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I observe him intently, my curiosity piqued by this unusual display. He is a storm of anticipation and uncertainty. His Autumn magic has always geared more towards prosperity and influence, but the storm magic rolls off him now. The air crackles around his fingertips, and I spot fragments of magic floating around him.
I never cared much for Mace; there is too much bad blood there, but I feel a twisted sympathy for him. Whatever is going on with him has destroyed his demeanor. I look around the room, searching for anyone else who notices the change in his behavior. Most of the Patricians and advisors are too absorbed in their own processing of the untimely death of Mousy.
Abruptly, Mace’s agitated pacing halts, and he exits the room, his long legs allowing him to quickly disappear around the corner.
The typically snarky and cold head of the Patricians is spiraling. My gut tells me it has something to do with the vessel he’s seeking. There must be a reason why this is so important to him.
I wait for a beat and follow him, hanging back so he doesn’t notice me. He heads down to the basement level of the Palace. It’s quiet, but I have always been light on my feet. Still, he must be heavily distracted to not even notice me.
Once I realized where he was going, I was able to take a different route to avoid his notice. When I reach the basement, I perch on the stairs and see Mace pacing in front of a shadowed figure. The hum of storm magic from the grid emanates from a single light hanging from the ceiling.
This basement, generally used for storage only, has been cleaned out recently. Replacing the floor-to-ceiling boxes of Solstice decorations and supplies for the workers in the Palace is an apartment of sorts. I can see two sleeping chambers off one side and a sitting room with an ornate rug, a few comfortable chairs, and several floor lights spread about. Someone made a significant effort to make this place habitable.
Mace is excitingly pacing, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. “It’s her. She’s the vessel. I knew it would be her.”
“Are you sure?” the figure says, voice barely above a whisper.
“Positive. She’s shown plenty of signs throughout her life, but her friend just plunged to her death for breaking a promise to her.” Mace’s voice is shuddering with excitement. It’s an inappropriate reaction to having just watched a woman die.
“Curse magic, then,” the shadowed figure says as Mace nods emphatically.
“I started to pay closer attention when she killed the man in the cave.”
“I noticed that,” the figure says. His voice is so familiar, but I cannot place it. “It seems like she may have some blood magic within her.”
Mace’s profile is silhouetted by the light, and I see a grin stretching across his face. Suddenly, he looks excited, devious, and more like the ruthless fae I know.
“She’s a Winter. She’s the vessel we’ve been waiting for.”
I have to fight back a cough, sputtering a bit. It’s clear they’ve been talking about Viola Mistflow, but she cannot be a Winter Seasonale. It simply is not possible. She’s a human. Besides the fact that humans do not have magic, Winter magic is extinct.
The idea of her not only being a Winter but also the vessel, something to be utilized by Mace, churns my stomach. Whatever all of this means, Mace’s interest in her does not feel like a good thing for Viola. I am overwhelmed by the need to keep her from this brutal fae. What used to be a hum of requirement has become a roar of need.
Suddenly, nothing else matters more than keeping her safe.
Mace moves to a chair, sitting down and running his hands through his hair. It’s in poor shape and badly needs a wash. More energy pulses through him than I’ve seen in the last day, his eyes waking up and returning the sneer that used to permanently adorn his face.
A chill slithers down my spine as the shaded figure finally reveals himself, and Stone steps into the dim light, his face etched with a gravity that matches the weight of the revelation. My heart plummets as he speaks quietly, “Then it is time to remove Miss Viola Mistflow from the Race.”
Chapter 22
Viola
Mygriefiswavescrashing against me, breaking and falling but always returning.
My grief is a living, breathing animal trying to burst from my chest.
My grief is a broken bird struggling to get back in the air.
My grief is guilt and self-loathing.
My grief is consuming me, pulling me under a blanket of despair.
Chapter 23
Zeph
I’vegottogetto her first.
