The prince was now leaning against a gnarled oak. Noticing her attention, he gave her a lazy grin.
It was enough. King’s son or not, she didn’t give a damn.
Manon crossed the clearing, Sorrel behind her. On edge, but keeping her distance.
There was no one in earshot as Manon stopped a few feet away from the Crown Prince. “Hello, princeling,” she purred.
The world kept slipping out from underneath Chaol’s feet, so much so that he grabbed a handful of dirt just to remember where he was and that this was real, not some nightmare.
Dorian.
His friend; unharmed, but—but not Dorian.
Not even close to Dorian, as the prince smirked at that beautiful, white-haired witch.
The face was the same, but the soul gazing out of those sapphire eyes had not been created in this world.
Chaol squeezed the dirt harder.
He had run. He had run from Dorian, and let this happen.
It hadn’t been hope that he carried when he fled, but stupidity.
Aelin had been right. It would be a mercy to kill him.
With the king and Matron occupied … Chaol glanced toward the wagon and then at Aelin, lying on her stomach in the brush, a dagger out. She gave him a quick nod, her mouth a tight line. Now. If they were going to make their move to free Lysandra, it would have to be now.
And for Nehemia, for the friend vanished beneath a Wyrdstone collar, he would not falter.
The ancient, cruel demon squatting inside him began thrashing as the white-haired witch sauntered up to him.
It had been content to sneer from afar. One of us, one of ours, it hissed to him. We made it, so we’ll take it.
Every step closer made her unbound hair shimmer like moonlight on water. But the demon began scrambling away as the sun lit up her eyes.
Not too close, it said. Do not let the witchling too close. The eyes of the Valg kings—
“Hello, princeling,” she said, her voice bedroom-soft and full of glorious death.
“Hello, witchling,” he said.
And the words were his own.
For a moment he was so stunned that he blinked. He blinked. The demon inside of him recoiled, clawing at the walls of his mind. Eyes of the Valg kings, eyes of our masters, it shrieked. Do not touch that one!
“Is there a reason you’re smiling at me,” she said, “or shall I interpret it as a death wish?”
Do not speak to it.
He didn’t care. Let this be another dream, another nightmare. Let this new, lovely monster devour him whole. He had nothing beyond the here and now.
“Do I need a reason to smile at a beautiful woman?”
“I’m not a woman.” Her iron nails glinted as she crossed her arms. “And you …” She sniffed. “Man or demon?”
“Prince,” he said. That’s what the thing inside him was; he had never learned its name.
Do not speak to it!
He cocked his head. “I’ve never been with a witch.”
Let her rip out his throat for that. End it.
A row of iron fangs snapped down over her teeth as her smile grew. “I’ve been with plenty of men. You’re all the same. Taste the same.” She looked him over as if he were her next meal.
“I dare you,” he managed to say.
Her eyes narrowed, the gold like living embers. He’d never seen anyone so beautiful.
This witch had been crafted from the darkness between the stars.
“I think not, Prince,” she said in her midnight voice. She sniffed again, her nose crinkling slightly. “But would you bleed red, or black?”
“I’ll bleed whatever color you tell me to.”
Step away, get away. The demon prince inside him yanked so hard he took a step. But not away. Toward the white-haired witch.
She let out a low, vicious laugh. “What is your name, Prince?”
His name.
He didn’t know what that was.
She reached out, her iron nails glimmering in the dappled sunlight. The demon’s screaming was so loud in his head that he wondered if his ears would bleed.
Iron clinked against stone as she grazed the collar around his neck. Higher—if she just slashed higher—
“Like a dog,” she murmured. “Leashed to your master.”
She ran a finger along the curve of the collar, and he shuddered—in fear, in pleasure, in anticipation of the nails tearing into his throat.
“What is your name.” A command, not a question, as eyes of pure gold met his.
“Dorian,” he breathed.
Your name is nothing, your name is mine, the demon hissed, and a wave of that human woman’s screaming swept him away.
Crouched in the brush just twenty feet from the prison wagon, Aelin froze.
Dorian.
It couldn’t have been. There wasn’t a chance of it, not when the voice that Dorian had spoken with was so empty, so hollow, but—
Beside her, Chaol’s eyes were wide. Had he heard the slight shift?
The Wing Leader cocked her head, her iron-tipped hand still touching the Wyrdstone collar. “Do you want me to kill you, Dorian?”
Aelin’s blood went cold.
Chaol tensed, his hand going to his sword. Aelin gripped the back of his tunic in silent reminder. She had no doubt that a
cross the clearing, Nesryn’s arrow was already pointed with lethal accuracy at the Wing Leader’s throat.
“I want you to do lots of things to me,” the prince said, raking his eyes along the witch’s body.
The humanity was gone again. She’d imagined it. The way the king had acted … That was a man who held pure control over his son, confident that there was no struggle inside.
A soft, joyless laugh, and then the Wing Leader released Dorian’s collar. Her red cloak flowed around her on a phantom wind as she stepped back. “Come find me again, Prince, and we’ll see about that.”
A Valg prince inhabited Dorian—but Aelin’s nose did not bleed in its presence, and there was no creeping fog of darkness. Had the king muted its powers so his son could deceive the world around him? Or was that battle still being waged inside the prince’s mind?
Now—they had to move now, while the Matron and the king remained in that painted wagon.
Rowan cupped his hands to his mouth and signaled with a bird’s call, so lifelike that none of the guards shifted. But across the clearing, Aedion and Nesryn heard, and understood.
She didn’t know how they managed to accomplish it, but a minute later, the wyverns of the High Witch’s coven were roaring with alarm, the trees shuddering with the sound. Every guard and sentinel turned toward the racket, away from the prison wagon.
It was all the distraction Aelin needed.
She’d spent two weeks in one of those wagons. She knew the bars of the little window, knew the hinges and the locks. And Rowan, fortunately, knew exactly how to dispatch the three guards stationed at the back door without making a sound.
She didn’t dare breathe too loudly as she climbed the few steps to the back of the wagon, pulled out her lock-picking kit, and set to work. One look over here, one shift of the wind—
There—the lock sprang open, and she eased back the door, bracing for squeaky hinges. By some god’s mercy, it made no sound, and the wyverns went on bellowing.
Lysandra was curled against the far corner, bloody and dirty, her short nightgown torn and her bare legs bruised.