Chapter 10

THE NEXT MORNING, I had to stop by the Guild headquarters in Boise to pick up a duplicate bounty card, after Van Zant had destroyed the original.

My supervisor, Gus, used to be a merc but for the past ten years had ridden a desk at the Guild. I’d seen pictures of him when he was still an active bounty hunter and guessed he’d put on about sixty pounds since he left the field for his current position. I couldn’t imagine transitioning to administration, but he’d seemed to settle into it. He wasn’t so bad, as long as I made my deadlines.

I sat in his office while we waited for a magi-technician—a human with decent magical abilities—to imbue the card with the spell that would be able to ID my mark.

Gus waved a chewed-up ballpoint pen admonishingly. “You’re really pushing the timeline on this assignment, Petra. The Guild has already given you one extension on this one. You’re not going to get another. If you don’t bring the vamp in by the deadline, you’ll be—”

“Suspended from Guild work for at least a month,” I cut in. “I know, I know.”

He stuck the pen in his mouth and began gnawing on it as he straightened the piles of folders on his desk.

“I just don’t know what’s gotten into you with this one,” he said with a sad shake of his head. “Usually you’re out there kicking ass. Extensions make us all look bad.”

I sighed in the back of my throat, trying not to show my irritation. I hated it when Gus got patronizing.

“This one’s slippery,” I said.

The tech showed up with the duplicate card, saving me from any more supervisory disapproval. I stuffed it in my pocket and got the hell out of the Guild building.

I made my way to the New Gargoyle fortress the next morning without Lochlyn. Fae not sworn to the Stone Order weren’t allowed in the fortress without Marisol’s permission, and that usually meant it had to be for something important. But no one had to worry about Lochlyn being properly prepared for court. Despite living outside of Faerie since she was seventeen, she was well-versed in all the proper customs. Her mother was a courtesan in the Cait Sidhe palace, and Lochlyn had spent her youth deep in court life with the other children of courtesans.

I arrived at the fortress with a lot of time to spare, and it was by design. I wanted to sit in the mineral sauna, a treatment room where magic and the energy of stone permeated the air like thick steam. A half hour in there—the maximum anyone was allowed—should get me most of the way healed. The rest would just take time.

I went directly to the sauna, but as luck would have it, the door was locked, indicating it was occupied. At least no one else was waiting to get in. I sat down on the wooden bench to wait. The sauna was located within the gym and training area of the fortress, and I could hear the clangs of swords in the yard and the clunks of weights in the lifting room. I eased my head back against the wall, crossed my arms, and closed my eyes, lulled by the sounds. I wasn’t tired, exactly. I’d slept deeply the night before. But a weariness from my payment to Morven, cold iron burns, and use of my rock armor still lingered.

“Looking for me, Petra?” asked a smooth voice right next to me.

I jumped guiltily, not realizing I’d dozed off a little. Maxen stood in front of me, shirtless and in long gym shorts, glistening with the dewy condensation from the mineral sauna. The smell of mountain streams and wet sandstone hung around him.

I looked him up and down, but I wasn’t checking him out. “What’s wrong?” I asked, looking for evidence of a recent injury.

New Gargs didn’t use up their precious mineral sessions for no reason. And it wasn’t just the limited allotment given to each of us. It was even more a matter of pride. We were fighters, and we were tough as granite. We normally didn’t use such treatment unless there was true need.

“Nothing,” he said. He plucked his shirt from the hook next to the door and flashed me a smile. He pulled the t-shirt down over his head. “Good as new.”

I arched a brow at him. “Care to prove it after I’m done in there?” I tipped my head at the mineral sauna’s door.

He licked his lips. “Absolutely. See you in the yard.”

He walked backward a couple of steps and then flipped me a little wave.

“Hey, Maxen?” I called, suddenly remembering I had a plus-one for the trip to the Duergar court. He stopped and came partway back. “My roommate, Lochlyn, wants to come with us today. She, uh, really likes court.”

It was a pretty lame reason, but I couldn’t lie outright about why she wanted to come and I wasn’t supposed to tell Maxen that the changeling was actually my sister and Lochlyn wanted to be there for moral support.

He narrowed his eyes for a minute, and I couldn’t help thinking of Lochlyn’s command to flirt with him. Make him think you want to clank rocks. I nearly snorted a laugh but managed to control it and turn it into a broad smile. I tilted my head, channeling Penelope, my sex kitten alter-ego.

Maxen shrugged a shoulder. “Why not?” He turned to go but then paused. “Only if you beat me in the yard.”

I let out a laugh that echoed down the hallway. Since we were kids in training, I’d defeated him nine times out of ten, at least.

I pushed open the door of the mineral sauna. The small space wasn’t much bigger than a closet, with just a wooden bench by way of décor. The walls were made of slabs of shimmering opalescent stone from deep in the earth of the Old World. It was said the stone combined all the minerals and precious stones that existed on both sides of the hedge. Fae called it Brigitstone after Brigit, the Celtic Saint of healing and blacksmithing.

I took off my scabbard and set it against the wall, settled on the bench, inhaled deeply, and let my body drink in the magical nourishment.

When I emerged, my skin slicked from the mist of magic and minerals, I felt like a god reborn. I wasn’t fully healed yet, but the moments after time in the mineral sauna were always filled with a surge of energy and vitality. It was like a triple espresso after the best night’s sleep you’ve ever had.

I put on my scabbard and rolled my neck as I made my way to the gym, letting the mist of the mineral room dry on my skin. Poor Maxen. I was going to kick his ass all over the training yard.

When I got outside, I squinted and shaded my eyes against the bright sunshine, automatically looking toward the flash of metal and clangs of swords. Maxen was sparring with Shane again, who was the current general weapons teacher for the youngest class of New Gargoyles. Maxen’s eyes flicked to me, but he somehow kept his focus on the fight at the same time. He slashed at Shane with a complicated sequence of strokes, but the teacher was faster—Shane fought back and slipped his blade under Maxen’s elbow, where it slid off the rock armor protecting Maxen’s ribs.

Shane spoke a few words to Maxen, the two men shook hands, and the teacher departed.

“Sure you want to do this?” I called to Maxen. With a languorous stretch of my arm, I reached for Mort. “Maybe you need to rest first?”

“Nope,” he said, working his blade in a figure-eight warm-up pattern. “Let’s go, Maguire.”

We faced off, and when our eyes met, I flashed a grin. But I waited, wanting Maxen to make the first move. He feinted a lunge and slashed upward. I sidestepped and parried. It all happened in barely a blink.

“Not even going to use your armor?” Maxen asked as we circled each other.

“Nah,” I said. “So far I see no need for it.”

He laughed good-naturedly. I attacked with an overhand swing, and Maxen barely blocked it. I came in for a jab at his midsection and hit his armor. He was stronger than me, but I was faster, and my sword was a bit lighter and shorter than his. Size wasn’t everything.

I tsked. “You still keep your elbow too high. How many times did Jaquard give you that correction when you were a kid?”

“About a million.”

We traded blows, our swords clanking in a rhythm that almost sounded deliberate, for several minutes. I got completely absorbed in the enjoyment of the dance.

Maxen came in for a complex attack, trying to use his size and strength to overpower me, and managing to drive me back several steps.

I was running out of room. I dropped to one knee in an attempt to make him think he’d gained the upper hand. When he telegraphed a too-large overhead slash downward, I spun on my knees, darted under his arm, and sprang up three feet away from where I’d been. The end of Maxen’s heavy sword jammed into the grass, and I flicked Mort out and tapped the side of his neck.

“Mine!” I shouted. It was our tradition—whoever won got to crow about it. Jaquard always told us it was a crass and immature habit. That was half the reason Maxen and I had kept doing it.

I lowered Mort and backed away.

“Again?” I asked.

We were both breathing hard. Sweat beaded on Maxen’s forehead and darkened his hairline.

“I’d like to, but it’s time to get ready for court,” he said, sheathing his sword. He glanced off to the side of the training field. I followed his gaze to where a blue-vested page was waiting with his hands folded and a tablet tucked under his arm.

I groaned and let my head drop back.

He arched a brow at me. “You’re the one who wanted to go.”

“I know. I just don’t want to go through the ridiculousness of all the pomp. It’s just so . . . archaic.” I wrinkled my nose.

“You should to have more respect for Fae traditions,” he said in a lecturing tone.

“You sound like your mother,” I shot back.

Side by side, we headed inside.

“Why did you need the mineral sauna?” I asked.

“I just want to be at full strength for the trip,” Maxen said absently. “After your shower, there will be a page waiting to take you to your dressing room. They’ll have something frilly and lovely waiting for you, I’m sure.”

I shot him a sour look over my shoulder as I pushed the door to the women’s locker room. But his comment about being at full strength snagged in my mind. Things with the Duergar were contentious. I wondered if Maxen truly feared that the situation could turn violent.

After showering and dressing, I stood in front of the mirror and tried to finger-comb my hair into some semblance of neatness but soon gave up. A stylist would most likely be in my dressing room to work out the knots and make sure I looked proper and presentable.

“Lady Maguire?”

I turned to see who the hell thought I was a lady. It was my page, a girl of about seventeen.

“Please, call me Petra,” I said.

She smiled politely, but I saw a brief flash of amusement in her fluorite-lavender eyes. She’d probably seen me fruitlessly fiddling with my hair.

“If you’re ready, I’ll take you to your dressing room now,” she said.

I strapped on my scabbard and held out my arm, indicating she should lead the way out of the locker room.

“How long have you been a page?” I asked her once we were out in the corridor and walking side by side.

“Just six months,” she said. She slid a look at me. “When I turn eighteen, I want to leave the fortress and live on the other side of the hedge. Get a job as a mercenary.”

I lifted my brows. “Really? What a coincidence you got assigned to me.” I gave her a wry look.

She shrugged a shoulder in a very teenage gesture. “Not the only reason, but yeah.”

“I bet you’re a handful for your father,” I said. “Let me guess. You and he butt heads about a dozen times a day.”

She let out a tinkling laugh. “How did you know?”

“Personal experience.” Poor Oliver. “Are you a good fighter?”

“Top three in my class, combat all forms, combined,” she replied automatically but with pride.

I gave her a nod. “Impressive.”

She smiled with delight at the compliment, revealing a dimple. Her eyes flicked to Mort on my back.

“Got a sword?” I asked.

She shook her head, her shoulder-length brown hair swinging a little. “Father wouldn’t buy me one. He thinks if I don’t have a weapon I won’t try to go into a dangerous line of work. That’s why I’m working as a page. I want my own blade by the time I turn eighteen.”

“Ah, a girl after my own heart,” I said approvingly. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Emmaline.”

“Pretty,” I said.

She groaned. “I know. I hate it. I wish my parents had named me something more bad ass.” She glanced at me quickly. Cursing on the job—even mild swearing—was against the page’s code of conduct.

I snorted. “Don’t worry, I won’t tattle on you.”

She steered me through the corridors in a way that was almost like leading me, but without walking ahead. Despite her little slip, I could tell she was good at her job.

“When you get out of the academy, look me up,” I said. “I’ll give you an intro at the Guild.”

Her mouth dropped open, and her pale purple-gray eyes widened. For a moment, she dropped both her professional façade and her teenage pretense of nonchalance.

“Really?” She blinked at me. “You’d do that?”

I nodded. “Sure, I’d be glad to.”

“I—oh my gosh!”

Rather than respond, I brushed off her gratitude, not wanting to make a big deal of it. “Please tell me you’re coming to the Duergar palace,” I said. “I’m not built for courtly nonsense, and I’m going to need all the help I can get. Plus, it would be nice to know there’s another fighter in the group.”

She nodded eagerly. “Oh, yes. Lord Lothlorien assigned me to you for the duration of the trip.”

I snorted a laugh. “Lord Lothlorien,” I mumbled to myself.

“Yes, Maxen?” Her brow creased in confusion. “I thought the two of you were long-time friends.”

“Yeah, we go way back,” I confirmed. “I just have a hard time thinking of him as ‘Lord Lothlorien.’ It sounds funny. Makes him seem so high and mighty.”

“Oh,” she said, carefully neutral and clearly not sure what the proper response was.

I cleared my throat. I shouldn’t have spoken so casually about Maxen, regardless of my personal history and friendship with him. He was the equivalent of a Fae prince. He would be prince if Marisol got her wish and succeeded in forming a Stone Court. Marisol and Maxen were the closest things New Gargoyles had to royalty. And in any case, I needed to shift into a more reserved mindset and conduct. I couldn’t get around the ridiculousness of formal courtly etiquette, but it served a person well to stay tight-lipped while at court. Gossip spread faster than balefire, and one wrong word or sidelong look could set off a cascade of whispers and backlash. I didn’t have the patience or personality to succeed at courtly games, so I’d just have to keep my trap shut to get through it.

“Hey, Emmaline,” I said. “Could you do me a favor? If I start running at the mouth when we’re in the Duergar palace, clear your throat. That’ll be the signal that I need to zip it.”

She squashed a look of amusement before it could fully develop. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Lady—uh, Petra.”

“Don’t bet on that.”

She pointed to a door with a plaque holder next to it. “Here we are,” she said, artfully avoiding having to respond.

The temporary plaque was printed with my name. She pushed the door open and gestured at me to go in first.

If Emmaline hadn’t been standing directly behind me and blocking the door, I might have turned around and left.

The room was a nightmare of pretty, girlie things. Racks of dresses, a styling station with a bazillion curling irons, makeup, and other tools of torture. And mirrors everywhere.

A very polished, made-up woman floated across the room at me, gracefully extending her hand.

“Lady Maguire, I’m so pleased to be working with you today,” she said in a rich, cultured voice. “I’m Vera, your head stylist.”

For a split second, I just stared stupidly. I’d never seen a New Gargoyle woman who seemed so thoroughly frilly, curvy, and feminine. But then I noticed her crazy-long eyelashes and realized she wasn’t full-blood. Probably at least a quarter Sylph.

I stuck my hand out and shook hers. “Pleased to meet you. And good luck with this.” I waved my other hand down my body.

She smiled at me out of the corners of her eyes.

“Challenged accepted,” she said, already reaching for my scabbard. I stepped back and removed it before she could put her hands on it.

“I’ll be waiting outside,” Emmaline said, and backed out the door. I shot her a look of desperation, but she just smiled demurely as she closed the door.

Two more women appeared from an adjoining room, and then hands were everywhere, undressing me, arranging me, pushing clothes at me.

“Help me, Oberon,” I whimpered.

The ladies just laughed.