Page 30 of A Beautifully Crafted Lie

“Where’s the girl?” Sloan asks the moment I round the corner. I barely hear him above the screaming, pleading, and clapping of heels on the white polished marble. In the far corner, abandoned instruments are scattered across the floor. The musicians playing a waltz mere moments ago are now cowering along with the rest of the mortals—those found to possess magic, as well as those void of its presence. The bone-cutting sound of terror is one I’ve heard more times than I care to count. This time is easier because this is the last.

“Locked in a closet,” I tell him. It sounds absolutely juvenile, but the best option, given the circumstances. I push back my sleeves with a groan. My friend always uses exactly the wrong moment to ask exactly the wrong questions.

“Why?” He raises a brow. “Are you upset that she doesn’t find you pretty enough?” His head rolls back in amusement.

Because I’m an asshole. “Because your ugly face would give her nightmares. Thought I’d spare her the agony.”

“Oh please! You’re only jealous that the ladies like me more than they like you.” His voice booms through the hall, deep and grating.

“Do I question you about the things you do with females?” I counter, my nostrils flaring.

His laughter is loud and boisterous. “All the fucking time!” He slaps me on the shoulder, clearly finding my question amusing. “Difference is, I’m not in the habit of keeping mine out of harm’s way.”

“Yes, I know.” I give him a pointed look. Sloan has been my best friend since before we were old enough to choose our own names. He’s been my companion in rebelling against our guardians, but mostly, he’s been the first person I could be myself with. He’s more than a best friend. He’s the brother I never had. And like a true brother… he can annoy the shit out of me some days.

“You think she’ll get the job done?” He takes a step closer. “Or will she only get the job done?” Sloan is wiggling his eyebrows at me when I look at him. The sight makes me bite down on my teeth.

“Fuck off.” I narrow my eyes at him, and he raises his hands in surrender. “If this is the last time I’m playing bitch to my brother, then she won’t be required. I’m not going to use her as a pawn if it’s not necessary. She doesn’t fit.” There’s a pause of silence as Sloan looks at me with an arched brow, analysing me. It’s unnerving.

“Ready?” I ask him. Unease settles in my stomach like sour grapes. She’s a distraction I can’t afford.

“Play.” I lock eyes with the pianist. “Clair de Lune. Until I command otherwise.” He rises, glancing at his friends as he walks over to his piano despite the sheer panic etched on his face. There is no way out. We’ve locked everyone in the ballroom, every door and window sealed shut. My battalion guards every exit on the outside of this room, armed to the teeth and practically salivating with anticipation. Every warrior here specialises in one thing: blatant brutality. It’s what makes us so effective.

They came expecting a party attended by the famed and fortunate first prince, heir to the throne, and the very embodiment of perfection. What they don’t know, because it was erased from their ancestors’ minds, is that the throne he’ll reign from isn’t meant for mortals. This mediocre pigsty of a realm isn’t real. The Realm of Forever, Réimse an Sìoraigh, is the true reality, one they can’t see. By Eamon’s command and the approval of the glorious High King Darragh, the reaping has come early this year, greater than the years before.

I roll my neck and slowly raise my arms in the middle of the abandoned dance floor, palms turned up. My wrists twitch with the rise and fall of the music, as if I were orchestrating it myself. I can almost feel their every vibration in the air around me. The earth trembles beneath me, and my skin prickles. The crowd screams in unison, like nails dragging across porcelain. I know what they see. Eyes black, like the night itself, leaving not a speck of white. Like an infection, the darkness spreads down my face, weeping ink beneath my skin. It’s cold as ice, as numbing as a good narcotic.

Shadows as dense as the walls unfurl from the tips of my fingers, dripping onto the floor like oil and slithering across its polished surface. The marble is cold as my shadows skim across it. Warm bodies shudder as my power surrounds them. I allow myself to feel everything it touches. My eyes close with a deep breath. One touch is all I need. One touch and I’ll know who hides magic in their blood. Screams intensify, and coughing ensues as I wrap my shadows around our captives’ throats, pulling tight, momentarily cutting off their air supply.

Sloan whistles in amazement, passing me where I stand. “There are more than we expected.”

A few unaffected humans try to run from among the reaped. Eadan, fast and fierce in equal measure, grabs the man leading the small group astray. Her hand encircles his jaw before her teeth sink deeply into his neck. When she releases him, blood drips from her chin, spilling from the upturned corners of her mouth. I smell the metallic scent all the way from the other side of the room where the young lord lay at her feet.

My cuspids lengthen, begging to sink into warm flesh. The urge only angers me, speeding my pulse and flaring my nostrils.

“Eadan!” I bark out, dropping my hands to my sides. My shadows remain fixed where I’ve commanded them. Almost half of the people in attendance are bound and ready to be taken away. Their eyes, wide with bewilderment, dart between my friends and me.

“Don’t be a bore, Odhran.” She wipes the blood from her face and licks her fingers clean. “He’s still alive, just easier to handle.”

The large double doors to the main entrance burst open unannounced, tearing mercilessly from their hinges before crashing to the floor with a deafening blow. My jaw tenses, fists clenched. Eamon. His party of five enters the room, resembling a promenade in the garden. Stiff lipped and dressed for the ball they never attended.

“You’ve outdone yourself, big brother,” Eamon says, smiling without looking at me. Proudly, he pats my shoulder as if I’m nothing but his pet. Big brother, I scoff at the term. I may be older, but I’ll always be the bastard in the room, declared as the second prince despite my age. “You could have silenced them, though. Weeping sours the mood, don’t you agree?”

I consider making them scream instead.

“You’re late,” I mutter beside him. To no surprise. He pays me no attention as he walks toward the mass of captured humans, waving a hand over the crowd as he glamours them into delirium.

“I need your word that you’ll grant me my freedom when our king names you his successor.” I go to stand next to Eamon. The smile fades from his face, but he doesn’t turn.

“Perhaps if you weren’t as good at your job.” Eamon stretches out a hand to inspect his nails, as though they ever have the opportunity to get dirty. “I fear I may need you once I’m king.” He looks at me with appraisal. His stony expression tells me that this isn’t up for debate. That he’s thought this through and made his decision.

“You promised—” I grind my teeth, and a vein pulses in my neck.

“I did no such thing,” he interrupts, raising his chin. “I merely stated that I would possibly be open to an arrangement, depending upon the results of this year’s reaping.”

I step into his space, and his guards draw near, placing their hands upon their swords’ hilts. “You selfish little shit.” My voice is merely a hissed whisper, but it’s enough to redden his face and thin his lips. He turns his back to me and walks toward the mortals. The reaped lay bound and gagged in shadow while the others cry and cower along with them. Tomorrow, they’ll believe guards escorted those with magic into a carriage, not remembering this brutal version that threatens to betray our secrets.

There’s a slight shift in the air around me. The skin on the back of my neck goes taut with anticipation. Soft footsteps approach, fast and determined. The rest of my guard stand closer to the mortals ahead of me, discussing this year’s reaping. Having already subdued them all, there isn’t much left for them to do. Turning on my heel, I catch Bryndis’ wrist level with the base of my neck, ready to stab me with a metal strip, bent and uncoiled to form a weapon with a sharp tip.