and raised in Cylhana, an Aurelian vila. And Valsatra is . . . well . . .” Her huge eyes flashed sideways, momentarily uneasy. “None of us are entirely certain, to be honest. We think she may be vampyri.”
Nelle swallowed several times. “You . . . Were you all . . .” She couldn’t quite form the words, wasn’t even entirely certain what question she meant to ask.
But the dryad happily continued, her branch arms rustling as she reached out to take Nelle’s hands in two of hers. “Though we may originate from different realms, we have been brought together in sisterhood by our shared love of Kyriakos, our most beautiful and benevolent lord.”
Nelle gaped at the woman. Her memories of Kyriakos were hazy to be sure, but she was quite certain benevolent wasn’t a word that applied to the imposing fae lord. Beautiful, yes. Benevolent, definitely no.
She pulled her hands free and, not liking to meet the dryad’s gaze, looked down. With a startled gasp, she realized that she wore only her chemise—a torn, ratty, stained, and entirely inadequate covering in a room like this. The front ties were partially undone, and she hastily fumbled to tie them, casting about as she did so for some sign of her lavender gown.
“Oh no, my sweet!” the dryad trilled, hastily pulling Nelle’s hands away again. There was no resisting the force of that wooden grip. Nelle could only sit wide-eyed as two more of the dryad’s hands untied the laces. “You cannot wear something like this. Not tonight! We have something much nicer for you.”
As though taking her cue from the dryad, the massive stone-woman—the trollkind—held up something in her blunt, craggy fingers. Nelle took one look and nearly choked on her own tongue. It was a garment of some sort—certainly not a gown. Black, shimmering, and long, with deep slits up the front of the skirt almost to the waist. And the rest of it . . .
“I’m not wearing that.” Nelle turned back to the dryad, who blinked at her with gentle confusion. Hoping for some sign of sympathy, she turned to the pink woman but was met with an expression so studiously blank, she could almost believe she beheld a wax figure.
The dryad shhhed softly and plucked at the black gown with one hand. “Is black not the traditional wedding color of your world? I seem to remember one or two of my other mortal sisters claiming they preferred white for such an occasion. I may be able to find one of their old gowns, but . . . well, it would be such a shame! Valsatra made this up for you special, and you don’t want to hurt her feelings.”
A shadowy waft shuddered along the back of Nelle’s head. She twisted in place, trying but failing to get an impression of whoever was—or wasn’t—behind her. “I don’t mean to hurt anyone’s feelings,” she said quickly. “I just . . . I ain’t getting married.”
The dryad made a strange sound at this, a rough barking, blowing sort of noise that somehow translated in Nelle’s ears as a tinkling laugh. “Oh, sweet sister, you are already married!”
“No.” Nelle shook her head fiercely and managed to free her wrists from the dryad’s grip to pull her open gown shut across her cold bosom. “I’m pretty sure I’d remember something like that.”
The dryad blinked at her slowly, the frondy lashes falling in a gentle sweep. When they rose again, her expression was much harder than it had been. “Our lord has claimed you,” she said with an edge to her voice. “You are his bride. And tonight, your sister-wives must make you ready to receive him.”
With those words, she lifted her head, raised several pairs of hands, and clapped smartly. “Come, sisters! Let us begin our work!”
Many hands pulled Nelle out of the bed and stripped off her chemise before she had a chance to think. She tried to fight back, but the dryad swiftly pinned her arms and legs while the pink woman sidled in close and efficiently washed her skin with a rough sponge. Nelle’s mind whirled. The perfume in the air made her dizzy.
Soran, she thought wildly as someone—the unseen Valsatra, perhaps—dragged a comb through the tangles of her hair. What had become of Soran? Her memories were vague, but she was fairly certain Kyriakos had done something to him, had left him collapsed on the ground. Alive? Oh, please the gods, let him still be alive!
The pink