The Deaths of Me (NEW ADULT REWORK)

13. Dane's Great Confrontation

"I don't like this," she said. Her voice didn't even echo in the cavernous space. He moved his hand up and down her arm as if she'd complained about a chill.

"Nothing is going to happen. The queen is on our side, remember?" Not much of a reassurance, but what was he supposed to say when she was looking at him like that? His hand slid down the length of her arm until it was firmly grasping her shaking hand. "I'm not letting go of you, okay? You'll be all right."

He delicately rested his forehead against hers. Her skin was so hot that he could only stand it for a second or two. When he pulled away, she looked ashamed. Her eyes were cast downwards. Even her shoulders slumped. He wondered how much effort it took for her to keep her hand cool for him. Was she always concentrating on not hurting him? Undecided about how to go about having the harshest crush he'd ever had on a girl who was also the biggest responsibility he'd ever had, Dane reluctantly dropped her hand. Fleetingly, an expression of relief consumed her face, and Dane had never felt so low.

A few paces and the two walked into the queen's throne room. It could have been a ballroom with thrones in it, but the large, hollow room didn't seem like it had held any festivals lately. The queen sat against the furthest wall in the largest of three thrones. The empty chair to her left was the abdicated throne of her latest advisor. Dane had heard rumors that he hadn't stepped down, that he had been secretly executed. The empty seat looked more like an ornate warning.

The throne on her right sagged under the sad weight of an elderly fairy. His skin was a few inches lower than where it should have sat, and his hair was only tufts of gray grass. He snored awfully loud, and every few breaths, a trembling whistle sounded from his torn nostril.

The fairy king. The first and current, the king of all new-world fae was over two thousand years old. He'd declared himself king of both North and South America when it was discovered that no fae-kin had settled there yet. No one had ever challenged him. But Dane never would have guessed that he was so decrepit. That didn't seem to bother his wife, however, as she eyed them and stroked his hand while he slept.

Forest nymphs circled Queen Cayleigh, fretted over all of her imaginary flaws. Dane bowed deeply at the waist; Rory mimicked the greeting. It was no surprise that Ivy made herself as still as possible.

The queen appeared alert and thriving, with her hair carefully pulled back into twin red plaits. Her skin, tight as always, were rouged at the cheeks. Her pursed lips were painted a burnt orange that made her look less pallid.

Those lips parted in a sharp smile as she greeted them. "Welcome." Her gaze ended up on Rory. "I am so pleased you came." Even such a simple sentence couldn't sound sincere from her. Dane fought the urge to grab Rory's hand, even when the queen shifted her attention to Ivy. "I was worried you wouldn't get my invitation."

"You send a blood-bag to my door with the words, 'Bring the phoenix to me', and I take note," Ivy hissed, looking much more uninterested than her tone insinuated.

Dane scrambled to change the subject to anything that wouldn't end in a fight. "You said you had important knowledge about Rory's heritage."

It took a few painful moments for the queen to redirect her stare to Dane. When she did, her eyes were a milky blue-gray. Dane couldn't tell if that was a good or bad thing, so he pressed on. "Please, Yer Highness. Anything you can tell us could help us protect Rory." He'd never had to call the queen anything but her name before. He dared a step forward.

Cayleigh turned her nose up at him as if she'd asked them all there to taunt them with haughty silence. This time when she opened her mouth, her voice was solemn. "Have you ever cried, child?"