was still Queen Mab. No … This time she really was Queen Mab. Night ebbed and flowed
around her in a cape of glittering stars; above the oil-black sheaf of her hair, a constellation glowed—a wheel, a crown. Her eyes were black, her mouth the dark red of
overripe cherries. He could feel power churning around her, through her.
“What are you?” he whispered. But he didn’t care. He went to his knees. This was what
he’d been waiting for.
“Ah,” said Lan Caihe, approaching. “An acolyte at heart.”
In the mirror, he saw himself, a knight with bowed head, offering his service, a sword
in his hand, a sword in his back. He felt no pain, only the ache in his heart. Choose me.
There were tears on his cheeks, even as he felt the shame of it. She was no one, a girl who
had lucked into a gift, who had done nothing to earn it. She was his queen.
“Darlington,” she said. But that was not his true name any more than Alex was hers.
If only she would choose him. If only she would let him …
She touched her fingers to his face, lifted his chin. Her lips brushed his ear. He didn’t
understand it. He only wanted her to do it again. Stars poured through him, a cold and billowing wave of night. He saw everything. He saw their bodies entwined. She was above
him and beneath him all at once, her body splayed and white as a lotus flower. She bit his
ear—hard.
Darlington yelped and flinched back, sense flooding through him.
“Darlington,” she snarled. “Get your shit together.”
And then he saw himself. He’d hiked up her skirt. His hands were braced on her white
thighs. He saw the masked faces around them, sensed their eagerness as they leaned forward, eyes glittering. Alex was looking down at him, gripping his shoulders, trying to
shove him away. The cavern was gone. They were in the banquet room.
He fell backward, letting her skirt drop, his erection throbbing valiantly in his jeans before humiliation washed over him. What the hell had they done to him? And how?
“The mist,” he said, feeling like the worst kind of fool, his mind still spinning, his body
buzzing with whatever he had inhaled. He’d walked straight through the blast of that fog
machine and hadn’t thought twice about it.
Lan Caihe grinned. “You can’t blame a god for trying.”
Darlington used the wall to push to his feet, keeping clear of the mirror. He could still
feel its hum vibrating through him. He wanted to rage at these people. Interfering with representatives of Lethe was strictly prohibited, a violation of every code of the societies, but he also just wanted to get clear of Manuscript before he humiliated himself further.
Everywhere he looked he saw masked and painted faces.
“Come on,” said Alex, taking his arm and leading him up the stairs, forcing him to walk ahead of her.
He knew they should stay. See the night past the witching hour, make sure nothing got
past the forbidden floors or interfered with the culling. He couldn’t. He needed to get free.
Now.
The stairs seemed to go on forever, turning and turning until Darlington had no idea how long they’d been climbing. He wanted to look back to make sure that Alex was still
there, but he’d read enough stories to know you never looked back on your way out of hell.
The upper floor of Manuscript felt like a wild blaze of color and light. He could smell
the fruit fermenting in the punch, the yeasty tang of sweat. The air felt sticky and warm
against his skin.
Alex shook his arm and pulled him along by his elbow. All he could do was stumble
after. They burst into the cold night air as if they’d slid through a membrane. Darlington
inhaled deeply, feeling his head clear a little. He heard voices and realized Alex was talking to Mike Awolowo, the Manuscript delegation president. Kate Masters was beside
him. She was covered in flowering vines. They were going to consume her— no. She was
just dressed as Poison Ivy, for God’s sake.
“Unacceptable,” Darlington said. His lips felt fuzzy.
Alex kept one hand on his arm. “I’ll handle it. Stay here.”