me, blocking out the sight of the moon rising through my window. His warm fingers land on my swollen and bruised skin. Then he turns toward me, holding out his free hand.
“What?” I demand through clenched teeth.
“Hold it.”
“Why?”
“This will hurt. Probably.”
I can handle pain, the stubborn part of me wants to shoot back at him. But instead, I take his hand. His fingers close around mine, a solid anchor. Giving into an unnameable impulse, I thread our fingers together. A jolt goes up his arm. Then he squeezes my hand.
“Just breathe.” His voice is a low rumble.
And even though the pressure of his touch on my ribs is suddenly so intense that I arch my back, trying to twist away, his hand in mine doesn’t falter. Not when I squeeze it so hard I’d possibly break a bone if it was someone else.
As the pain intensifies, his voice reaches out to me. Soft murmurs of encouragement. My foggy mind cannot decipher the words, but they comfort me nonetheless. It feels as though he’s drawing the breakage out of me, out through my skin and into his own hand. Then the sensation loses the edge of its sharpness, dulling into something more manageable, like the ache of fresh stitches.
“Tell me what happened,” I say between gritted teeth. “Who was that . . . thing?”
“Goken is—was—as worthless of a fae as they come. He cared for nothing but pleasure and thrill.”
“You knew him?”
“I know many fae.”
“Are you . . .” My voice cuts off with a flash of pain, a moan escaping my lips instead.
“Breathe, Nadira. Breathe.”
I breathe, and if not for the pain, I think I could fall into the depth of his voice and drown in it.
No. I cannot think like that. I’m delirious from the pain; that’s all. I’m not in my right mind. Making myself breathe, I force myself to finish asking my question. “Are you their sultan too?”
His bark of laughter sends a jolt through me. “Are you asking if I am High King of the Fae?”
I lick my lips. “I suppose I’m not sure what I’m asking.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “I am not the High King. I am one of his emissaries, as it were.”
“There are more of you?”
“Not in my role, no. I serve in a unique position, so I have a prestigious rank at the High King’s court.” At this, his voice turns drier. “No one in their right mind covets my position. Unfortunately, there are more fools than not among my kind.”
The Neverseen King answers to someone. That is certainly news. How can he be the sovereign of our kingdom if he is not sovereign over himself? I sort through the pieces I’ve puzzled together so far.
“You are sultan of Arbasa. But you are subject to the High King of the . . . Fae. Which means you . . .?”
His thumb sweeps over my rib, and for the first time, it’s not agony. My lungs loosen. I draw in a deep breath, and then another. He glances sidelong at me. “Better?”
I nod. “Better.”
At last, he draws his hand away from my side, allowing me to smooth the fabric of my bodice back over my skin. I realize belatedly that our fingers are still clasped. I move to pull away, but he stops me.
“Your neck, now.”
I touch the ring of bruises, swallowing hard against the scratchiness of my throat.
He looses a deep exhale, untangles our fingers, and slowly reaches for my neck. When my eyes widen and I flinch, he stops. His hands hover in midair between us. “I will not hurt you.”
My jaw works as I stare up at him.
“Will you trust me?”
No. No. Never trust him. Never trust the Neverseen King. He will be your death.
“Let me hold my knife,” I say, my hands fisting in the coverlet beneath me. The words seem to hang between us, a loud proclamation of my answer to his question. But he reaches into his belt again, produces my two large knives I lost in my fight with Goken. I take their hilts, squeezing the familiar leather-bound iron as the Neverseen King sits on the bed beside me. The mattress shifts beneath his weight, and I struggle to keep my mouth from going dry as he leans over me, reaching for my neck.
My eyelids shutter when he touches me. My hands shake with the need to jerk away, plunge my blades into his chest, and scream at him to take his hands off me. But he’s promised not to hurt me. He’s healing me with his magic, not choking the life out of me.
His fingers wrap around my neck, his thumbs pressed to the knot in my throat. His touch is light, gentle, but I gasp. At some point, I’ve lifted my blade, and it hovers in the air as though I’m about to stab him through the heart. He doesn’t heed the knife, either because he trusts me not to murder him while he’s healing me, or because he knows he can evade me.
“Are you almost done?” I gasp.
“Very close. Don’t close your eyes.”
I force my eyes open, discovering that his face hovers close above mine. There’s a jewel-like flash in the shadow of his face. I meet that flash as his hands tighten just barely around my neck. Either the world is growing darker as night takes a deeper hold on the world, or I’m about to pass out again.
He’s more than strong enough to kill me with his bare hands. Could I be in a more vulnerable position? I choke, even though his touch remains gentle.
“Breathe,” he says gently, his eyes holding mine. “I won’t hurt you.”
“It’s hard t-to . . . believe it.”
“Why did you come back?”
“W-what?”
“You left. I felt it in my spells when you walked out that gate. But something made you come back.”
I swallow against his fingers. “Eshe.”
There’s a low snort. “Of course.”
“Did you think I came back for you?”
He draws his hands away from my neck, and my arm with the knife poised in the air falls to the bed, my entire body going liquid with relief. Then his knuckle brushes my chin, and I tense once more.
“No.” He seems to give a dark smile. “But one could hope.”
That simple statement shouldn’t have affected me at all, yet warmth climbs up into my cheeks. I make to turn my head to one side, only for his knuckle on my chin to stop me. To my shock, his thumb brushes over my bottom lip. I freeze.
“I smell him on you,” the Neverseen King says, his voice a deep rumble. “I smell him on your mouth.”
I set my jaw in a firm line, knock away his hand, and drag myself into a sitting position. Part of me wants to marvel at the fact that my injuries are indeed completely gone, that he’s truly healed them, and I am no longer in agony. Apparently that is simply what one does when one has magic—they heal every ailment.
Arbasa has a sultan with the power to heal. Where was he all those years ago, when I earned the scars I bear on my back, my hands, my jaw?
I fling my legs over the edge of the bed and stand up, leaving him there. “When your opponent is stronger than you, sometimes you have to get creative. If you’d gotten there faster, perhaps I wouldn’t have had to resort to such dire measures.” My tone is even drier than his.
“If I’d gotten there sooner, your thief would be dead.”
My heart stutters. I force myself to take a seat on the settee, and gesture for him to take the seat across from me. “You said I could ask you anything. Sit, then, and let me interrogate you.”
“I do not take orders from a commoner.”
I scowl at where he remains on the edge of my bed.
“But,” he says, and moonlight catches on grinning white teeth. “I’d heed a queen.”
“You called me your wife to Goken. I think you can afford to extend the charade a little longer.”
He chuckles. And curse me, I can barely keep myself from cracking a smile in return. With a heave, he shoves himself up to his feet with more force than seems necessary. He stands there, so tall, like a pillar of night. Each step that brings him closer makes me wonder if I should have made him stay there, far away from me.
There’s something wrong with his steps. Something . . . heavy.
“Sultani—” I start to say.
He collapses to his knees.
I shoot to my feet, nearly falling in my own effort to get to him. He catches himself with his palms on the floor, breathing heavily. I crouch beside him, grabbing his arm without thinking. “Sultani? Sultani! What is wrong? Tell me what is wrong!”
His head swings toward me, and I catch another glimpse of a smile. This one is weaker than his last. “It seems I’ve overextended myself.”
And then he drops to the ground.
“Sultani!” I kneel beside his fallen form, shaking his shoulder. “Sultani!”
No answer.
He’s not injured, is he? Is it truly just overexertion, like he said? What if he was hurt during whatever happened at the ball? I must be certain. I give his shoulder a shove, trying to roll him onto his back. Stars and sands, he’s heavy!
He is also out cold. No matter how many times I call to him or smack him, he doesn’t respond. Finally, I manage to roll him onto his back. I check his pulse beneath his jaw, trying to ignore my own palpitating heart. He’s not dead, at least.
I hesitate, staring down at the enormous, shadowed body lying on my floor. Then I crouch beside him again and run my fingers over his torso, checking for injuries. I find buttons on another double-breasted coat of some sort. The unusual style of it strikes me yet again, and the material is thicker and coarser than anything I’ve felt before. This is probably the last thing I’d wear in a climate like ours.
He has no injuries that I can find. I withdraw my hands, get to my feet, and take a few steps back.
“The Neverseen King is passed out. On my floor,” I mutter, cocking my head to one side. Then I frown, massaging the bridge of my nose. The absurdity of this entire day, these last few days, suddenly hits me so hard I take a seat back on the settee.
It seems either healing or using magic generally drains my sultan. Perhaps healing Kanza, me, and Raha was too much in one day.
What do I do now? Wait for him to come to? I shouldn’t leave him on the floor, but considering how difficult it was for me to roll him over, I’d probably hurt myself trying to drag his deadweight to the bed.
My eyes run lazily over the room. Cosmetics are still strewn across the vanity’s surface, but there, sitting precariously close to the edge, is a pitcher of water and wash basin.
The sultan wakes when I dump the contents of the pitcher on top of his head.
“Great Kings!” he cries, flailing his arms as though to swat the stream of water away. He rolls, gasping and spitting. “You heartless assassin.”
I set the pitcher down and prop one fist against my hip. “Just be glad I didn’t use my knives.”
He shoots me a look as he shakes the water out of his hair. Then he’s pulling himself up enough to lean against the bed. He doesn’t try to stand.
“Are you going to faint again?” I ask.
He scowls at me. “Don’t make me bribe you to keep this a secret.”
I smirk. “I suppose fainting doesn’t suit the reputation of the fearsome Neverseen King.”
“You’re one to talk,” he growls back.
Now it’s my turn to glare. He grins in response, and something about it strikes me as different. Like this is a true smile, one with threads of warmth in it. I look away, heat rising in my cheeks as I sit back down on the settee. Two litters could be carried between us with how far apart we were.
It’s better this way.
“I want to know everything,” I say, and my voice isn’t cold or dark or dry. It’s my own voice, earnest with a tinge of fear. “I need to know everything. The answers to all my questions.”
He is silent. Then, at last, he sighs. When he speaks, his voice is like mine. Void of presumption and barriers. “Very well, Nadira. I will answer your questions. I warn you, though, you will not like the answers.”
I steel my spine. “Go on.”
