FIFTY-SIX
If I’m going to visit the neighbors, I’ve got to look fabulous.
When Lila entered her wardrobe, a purple gown appeared across the divan, a pair of glass slippers beside it.
She’d never seen such an exquisite garment. It was sleeveless with a stiff, raised collar and a neckline that would plunge almost to her navel.
The color was royal—and defiant, reminding her of her treason trial.
“Why shouldn’t I believe you were involved in your parents’ plot to take my crown?”
“Because it still sits upon your godsdamned head.”
She pulled on the gown with a shiver. The material—one she’d never encountered before—had such a pronounced sheen, it looked black in certain lights. She stepped into the glass slippers, and they molded to her feet.
After pulling her hair into a loose updo, she assessed her reflection. Not bad.
In the mirror, she caught sight of a box on the top shelf of the wardrobe behind her. She imagined the box disappearing and reappearing into her raised hands.
It . . . did.
Her lips parted at its contents: an eerie black headpiece—a crown. Power seemed to flow from it.
On either side of the circlet, a proud black horn jutted upward. Over the front, long fangs crisscrossed. Wispy vines twined around the crown. Like black fire vines!
Queen of nowhere? Not quite. Her inauguration wouldn’t coincide with her wedding or claiming.
But with her crowning.
She donned the piece, eyes going wide when it tightened to fit her head. Those vines slithered down, plaiting into her hair.
She faced the mirror once more. Her eyes glowed with purpose. That crown made her look as if she had horns. A true queen of hell.
Now for her accessory. She turned to the scepter she’d modified and lifted it.
Carefully. Her scepter wasn’t normally a weapon, but tonight would be no normal night.
Abyssian had made it sound like Saetth’s strength was something to be feared; she was counting on it.
Now all she needed was transportation. One of Uthyr’s portals would do nicely. With her new power, she no longer feared the Møriør dragon.
As she set out from the tower, the castle assisted her, its clockwork pieces shifting to provide the most direct route to the throne room.
When she entered, the imposing dragon was leaning against the terrace doorway, a contemplative expression on his scaled face.
“King Uthyr.”
He went motionless, except for his rippling tail. Then he turned his great body toward her and eased closer.
“I’m Queen Calliope.”
His brow furrowed as his gaze lighted upon her crown. He extended his long neck, leaning in, far too close for comfort. She cringed when he sniffed the crown. After lingering on the horns, he drew back his giant head with a thunderstruck look.
She’d sensed the uniqueness of her crown, but hadn’t thought other creatures would. “Abyssian told me you can create portals.”
He nodded. She could have sworn she saw both approval and amusement in his expression.
“I’m late for my fiancé’s gala, so you are going to open a rift to Sylvan for me.”
His canted head so clearly said: I am?
“I’m the queen of hell, the sole sovereign of Pandemonia. Abyssian won’t be returning. You may stay in my kingdom, if you serve me.”
Golden eyes gleaming, he drew back his wing and made a flourishing bow. —Then your wish is my command.—
She jolted to hear his strangely accented voice in her head. She’d understood his telepathy? She supposed it made sense, at least here.
—If you’ll just step back, my fair queen, I’ll get started on a pumpkin carriage. Of sorts.— He steered her aside with his tail. Inhaling a deep breath, he loosed a stream of white flames across the throne room.
After the smoke cleared, a circular portal remained, like a tunnel of fire. She could see Sylvan on the other side! Traitorous feelings arose. As much as she loved hell, she’d missed Sylvan.
Lila would seize both realms, uniting them under her rule!
Uthyr must’ve opened his portal into the royal gardens; the stunning castle lay just beyond, haloed by portentous gray clouds.
Torches lit the structure, candlelight beaming from the arched windows of the throne room. She gazed with longing at the ivy-covered spires, the giant evergreens flanking the palace, the trellised roses that painted one wall bloodred.
In Gaia, she’d dreamed of that place, yearning for her childhood home so much she’d haunted a facsimile of the castle. Memories from those years surfaced, dividing her focus, but she ruthlessly shoved them away.
Just as she shouldn’t think about Abyssian. Whatsoever.
But how could he have said those things to her? When she’d told him she loved him?
The dragon leaned in again. —Be back before Sylvan’s clock tower chimes midnight.— He winked at her. —In all seriousness, my portal will extinguish itself on the final stroke of twelve.—
She raised her brows, surprised yet again by a Møriør. Like Rune, he didn’t strike her as very vicious or monstrous.
—You are teeming with power here, Queen Calliope, but outside of hell, you won’t be. If you go to confront Saetth—perhaps for double-crossing you—he will prove far too strong and fast for you to defeat.—
“Precisely,” she said with utter confidence, practicing for what was to come. “As long as we’re all on the same page about that.”
Expression merry, he said, —Anything else, my queen?—
“Yes. I’m going to conjure a note for you to deliver to my ex-husband in Tenebrous. I would like him to read it aloud to his allies.”
The dragon looked delighted. —This is better than my soaps.—
Pacing the war room, Sian racked his mind for a way to reach Calliope. Every back entrance and secret portal into Pandemonia had been blocked. An impenetrable barrier had hurled him back onto his ass a dozen times—
White flames appeared out of thin air. Uthyr’s rift! When the smirking dragon strutted from a fiery tunnel, Sian dove to return through the portal, but the edges sealed behind Uthyr’s tail.
Sian scrambled back to his feet. “Is Calliope safe? Why can I not trace to hell?”
Uthyr cast him a broad smile. —Look at you! You’ve returned to your old form. Which is good, since you won’t be returning to your old home.—
“What are you talking about?” Sian bit out.
—You’ve been barred from Pandemonia. I did warn you that your plan would end badly, did I not?—
“I can’t be barred from hell; I am hell.”
—Well, apparently so is Calliope. She’s brimming with magic.—
How? He’d figure that out later. For now . . . “Tell me how to reach her!”
—She sends you a message.— Uthyr lifted a forepaw. A small scroll had been tied to one of his talons. —You’re to share it with your allies.—
“Give it to me!” Sian nearly shredded the page in his haste. He read aloud:
Demon,
Hell is now mine. You locked me in a dungeon; I locked you out of our godsdamned house. In the immortal words of a very wise mortal: everything you own in the box to the left.
Field advantage is key, and the joke’s on you.
Game, set, and match,
Calliope I, Queen of Sylvan and Pandemonia
P.S. If you or your allies make any move on Sylvan, I will retaliate against the Møriør tenfold. Do not test me.
“Queen of Sylvan?” Sian clutched his chest. “She must plan to go back to Saetth. Must not have believed what I said about him.” Why would she when Sian had been bragging about all his lies and trickery? “I told her that we were no longer wed. That I’d forsaken her. She could marry again. I drove her straight to him.”
Would Saetth want her hand—or her head?
“What does that part mean about the box to the left?” he demanded of his allies. “Does she reference Pandora’s box? Or the mystical Nagas box? Maybe—”
“Brother, it’s a song lyric,” Rune said. At Sian’s blank look, he added, “Just trust me when I say it’s the funniest shit you’ve ever read.”
Sian turned on Uthyr. “She can’t get to Sylvan, though. Because you would never create a portal for her. Correct?”
—She demanded one. Who am I to deny a queen in her own castle?—
His stomach dropped. “Tell me everything!”
—She was dressed in a ball gown, wearing the most fascinating and historical crown you can imagine.—
As if Sian cared what she wore!
—Also, she had no intention of wedding Saetth.—
“I have to reach her in Sylvan! She’s going to challenge him. She told me she was going to kill him.”
“I like her more and more,” Allixta said. “You are sure to be attacked by Sylvan’s army. Shall we provide backup?” Blue light blazed from her palms.
He shook his head. “I vowed to her that no Sylvan would fall by a Møriør’s hand.” He couldn’t kill a single fey, nor could he risk his allies harming anyone. “I have to go alone.” He would keep his word if it killed him. And it might.
Damn. This is going to hurt. . . .