Page 73 of Captive of Secrets and Storms

Murmured conversation ensues. I resist the urge to snort.

Fae have superior hearing. Surely the men know that there’s no point in whispering.

I press my lips together and scan my surroundings.

We’re flanked by blooming gardens and lush trees. Birds chirp lovely songs as they flitter between the branches. A pool of water sits in a stone basin, and two bright-blue birds frolic in the liquid, splashing with their wings.

This is paradise.

In Port City, I’d been enamored with the vibrancy weaving throughout the bustling city until poverty presented itself in the eyes of those starving children. But in Virendrell, I didn’t notice a hint of destitution or ruin despite searching for it.

Metal clangs as one of the armor-clad men steps forward. His attention rests on me. “You wish to speak to the mayor?”

My eyes widen.

Silas answers, “Yes, we do.”

The man scowls, glances at the Fae, then returns his disapproving attention to me. “What is your business with our mayor?”

I blink. Why in the Gods is he asking me?

Rian steps to the side, blocking me from view as Silas says, “All will be revealed when we speak with your mayor.”

Boots shift. The air grows heavy.

“You will not speak with our leader until I can ensure you are not a threat.”

Draven’s laugh is low and dark, a ripple that makes the guards flinch.

I can’t see the Fae’s face, but the wary expressions on the armored men tell me it’s daunting.

My hand falls to my side as Darius moves forward. He positions himself next to Rian, leaving me alone.

“We are Shadow Fae,” Draven says. “Your kind views our mere existence as a threat. Tell me…how do you propose we prove we are not a threat?”

The question comes off as a challenge—a challenge the armored men’s pinched lips reveal they don’t wish to answer.

They trade loaded looks. Their resolve cracks. They’re seconds from escorting us to their mayor.

They never get the chance.

The air shifts behind me.

A hand clamps around my arm and wrenches me backward. Pain lances through my still-aching shoulder as I slam into a wall of armor. An iron grip bands across my chest, crushing the breath from my lungs.

I don’t have time to cry out before steel flashes, and cold metal kisses the hollow of my throat.

15

The blade presses into my skin. One wrong breath, and blood will spill over the lovely courtyard. My hands grip the muscular forearm holding me captive and tug, but it doesn’t budge.

An odd pulse, one I’ve started to associate with the feeling of magic, brushes my skin.

“Stay still,” the man hisses into my ear.

My body locks in place, and my wide eyes focus on the backs of the Fae standing in front of me, willing one of them to turn around and notice what’s going on.

Did they not hear the man?