I hate them. I hate them all so much. For a moment, there is only that, the heat of my fury turning my every thought to ash. With shaking hands, I clutch the blanket more tightly around my shoulders and let Locke lead me into the woods.
“I owe you a debt,” I grit out after we walk for a little while. “For getting me out of there.”
He gives me an appraising look. I am struck all over again by how handsome he is, by the soft curls falling around his face. It’s awful to be alone with him, knowing he’s seen me in my underwear and crawling around on the ground, but I am too angry for embarrassment.
He shakes his head. “You don’t owe anyone anything, Jude. Especially not today.”
“How can you stand them?” I ask, fury making me turn on Locke, even though he’s the only one I’m not mad at. “They’re horrible. They’re monsters.”
He doesn’t answer me. We walk along, and when I come to the patch of windfall apples, I kick one so hard it ricochets off the trunk of an elm tree.
“There is a pleasure in being with them,” he says. “Taking what we wish, indulging in every terrible thought. There’s safety in being awful.”
“Because at least they’re not terrible to you?” I ask.
Again, he does not answer.
When we get close to Madoc’s estate, I stop. “I should go alone from here.” I give him a smile that probably wavers a little bit. It’s hard to keep it on my face.
“Wait,” he says, taking a step toward me. “I want to see you again.”
I groan, too exasperated for surprise. I am standing here in a borrowed blanket, boots, and mall-bought underwear. I am smeared in soil, and I have just made a fool of myself. “Why?”
He looks at me as though he sees something else entirely. There’s an intensity in his gaze that makes me stand up a little straighter, despite the dirt. “Because you’re like a story that hasn’t happened yet. Because I want to see what you will do. I want to be part of the unfolding of the tale.”
I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not, but I guess I’ll take it.
He lifts my hand—the same one Cardan stabbed with the pin—and kisses the very tips of my fingers. “Until tomorrow,” he says, making a bow.
And so, in that borrowed blanket, boots, and mall-bought underwear, I walk on by myself, heading for home.
“Tell me who did this,” Madoc insists, over and over again, but I won’t. He stomps around, explaining in detail how he will find the faeries responsible and destroy them. He will rip out their hearts. He will cut off their heads and mount them on the roof of our house as a warning to others.
I know it’s not me he’s threatening, but it’s still me he’s yelling at.
When I am scared, I can’t forget that no matter how well he plays the role of father, he will always and forever also be my father’s murderer.
I don’t say anything. I think about how Oriana was afraid that Taryn or I would misbehave at the Court and cause Madoc embarrassment. Now I wonder if she was more worried about how he’d react if something did happen. Cutting off Valerian’s and Nicasia’s heads is bad politics. Hurting Cardan amounts to treason.