Hounded [Wild Hunt Series: 2]

10: Masquerade

And I could tell he liked how I looked, from the way that reptilian gaze lingered on the tight pull of an undersized shirt across my chest. I clambered into his palm with all the reluctance I could manage, and flicked off a stray talon lifting the shirt off my shoulder.

"No peeking," I said.

"You did a bad thing, haven't you?" he drawled, lifting Terryl in his other hand. "You just can't follow a single piece of tradition, can you?"

The color flushed right out of my face. "No," I told him stoutly. "And that's on you if you weren't smart enough to stop me."

The King laughed, a dry cough of a sound. Smoke sputtered through the holes in his throat and nostrils. "That's alright," he decided, and I could heard good cheer bubble through his voice even as he squeezed my waist to the point of my pained gasping. "Go on thinking you can play this game. I'll find out what you've done and assess the punishment tomorrow evening."

I glanced down toward the distant canopy, where the pale face of the creature had emerged. Its lanky arms shook the branches. It hooted, apelike and wild, throwing rocks at the King. Gravity always took control before any stone had even the barest hope of reaching the dragon, and when the King's head snaked toward his assailant, the thing ducked into the leaves, little eyes glinting like beetles.

"Take your rat back," he hissed, powerful wings flexing, the rotted muscles and mattered feathers finding flight regardless of their condition. And then, before I'd even realized what was happening, he opened his other paw. Terryl, silently, her shirt billowing towards the sky, dropped like a rock through the canopy.

The creature, pausing to look from the sneering dragon to the smashed branches a few meters beside it, threw one more rock then dropped out of sight, too.

"What the hell was that for?" I yelled at the King. His head had turned toward the castle grounds, and he would not speak another word.

We reached the castle just after dark. There was enough light left in the sky to make the hollowed craters and blistered stone of the King's tantrum seem blacker than the shadows of the Malumbrian Oaks. There was work being done already to cover the damage, new stalls erected in the shambled ruins, fresh flowers and luminaries strung through the courtyards and beyond. There were, after all, several weddings to attend in the morning.

The King smartly did not leave me alone or in the presence of someone I might be able to manipulate. He set me in his personal chambers for a bath, a fine dress, and a dour-eyed teenage boy who could've walked off the set of The Omen. Careful not to lose sight of the little monster, I changed with my back against the wall. He watched me, not like a normal, hot-blooded young male getting a free glimpse of boob. He watched me like a wolf hungry for flesh.

I hustled away from that kid as fast as possible, so fast water dripped off my shoulders and onto my dress. It was a lovely thing, truly, though I didn't know much about dress types and designs. This one was all the thin, light layers of a Grecian goddess, sleeveless with a silky, embroidered collar that covered the chest with just enough layers of sheer fabric to trend elegant rather than dressy hooker. As it left a good swath of shoulder exposed, I fished through one of the King's drawers for a cloak. It was dusty and smelled like the bloody forest roads, but it would do. I'd pinned it over the beautiful clothes and hurried out to the hall, where the King was waiting.

"I like you wearing my clothes," he'd said at once, "But you cannot wear that this evening." 

"I'm not yours yet," I told him, and again came that dry cough of amusement.

"Alright," he said, and all at once I felt uneasy about his acceptance. I stared hard at him, at the black-gloved hand awaiting mine, then up at his face. "You'll get hot."