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“One of many,” he told her, dropping his voice to a conspirator’s whisper. “You have many fans among the old guard, believe me, Your Grace.”
“Don’t call me that,” Fey whispered. But the man wasn’t listening.
He reached out to grab her wrist, thick clubbed fingers holding her. Touching her.
The gentle breeze that had been moving through the city streets stopped. A stillness hung in the air, unnoticed by the aristocrat before her.
“When you are ready, we will fight for you,” the man told her. Something uncoiled in Fey’s chest, something dark and dangerous. “Wewill drive these Fallen scum out of the palace, and you can take your rightful place on the throne.”
Her skin felt hot where he held her. Hot and cold all at once.
“Take your hands off me,” Fey warned him in a dark voice.
Her words were lost on the man, who turned toward the crowded streets and shouted, “Our queen! Our queen has come! Salvation is at hand!”
The crowd of people on the street turned to stare. Some smiled at Fey and this fat aristocrat. This disgusting man who thought he had the right to touch her. To put his hands on her. Others looked from her to the poster and scowled. But many, far too many, came closer, their eyes hungry.
These were the Witches who wanted her to take the throne.
Deep in the crowd Fey spotted a Shifter girl, barely knee high, who hid behind her father’s legs. He led her away, shooting fearful glances at Fey over his shoulder.
Fey’s stomach twisted.
There were murmurs in the mob gathering around her, growing louder and louder by the second. Their words felt sharp. Dangerous.
Our queen.
Our savior.
“She will save us from the growing Fallen influence!” the man holding her arm continued. He squeezed his hand tight around her, shouting with joy. “She will right what the council has done to our city! She will?—”
“I’m not your fucking queen,” Fey interrupted. She felt that rage rise in her chest, unleashed and raw.
It took no effort at all to grab the man’s arm and snap the bone, releasing herself from that sickening touch.
The voices of the crowd went dead silent as he screamed, and Fey let all that delicious rage out.
Alastair was right. They shouldn’t kneel to me.
They should cower.
The ground around her crunched as she fractured it, the stones under her feet splintering outward like a spiderweb.
“How dare you touch me,” Fey told the mewing man. Thosefractures grew, fissions forming in the street, spreading through the stone and concrete. Clutching his arm, pale-faced and scared, he stepped back away from her.
“My queen, he only—” someone else said in the crowd, and Fey turned, rage flashing in her eyes.
“Queen?” she asked. Fire came to her, pouring from her skin and down her arms. It danced over her hands. She took a step closer to the crowd, smiling as they shrank back. The stack of posters lying forgotten on the ground caught fire, vanishing into ash.
“I told you I’m not your queen,” she said, venom dripping from her words. “I killed your queen. And I’m no one’s savior.”
The fire turned to lightning, sparking from her fingertips and leaping to the ground around her, striking the fractured stones at her feet. There was shouting and panic from the crowd.
“I’m not your salvation.”
She took another step, the very ground shaking beneath her.
“I’m yourfucking reckoning,” she spat.
