King of Merits: A Fae Romance (Black Blood Fae Book 3)

Merri

The morning after my picnic with the Silver King, I wake with a heavy heart, longing for home and my family, questioning my sanity and reasons for staying here.

A sour taste in my mouth, I shake off the bedclothes and my nightmare of cruel hands wrapping my throat and squeezing.

In the dream, a dark voice demanded to know why I was here in the Land of Merits and what I wanted. I couldn’t reply. The answer is far too complicated.

I lie in bed wondering what I do want. Without a doubt, to save Aodhan from the curse. But should I follow my heart and pursue the Merit king, make him kiss me again as he nearly did yesterday on the banks of the creek? Or is it best to ignore this pull between us, find the Black Blood curse, learn all I can about the Merits and their magic, and then leave, taking this information home to my father and Raff and help keep my kingdom safe?

And even if I wanted to draw Riven closer, do I possess the power to do so?

Yesterday, he made it clear he’s attracted to me but also despises the fact. There is one thing I’m certain of, though—giving my heart to the King of Merits would be the worst decision of my life. And this leads me to the ultimate question. Even knowing this, can I stop myself from throwing my bleeding heart at him, anyway?

Sunshine blinds me as I sit up in bed, swathed in silk and furs and rubbing sleep from my eyes. My maid must have entered while I slept and opened the heavy drapes, revealing a beautiful cloudless day through windows set high above the Obsidian Sea.

Gold vines, leaves, and flowers glint prettily in the light, my gaze skimming over them and landing on the pile of clothes folded at the foot of the bed.

I scramble through the cut-velvet curtains that hang from bedposts as tall as fir trees, leaping onto the floor to inspect the molded leather armor, roughly woven pants, tunic, and cloak that together form my disguise for today’s tour of the city.

The king followed his words with actions, which surprises me. A warm but foolish glow fills my chest.

After a visit to the bathing room and a bite to eat, I waste no time pulling on the new clothes. I strike poses in front of the gilt-framed mirror in the main chamber, grinning as I admire the snug fit. Oh, how I prefer the simplicity of brown and gray garments to delicate rainbow-hued gowns.

As I braid my hair into a thick rope I can easily conceal inside my hooded cape, several hard knocks wrap against the entrance to my rooms.

“Come in,” I call, expecting to see Lidwinia or my maid, Alina, waiting on the threshold.

The double doors swing wide and reveal Riven standing in a wide stance, his leather-bound arms folded over his sculpted ornate breastplate, dressed for court business or a tithe audience by the look of him.

“Good morning, Merrin.” He steps inside, mouth downturned and his haunted gaze skittering over the furniture and walls, no doubt assaulted by old memories. Sympathy pangs in my chest.

“Morning,” I answer, giving him a warm smile that I hope will help chase away his ghosts. “Thank you for these clothes. They’re absolutely perfect.”

“I’m glad they fit. I chose them myself.”

“Sounds unlikely.” Hands on my hips, I twist from side to side, the cloak twirling around my calves. “But if you say so, Riven, it must be true. I had no idea you possessed the eye of a tailor.”

He gives me a heart-stopping smile, making me stumble and flay my arms about to regain balance. His smile broadens as he appraises the fit, sending a bolt of heat to my stomach. “Well, I didn’t say I made them. But I do take good note of details, such as the particulars of your form.”

My mouth dries, and I force a grin. “Indeed, your talents are surprising. Are you my tour guide today?”

“No. Thorne shall accompany you.”

“Thorne? Your friend the hedgehog, I presume?”

“I’m not that cute, Princess,” says a tall fae as he steps out from behind Riven. “And I’m considerably more skilled with a sword than those prickly creatures.”

With my mouth agape, I take in the newcomer. He’s right. He’s not cute. Frightening is a better description. Dressed in similar clothes to mine, he’s the same height as his king, has a mop of short dark hair, a slightly crooked nose, and typical glowing faery eyes of gold. He’s brutish, even handsome, and then he smiles. With a gruesome metallic grind, two formidable rows of jagged black teeth snap together. No, Thorne isn’t cute. Not at all.

“If you’ve finished fussing with your appearance, we should leave right away.” Thorne bows his head as we duck past the king and through the door.

Marching along the corridor in front of me, Thorne speaks over his shoulder. “If you’d like to see some interesting sights, Princess, you should pick up the pace. The market is only open for a couple more hours, and it’s an opportunity to view the fae who don’t often attend the court.”

“Because Riven won’t let them?” I ask, seeking confirmation he is a terrible king, a horrible fae.

“No. It’s because they’re wild and don’t care for formality and extravagance. Riven invites all fae to court, even the ones who disgust him.”

I grunt in reply, digesting the idea of Riven as a benevolent ruler.

We pass along wide, windowless hallways of black and gold, descend a series of shining onyx staircases, march through a large reception room, then follow a maze of narrow corridors for some time before we come to a carved stone door.

“Are you taking me to the dungeons?” I ask as Thorne pushes on the white stone.

“I wish, but, alas, no.” He tugs two Merit pendants from beneath his cloak and passes me one. Like Riven’s, both screens are inactive. “This is one of the more discreet exits from the castle that will lead us directly out into the city.”

“If I have to wear this, shouldn’t it be blipping and flashing like everyone else’s will be?”

“No. Since Riven has been king, many no longer use the pendants as point collectors and data analyzers. Besides, we’ll draw less attention to ourselves without the damn things squeaking and beeping.”

That makes sense. The ornately framed screen hangs heavily around my neck as we descend a final set of steps. At the bottom, Thorne places his palm on a copper pad beside another white door. The door beeps, sliding open to reveal a cobblestoned street nestled between the narrow walls that line the top section of the town.

Bolts of blue sky are visible between roofs and the edges of buildings, not a cloud marring them. My magic sizzles along my skin, stimulated by the warm, spicy air. The smell of baking bread affects my stomach in particular, which growls as loudly as Balor on the hunt.

“Forgot to break your fast, did you?” asks Thorne, shortening his steps to match mine as we stride along the street.

“Not at all.” Excitement curdled my gut this morning, so I only ate three slices of a spiky fruit that tasted pretty good even though it smelled like my brother’s boots. It wasn’t nearly enough fuel for an adventure. “I can’t wait to see the city.”

Thorne side-eyes me. “It’s more akin to a fortress. Come, let’s head to the market where you can purchase fripperies to your heart’s content.”

“Only if they’re edible.”

He squints, laughs, then directs me to hurry along with a violent hand gesture.

If the Merit City is a fortress, it’s quite a spectacular one—flames, roving bands of musicians, and a myriad of rich colors enliven the deep slick shadows, creating a festive atmosphere under the industrial towers and spires of the castle. Market days are lively in any town, I suppose, even in the Unseelie kingdom.

As we trek, keeping to the edges of the growing crowd, I inspect the impressive Merit buildings.

Wrapped in black stone, they’re patterned with straps of tarnished silver and copper, a mesmerizing mix of dark, burnished hues against the bright, soaring glass panels that jut from the structures at steep angles.

On the whole, the town reminds me of the human realm’s modern factory districts, but one designed by an architect with a love of wildness and whimsy. Ivy, vining roses, and purple wisteria creep like pretty nightmares along arches and walls, growing vigorously in jets of steam and nearly obstructing the city’s cogs and machinery.

While I’m busy gaping at the sights, Thorne elbows me out of the pathway of a fast-moving faun whose curling horns nearly take my head off. “If you close your mouth and open your eyes, Princess, I believe you’ll have a better chance of navigating without causing or receiving injury,” Thorne advises.

I draw my hood lower to hide my grimace. “Thank you for the tip. I can see why Riven sent you in his stead today. He wanted me to spend time with someone as equally infuriating as he is.”

Thorne laughs and gnashes those frightening teeth at me before quickening his stride.

I jog to pull alongside him again. “Who are we posing as today? Cutthroats? Thieves? A dancing duo?”

“No. Traders from Port Neo.”

“Ah, hence the fetching wicker basket decorated with small anchors you’re carrying.” I raise an eyebrow at the enormous odd-shaped woven bag he wears hitched over his shoulder. “It’s very convincing and definitely declares we’re not basket weavers.”

“Beg your pardon? I crafted this myself.”

A snort escapes me. “That explains a lot.”

“You may laugh all you like, Princess. Every wonky weave and uneven stitch is mine. This bag happens to be my pride and joy.”

“My sympathies then, Thorne. You need a different hobby.”

Like a maze, the streets climb in a haphazard pattern up and down the town’s jagged mountain until, finally, they open onto a large flat section of the town bordered by trading stores and stalls.

We stop and rest against a low wall with a view over the busy market, late morning sun warming our backs. A flock of seabirds cries in the distance, the sound drifting down to mingle with the cheerful noises of the market.

For the capital of the Unseelie kingdom, the atmosphere in the Merit City is surprisingly uplifting. It doesn’t feel like a foreboding or dangerous place. What was Riven worried about? I could have ventured out alone without a problem.

In the city square, tree-lined walking paths spread out in geometrical designs, and at the center sits an enormous glass building called the Meritorium. The structure’s dramatic slopes and planes bring back memories of the museums I visited with my parents in the human world many years ago, and I’m eager to see what treasures lie inside it.

“That’s where Elas works, isn’t it? In your technological advancement center?”

Thorne nods. “Yes. And you’ll find our princess there most hours of the day and night, too.” He tugs my cloak. “Come. Let’s find something to calm that growling stomach of yours. It has quite the vocabulary.”

We cut through a narrow street, arriving at the entrance to the market plaza without incident, but the moment we begin following our noses toward the food stalls, everything changes.

A dark vibration thrums through the air, but for no visible reason. None of the fae snarl or yell, or attempt to bite me. It’s subtler than a physical threat. It’s a feeling, an unpleasant sensation of being watched by an unknown entity.

I keep my head low, my eyes peeled, and don’t mention my concerns to my companion. If I did, he’d only rush me back to my chambers as though I’m a child in need of cosseting, which I’m not. Far from it. Growing up with a brother like Wyn, I was quite young when I learned how to put up a decent fight.

Besides, I wouldn’t mind an opportunity to show off my knife skills, then Thorne might stop believing I’m a spoiled Seelie princess. He might even tell Riven I can look after myself and am no average, helpless halfling.

The smell of garlic and spices teases my nostrils. “Look over there—dumplings.” I point at a stall opposite. “Praise the Elements! They’re just what I feel like eating.”

Drooling, and guided by blind hunger, I bolt toward the stall’s tantalizing aromas, my eyes fixed on the fragrant steam curling from an array of pots and pans.

One step, two. Then three, four, five, and an unseen force hits me, flinging me into the air, then backward into a table of wares. Leather-bound books and paperweights tumble to the ground around me. Wincing in pain, I whip my head up, and a cart full of Titherian elves careens past.

If not for Thorne’s quick action of shoving me out of the way, they would have made a pancake out of me. And, sadly, I would have died hungry.

Looking suspiciously close to laughter, Thorne offers his hand, but I push it away. “If you’d thrown me any harder, right now, you would be scooping pieces of me into that fine basket of yours, and it would be quite the gory trip back to the castle for you.”

I leap up from the gravel and pile books back on the table, smiling at the stall owner. “Sorry, Sir. I don’t think anything was broken.”

The troll has so much hair covering his face, I can’t tell if his grunt is an acceptance of my apology or if he’s preparing to wallop me with his ax handle.

A gold coin flings out of Thorne’s bag, spinning like a top onto the stall’s wooden table. The troll grunts again, this time in a slightly less murderous register.

“Take a silver leaf from our librarian’s book, Princess, and try to be a little more grateful,” Thorne says, watching me pick tiny stones from the points of my ears. “I just saved your life.”

“That troll is your librarian?”

Thorne doesn’t answer, just tugs me toward the dumpling stall. “I’ve never been assigned to play nursemaid before. You must be important somehow for him to care about what happens to a Seelie royal.”

“By him, do you mean your king?”

“I mean my best friend, Riven, who, yes, happens to bear the title of the King of Merits.” He sneers down his long nose at me. “One he doesn’t wear lightly, I might add.”

“Why do I get the feeling you don’t like me much, Thorne?”

“Probably because I don’t like you very much.” His expression softens as mine collapses in sorrow. No creature enjoys being loathed.

When we arrive at the stall, Thorne elbows his way to the front of the rowdy line of fae, dragging me along with him. “We’ll take forty of those. A mix of all fillings,” he tells the rotund brownie behind the counter.

I tug his sleeve. “I’m not that hungry.”

“Who says they’re for you?”

Utensils fly, metal clangs and bangs, and Thorne turns to me with a rough sigh. “Look, I apologize for not wanting to be your new best friend, but you’re the daughter of the one fae in all the realms who wants Riven’s head on a stake and his guts torn out and burned, preferably while he lies there watching. I have good reason to be suspicious of you.”

“That’s rather graphic. And, really, my father’s not that bad.”

“Says his pampered daughter! In practice, you’re Riven’s enemy, which makes you mine, too. What I can’t figure out is why he didn’t send you off on a tour alone today and let the cretins and lowlifes sniff you out, deal with you in their own special way.”

The brownie’s eyes widen in recognition as he makes an exchange with Thorne—a large steaming parcel for a handful of coins. The cook bows. “Commander Thorne, I am honored.”

“No, you’re not.” Thorne waves a thick hand in the brownie’s face and it goes slack, then twists back into the original scowl he was wearing when we arrived.

“You wiped his memory. Neat trick,” I say as my hand tears into the packet and retrieves a hot dumpling.

We walk toward a copse of trees beside the square and take a seat on a low wall, a quiet spot to eat our meal and watch the passersby.

Thorne swallows a dumpling whole. “I don’t understand why you’re so impressed by simple magic,” he says, chewing with his mouth open. “Can’t Seelie halflings perform any tricks?”

Instead of a dumpling, hot anger scalds my tongue. “And I don’t understand why you have to be so forthcoming with every one of your vile thoughts.”

“Because I’m interested in hearing yours.” He taps my temple. “I’d like to learn how your mind works. And because I’m Unseelie, we rather enjoy shocking others.”

“Right. So, you’re seeking to understand your foe then.”

“Yes.” His eyes bug out. “Duck!”

“What? Where?”

Thorne pushes me to my knees and throws a rock at the tree behind me. A bronze raven-like bird with eyes of black stone swoops into the sky in a clatter of metal feathers, squawking off toward the sea. Olwydd, Temnen’s familiar.

“Good riddance, you scum-sucking, skinny-bellied sky rodent,” yells Thorne through cupped hands. He turns to me with a rueful expression. “That’s the deceased prince’s bird, brings trouble with it that one. He was going for your eyeball.”

“Ouch. I thought it was Olwydd. I’ve heard all about his past crimes. Why in the realms hasn’t he been banished yet?”

“Oh, he has. But that doesn’t stop him from appearing like a harbinger of gloom at least once a sennight.”

“Tell you what, if you lend me your bow, next time he shows up, I’ll shoot him right between his pebbly eyes for you.” Blood warming with excitement, I hastily swallow my third dumpling, wipe grease onto my cloak, and hold my hand out for Thorne’s weapon.

He laughs and shoves his seven-hundred-and-fifth dumpling into his gob, chewing open-mouthed as he shakes his head. “I’ll hold on to my bow, thank you very much. Come on. Do you want to take a proper look around or not?”

He strides off, leaving me to gawk at a tall figure whose black hood suddenly peeks from behind a tree trunk, then disappears in the blink of an eye.

I walk backward in Thorne’s direction, half close my eyes, and open my senses, searching the air currents for any clues to the spy’s identity. I get nothing, only a distinct sense of malice sullying the air. Whoever this person or creature is, they’re employing a protection spell, their essence hidden behind it.

My heart thumps hard, but I’m not scared, because I already know who it is. Riven, the Merit king himself. It has to be. Who else knew about today’s plans and could conceal their scent, their flavor, from the Princess of Air? I touch the pommel of my sword, pat the knives strapped to my body, then spin on my heels and chase after Thorne.

We munch, or I should say Thorne munches, on the last of our lunch as we pass through the maze and enter the Meritorium via a door hidden in a hedge.

Our visit is quick. I chat to Lidwinia about the market, admire Elas’s latest invention and the beautiful interior, meet a few workers, and then we leave.

Lidwinia advised Thorne he’d do best to treat me like a visiting military dignitary. So, to my surprise, he takes me on a tour of the courtiers’ apartment complexes, the business district, the weaponry, forge, and the guardhouse, and all the while, the unknown presence slips through the shadows behind us. Hand on my weapon, I keep my lips sealed tight.

When we arrive on the outskirts of Blackthorn Forest, the edge of a dark cloak flies between tree trunks on the hill to my left. I smile. At last, our pursuer comes closer.

From the direction of the trees comes a grunt, followed by the sound of stones sliding. A flash of blue eyes, and then a thud. Someone has fallen over.

Thorne jolts forward.

“Wait,” I cry out, gripping his arm.

“For what, Princess? I was only going to suggest we return to the castle quickly. Someone with ill intentions has been following us. I’ll return alone and hunt them down.”

“No! Let’s do it now. Together. I’m quite good with a sword, much better with a bow. But, nonetheless, two is better than one in any fight, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Are you deaf? I said I will hunt them alone.”

“But they’re right over there in the trees. Possibly injured and—”

“I don’t care how expertly you wield a weapon. Riven would have my guts for breakfast if I returned you with even the slightest scratch. My job is to keep you out of harm’s way, not thrust you into the middle of it.”

“And who do you imagine would want to follow two simple traders from Port Neo?”

“Whoever they are, they know very well we’re not traders.”

“So someone from court, then?”

“Not necessarily.” He starts up the hill that leads to the castle, tugging me along by my tunic sleeve like I’m an unwilling donkey dressed as a trader.

“But, Thorne, it has to be someone from court,” I say. “What outsider could manage to breach your wards, your famous sea guards, and fierce forest defenders? I’ve heard it’s nearly impossible to break into your city.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Stop saying that.”

“Listen, don’t tell your Fatuous Father of Storms, but if somebody used very strong magic, dark magic, Unseelie magic, it could be done.”

“So, therefore, it has to be one of your own!”

“Perhaps, Princess. Perhaps.”

Could it be Draírdon? No. Absolutely not. No cloaking spell could possibly contain his diabolical scent of week-old mushroom and cabbage soup.

Therefore, it has to have been Riven.