I pushed forward and followed my aunt and Markel into the Banquet Hall, and while they headed one way, I went another. I wove through the wall of bodies, enjoying spying flirtatious glances from men and women from other Houses as they served themselves from the buffet, or filled tankards with beer or glasses with wine. The younger children were running around in excitement and peals of laughter. A few of them reluctantly stood still while their parents cleaned grubby faces and greasy fingers after they'd finished eating. A stream of colleagues flowed from the hall, going outside to cross the lawn to the dance.
I was pretty sure Oswin would be lurking near the food and I was right. His great height put him a head taller than most. He spotted me as I rounded a few of our elders laughing and greeting one another with hugs. Oswin waved to me with a hand wrapped around a half-eaten drumstick of chicken.
My friend was wearing a black suit. He'd obviously wrangled with his tie, trying to loosen it, and the knot sat beneath the shirt collar a little askew. His blond hair had been combed and parted; he'd tried to slick it down smoothly, but it had rebelled and curled upward in random tufts. He was busy scanning the room between bites of food. "Where's Dolcie?" I overheard him ask Beckah loudly, competing with the noise of the hall, before tearing off a mouthful of chicken.
Beckah was dressed in something I wished I was, and my heart heaved a jealous sigh. It was a far more grown-up dress, with a much lower neckline, in a bold geometric pattern of pinks and reds that hugged her generous curves. Her curly brown hair was teased and poofed upward with the help of tortoiseshell combs, and her shoulder pads were glorious. They screamed Dynasty and Joan Collins—my favorite author's sister.
"Sitting this one out," Beckah answered. Strangely, worry shadowed her brown eyes. "She's not feeling well."
My pace faltered as I approached. Was Dolcie not attending the dance because I'd come between her and Tomas?
"Oh." Oswin's expression fell and his bottom lip jutted out a bit. He still sounded a little nasally with the end of his cold but looked so much better. "I hope it's not what I had," he said, swiping a tissue from his pant pocket and dabbing his nose.
"Erm...something like that," Beckah answered vaguely and glanced away.
"What's wrong with her?" I asked Beckah as I arrived.
Her eyes widened, surprised to see me. Oswin was busy stuffing his face with the last of the chicken. Tossing the bone in a trashcan, he meandered over to the banquet table to grab a pulled pork slider.
Beckah touched the curls in her hair, nose scrunching as she replied, airily. "It's nothing, I'm sure."
Suspicion ensnared me. "Beckah..." I said with a low warning note.
She huffed a sigh, rolling her eyes, knowing full well she couldn't evade me; I'd only keep asking. "I don't know what's going on with her," she said, leaning closer to keep it between us. "She won't talk to me about it... I'm sure it's more than just a broken heart. She moves from one boy to the next and it never seems to bother her. But this time, it seems she's really been hit hard by Tomas...or it could be something else entirely."
Instant alarm set my nerves on edge. What could it be? What kind of trouble could Dolcie be in? I was about to press for more, when abruptly Beckah lunged forward and snatched a tankard of beer foaming with froth from one of our colleagues as he walked past, carrying a tray full of beer and an earthen jug. He scowled as Beckah grabbed another one, but after she'd given him a cheeky wink, he shook his head and carried on toward his friends.
Beckah handed me a tankard. The glass was cloudy with condensation and slippery beneath my curved palm. She tipped her head back and swallowed a large mouthful, and then another until she'd drained the whole thing. I looked on with wide eyes, in awe. She licked the froth from her upper lip coated in red lipstick and made an Mmmm-ing sound, while I'd only managed to take a couple of sips from my own malty beer.
Ditching the empty glass on a tall beer barrel, Beckah spun around and bounced up and down on the balls of her feet, both hands raised and fisted, almost squealing in excitement. "Boys!"
Oh my gods she was right. Boys!
"I'll deal with Dolcie tomorrow," she said, grinning and waving her hand dismissively. She linked arms with me, spinning us both around. My beer slopped over the side of the glass, splattering over the floor. "Come on, let's go to the dance. Tonight, it's time for boys!" She suddenly narrowed her eyes, enhanced with glittering pink eyeshadow. "Just kissing, Tabitha," she warned, and pointed a forefinger at me. "No more than that."
Oswin strolled back from the buffet tables, dumping his paper plate in a trashcan, and joined us as we walked through the open back doors of the Banquet Hall, across the stone porch, and down the steps to the lawn. He raised one blonde eyebrow at my dress. "What the hells are you wearing?"
"Aunt Ellena made it for me," I said defensively, unlinking myself from Beckah to scratch my arm because the material itched. It was so tight around my armpits I wasn't sure I would be able to raise my hands above my head.
"When are you going to tell her the truth? That she can't...shouldn't be sewing anything for you?"
"It would hurt her feelings." And besides, it would have taken her ages to make the dress with the way her bones and joints hurt.
"Well..." Oswin said, pulling a face as he further inspected the frump of a dress. "Better than hurting your chances out there," he said, cocking his head toward the crowd of dancers and onlookers.
I looked down as I scuffed through the grass in my boring high heels. "Really?" Would Mr. Whiskers be put off by what I was wearing?
Hang on...what the freaking hells?
I meant Tomas.
Didn't I?
Frowning, and wondering what the hells was wrong with me, I trailed behind Oswin as we slipped between straw bales where people sat beneath the wavering light of paper lanterns strung above, leaning in to shout-talk over the noise of singing and dancing. My friend shoved a path for us through the thick crowd and we came to stand at the edge of the dancers.
The loud, rambunctious folk music beckoned me to join in. Our band played on a raised platform with instruments from all over the world. Djembe drums covered in goatskin pounded a beat alongside taiko and steel drums; lutes, sitars, and shamisens mixed with fiddles and banjos; flutes and reed pipes made from wood or bone played alongside accordions and zithers, chimes and bells. The high-spirited melody enticed me to move my body with the sway of the song.
I sipped away at my beer, half-dancing on the spot, stamping my feet in time with the pounding beat. I shared a mad grin with Oswin and Beckah who were doing the same as me. The dancers flowed in front of us. Men and women, arms over each other's shoulders, linking them into small circles, sang along with the lyrics as they stamped their feet and moved the entire circle around. And then as the lively chorus kicked in, they individually spun around with a flurry of intricate footwork, their hair ruffling and swinging wide as they clapped their hands over their heads before relinking into a circle.
Pride swelled in my chest to sing the same songs and move to the same dances that my ancestors would have had millennia ago. Except we wore form-fitting dresses and high heels, and they'd have worn heavily embroidered bell skirts, peasant shirts in muslin, and brightly dyed headscarves with tiny chimes woven into the frayed ends.
As I swept my gaze over all of us gathered, my mind began to wander and bounced between Tomas and Laurena. The Wychthorn Princess would be feeling the effects of the drug I'd spiked her with, ill enough that it would force her to retire for the evening. And while that was happening I'd spend my time innocently dancing and not-so-innocently kissing a man with a mean glower, who cast a long shadow with his mood...
I startled, my eyes flicking wide as I came to, realizing in shock that I was searching the crowd, not for a boy with frost-tipped blond hair and gorgeous blue eyes, but a man with a mess of unruly black hair and a scruffy beard. Why on earth was I thinking about that ruffian? But my traitorous mind already had speared to those large hands, nicked with old scars, that had grasped the bale of straw, the impressive build, and wild, savage looks.
And then I saw the boy with luscious plump lips.
Tomas!
He was standing with a group of friends near the bonfire, furthest away from the band, where the gathered crowd was thinner. A swirl of smoke and heat shimmered behind him, and crackling embers scored the night sky above the flames.
I waved eagerly toward him.
He noticed, slowly raising a hand in reply. Strangely he was squinting at me as if he weren't sure why I had chosen to separate him out.
An awful, awful thought occurred...
What if he doesn't remember kissing me?
Admittedly it had been a little messy to untangle the words he'd spoken to me as he'd ambled up last weekend—a dreamy smile on his pillowy lips, and those gorgeous eyes, a little heavy-lidded as they focused on me. I was fairly confident he said something like—You're so pretty Tabitha, pretty.
But it might have sounded more like—YousoooooooooooooopuriddyTab-hiccup-eeethapuriddy.
I pointed at the dancing going on in front of me with my free hand, and that line between his eyebrows got a little bit deeper as his gaze flicked to the merriment going on in the middle of the lawn—the dancing, laughter, and singing—and back to me.
Tomas lifted up a hand and spread his fingers, indicating he needed five minutes. And then he turned back to his friends and their conversation.
Playing it cool.
Okay, good to know.
Suddenly Oswin pinched my tankard from my hand.
"Hey," I protested spinning around.
He grinned, stepping back and holding up a hand to ward me off as I tried to snatch it back. "You're letting it get warm. I'll finish it, then get us fresh ones!" he shouted above the noise of the folk dance.
I felt it then—
A moment before the bloodhound inside me bristled—
The way the air thickened around me as immense power rolled over us all and made the blue flames of the wildfyre torches reach higher and the bonfire blaze hotter. Blades of grass shivered in time with footsteps and the thrumming of dark magic coming from the approaching Horned God.
Oh my gods...
The music faltered and fell away as the musicians lowered their instruments in limp hands. The dancers swiftly drew back in line with the rest of us at the edge of the dance floor.
But I was left adrift.
No one was standing in front of me.
It was deathly quiet, with the odd high-pitched voice of a child asking their mother or father what was going on, quickly hushed silent by their parent.
And when I saw what was happening all around me, I realized it was far too late to melt into the background.
Freaking hellsgate!
My heart was a nervous creature in my chest, drumming against my rib cage.
It was like a ripple effect, a Stadium Wave I'd watched being performed by the spectators at a football match—a rise and fall from their seats with perfect timing.
Except we all were falling to our knees in a subservient bow.
I was out front, and it was rare for me to be in close proximity to a Horned God. I should have been hiding out the back, not here where he could see me.
There was nothing else to do.
One knee hit soft earth, cushioned by grass, as I swept to a bow.
All the sons and daughters of the Houses we served that had gathered in a tight cluster near the raised platform of the musicians bowed, as well as the Deniauds.
Every single person.
Apart from the Wychthorns.
They bowed to no one.
Not even Master Sirro.
I'd never seen the Horned God this close-up before. Often I'd been in the ranks hidden near the back, but I'd forgotten myself with Tomas on my mind.
Golden eyes beneath dark eyebrows and wavy hair tousled and pushed off his forehead, swept over those gathered as he casually approached. A smile played on his mouth. He wore a three-piece navy suit with a burgundy polka dot tie.
Handsome.
Lethal.
Wicked and sinful.
Waves of dark malevolent power rippled from him like an otherworldly storm and connected him to his Familiar, a mortal woman I hadn't seen him with before, trailing behind like a shadow. With a jolt of shock, I realized he must have sucked dry the lifeforce of his last Familiar—her life leached from her into him, to keep the Horned God at the age of early thirty. Just how old he really was, no one knew. Some whispered he was 1000 years old, but I could feel the ancient air about him, and I sensed he was much, much older.
His new Familiar was of Fijian descent with short thick hair, brown eyes above a broad nose, and full lips. Her deep brown skin, polished and oiled, glimmered as she followed behind, the simple shift dress clinging to her curves, accentuating her waist and graceful lines of her hips. I shuddered as I honed in on her wide-set eyes; there was a dull sheen to her gaze as if she wasn't mentally present.
Master Sirro strolled through our ranks, one hand tucked into his suit's pocket. Light from the paper lanterns danced across his forehead, burnishing his dark hair and giving his deep-copper skin a lustrous glow.
As he strode nearer, his power was a thunderous swell skittering over my body. The bloodhound in me prickled and sharpened on the Horned God. It huffed in delight—like singing to like—as its senses hackled. But it kept itself hidden.
I cast my head downward in reverence. All I could see was the grass in front of me shivering with his footfall and malignant power as he walked closer and closer and closer. My heartbeat matched his footsteps and the strumming of power.
Long, lean legs in navy pants came into view. As did shoes—polished oxford shoes—with neatly tied laces and blades of grass clinging to the sole and leather sides, as he slowed down, slowed right down, where I knelt on the grass before him.
Master Sirro came to a standstill.
I sucked in a breath and held it.
Ohmygodsohmygodsohmygods—
My hands trembled, and I clenched my fingers into tighter fists to hide my terror.
His attention was heavy and curious and tacky like molasses—bitter and sweet, a contradiction. I felt him looking down on me, but all he'd see was my head tipped downward, my hair falling forward, and a glimpse of an unshapely navy dress.
Those feet shifted and the tips of the shoes were now pointed directly at me.
Oh, my freaking gods!
Had he sensed me?
Could he feel what I was?
An other?
I didn't know what to do. The thing inside me was just as tense.
A click of his tongue, chased by a humming sound, as if Master Sirro were in deep contemplation.
My heart lurched. Beads of cold sweat broke out along my hairline.
My held breath set my lungs aflame, but I couldn't push it out and drag in oxygen.
There was a long, long, tense moment where I thought this was the moment where my secret would be exposed—his vicious power snapping out to wrap around my throat to squeeze the life from me. And my aunt...who would save my aunt? Who would protect those inside the house from the thing hiding inside her?
And then...
Then...
Master Sirro pivoted and pushed into motion, striding away. His Familiar closely followed. Again, all I saw beneath the shadows of my eyelashes were shapely legs and feet encased in strappy black high-heels that sank into the grass as she shadowed the Horned God, matching him step for step.
I let out my pent-up breath from my fiery lungs in a low, hoarse whisper.
My pulse slowly eased and my entire body sagged in relief.
Holy, holy, hellsgate, that was close, too close...
Master Sirro reached the Wychthorns, Deniauds, and the rest of the higher-ranking members of our society.
He turned our way, gesturing with an upward wave of his hand.
"I'm sorry for my intrusion," Master Sirro's polished voice rang out.
We rose to our feet, silently waiting for our release. We were servants after all and it was bred in us to be given permission for everything in our lives.
"This is a celebration. Please, continue...dance, drink, enjoy," the Horned God added, one hand pressed to the lapels of his suit's jacket, fingers spread across his chest as he canted his upper body forward in a half-bow before turning away to speak with the Wychthorns—a casual dismissal.
"Byron," Master Sirro greeted him.
"Master Sirro," Byron replied in his deep voice, inclining his head politely.
"Laurena," Master Sirro smiled, roaming an appreciative glance over her body encased in a clinging dress of white silk. She inclined her head, just a touch, and not as deeply as her brother. There was a shine of desire and a glint of challenge in her eyes as she held his gaze. Like most women, the idea of being invited to join the Horned God's harem was a deep craving.
Laurena suddenly blinked. Her features pinched with pain and her complexion paled.
Not everyone heard it, but I stood close by with heightened senses, and I heard the churning of her stomach, the protest and grumble, and then the loud, long burp that resounded like one of those frat boys I watched in a movie, belching after chugging down a pint of ale.
Master Sirro raised one eyebrow. His mouth twitched, and I was sure with the glimmer of mirth in his golden eyes that he was on the cusp of laughter. I saw a few members of Houses standing close by look away or hide their amusement behind a hand.
There was a flash of humiliation, of confidence, faltering, before Laurena's blue eyes hardened like iron, along with her expression. "I'm..." It was highly doubtful she was going to apologize, "not feeling the best."
The wicked side to me snickered in delight.
As I stepped back and sideways to hide behind Oswin and Beckah, I watched Laurena turn and hurry away.
Master Sirro leaned close to Byron. "A dance to celebrate even the lowest of our number...I wouldn't miss it." He smiled, flashing sharp white teeth, those amber eyes raking over all of us, still hesitant to begin the dancing once more, so we lingered on the edge of the dance floor. The musicians picked up their instruments and just before they began to play a frolicking melody that felt at odds with the strain we were under, I heard Master Sirro say, "Besides, this is when all the romance blossoms between young men and women. The start of their future."
The Horned God swept his gaze my way, and he paused, staring in my direction where I kept myself hidden. In the slender gap between Oswin and Beckah, I watched in trepidation as his golden eyes narrowed, and he tilted his head slightly as if he were perplexed and curious. The silver otherworldly threads churned upward and outward, flickering and shimmering in the night lit up with lanterns and wildfyre—a reflection of his curious mind.
He blinked. Then continued with his perusal.
I let out my breath, easing my clenched muscles.
Rising up on my tippy-toes I watched Laurena make her way from the dance, trailed by a bodyguard. Those before her parted in much the same way we had for Master Sirro. She had one arm banded around her middle and the other hand rubbed her décolletage.
She'd retire to bed feeling unwell and drowsy. In a few hours, while the chaos of the dance was still underway, I'd begin the next part of my plan: steal her crown.