A Court of Kingdoms and Ash: An ACOTAR and TOG Crossover

Blood Red

"So, tell me," Ansel began, talking loudly over the excessive noise at the inn below Rolfe's office as she dug into her meal. "What did you say to Aelin to get her to like you so much?"

Fryer raised an eyebrow, lowering her glass of watered-down ale and giving Ansel a look. "The truth." That got no reaction out of anyone around the table—Ansel looked at her doubtfully while Illias and Rolfe just stared.

Feyre shrugged. "I also may have complimented her good looks," she added, just to humor them.

Ansel laughed, elbowing Rolfe. "Told you. You owe me—5 gold, cough up." The Pirate King rolled his eyes, rummaged around his pockets, and dropped the money on the table, muttering something about a red devil.

"I guess my drinks are on the Captain tonight," Ansel finished, flaunting as she scooped up the coins and slipped them into the pocket.

Ilias seemed to be ignoring the spectacle at the table. He had his eyes trained across the bar, looking very stoic—more so than usual, perhaps. Yes, Feyre had only known him for a few hours and been introduced after her long conversation with Lysandra, but he was easy to read. She only wished she could prod in his mind a bit. Feyre always found the quiet ones more dangerous.

She followed his gaze and spotted a Mycenian who had just entered the bar, looking very much like she didn't belong here. She wore clothing that reminded Feyre of Night Court attire—loose, billowing pants of deep red silk, cuffed at the ankles and embroidered with gold. Her blouse was separate, and it revealed a tantalizing sliver of skin. It was off-the-sleeve, and its arms had the same billowing cuffed style, but in a sheer fabric. All the cuffs were lined with dangling gold coins, matched by the stretched of fabric she wore wrapped around one hip, lined with rows and rows of them. Every one of her steps jingled. A sheer veil of the same blood red covered her hair and connected to the cuffs of her arms, and she had lifted one of her hands to pull it mysteriously over her face. She looked like some sort of spirit—she moved as if she were floating on water.

The bar went quiet. Then, uproarious applause and shouting as people moved tables and chairs, making room for the woman and her entourage—a band of musicians, holding all sorts of strange instruments.

"Come on, move the stuff," Rolfe commanded, looking surprisingly excited about this development. It must have been a part of Mycenian culture, then. Or perhaps he knew who this woman was.

As they shifted the impressive ship-hull furniture away, the musicians took position in a half-circle against the bar and began to play.

The sound was mesmerizing. It was music of the sort she had never heard before—so different, so layered, so seductive.

Then, the woman's hips began to move, the coins jingling. And her arms wound and twisted like snakes, followed by a sheet of that silken fabric. Feyre caught a flash of deep red lips and kohl-lined eyes—dark, depthless. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders, a sheet of ash brown satin.

Everyone was silent, watching. Ansel didn't seem like she was breathing beside Feyre.

As the woman continued to dance, the songs changed from style to style. Sometimes, she or a different member of her band sang in a language Feyre didn't understand. Likely Mycenian, since Rolfe and his guests often sang along. Often, she got very close to some of the people in the bar, allowing them to slip money into her clothing.

At one point, she paid a significant amount of attention to Feyre's table. To Rolfe. The dancer wanted to make friends in high-up places, then.

Ansel was so taken that she didn't notice when her gold coins slipped from her pocket and into a little opening on the woman's coin wrap.