watching, and she quickly looked away.
“And from Faerie, it is our pleasure to welcome Queen Isolde’s official representative, Taran, chief knight and advisor.” The goat-faced steward sketched a mocking bow as the first of two tall men strode into the meeting room.
All heads turned toward them, and Donna caught her breath. She hadn’t expected anyone from Faerie to be here. High-born faery knights—which both of these men clearly were—brought all kinds of thoughts crashing down on her. When had the Queen of Faerie opened their door? Why had she done so? Was it because Demian had demanded it? Perhaps the fey thought their realm would be next on Demian’s destructive agenda … when the Demon King said “jump,” everyone asked “how high?” for fear of being wiped out in a fit of demon rage.
But experience told Donna that it was unlikely to be something that simple. The fey had been free of Hell’s reign for two centuries, not having to pay their tithe of human sacrifice to the demons while Demian was locked up. They could have just stayed safely in their own realm—the door to Faerie could only be opened from the inside, after all. Donna had found that out the hard way, when Aliette had manipulated her into opening the door to Hell instead.
Taran, the queen’s advisor, had a long pale face, huge almond-shaped blue eyes, and black hair that reached the middle of his back. His hair was woven into an intricate braid threaded with green twine, and he was dressed in what looked like silver chainmail. But it wasn’t anything like the armor that Donna was familiar with from history books—it might almost have been spun from spider’s silk. It shone with its own inner light, glittering and sliding across the knight’s body when he moved. There was a silver circlet resting on his brow, and he held himself with a stiff sort of arrogance.
His companion stood slightly behind him, but he was just as tall and dressed in similar armor. This faery’s skin was more golden-hued and his eyes flashed green as he kept a careful watch on everyone in the room. His blond hair swung loosely at his shoulders. Both men wore swords sheathed in beautifully embellished scabbards.
Both men also had slightly pointed ears, and Donna tried hard not to stare.
Displeasure flashed across Demian’s face. “Queen Isolde does not see fit to attend these negotiations herself, Taran?”
The dark-haired faery nodded, tilting his head just far enough to indicate respect. “Queen Isolde is also … unwell, your Majesty.”
Taran’s companion shifted his stance, resting his right hand on the pommel of the silver sword that hung at his waist.
The steward stopped reading from the scroll. “Who is this other person with you, Knight of Faerie?”
“I bring Cathal, a favored knight from the Court of Air who volunteered for this duty.”
The blond knight bowed, but his eyes were ever watchful. Donna noticed his gaze flicker in the Wood Queen’s direction several times—and then in hers.
Volunteered? That was interesting. She filed the information away for later.
Aliette shook her head, spilling leaves onto the table. “Interesting that my cousin sends warriors to a peace negotiation.”
Donna hated to agree with the Wood Queen on anything, but she couldn’t really argue with her on that. It did seem strange that the monarch of Faerie would shun this gathering and send knights armed with grand swords in her place.
Taran raised an eyebrow. “Just as the outcast Court of Earth sees fit to send guards with their representative.”
“My companions are unarmed,” Aliette replied. “You are looking for trouble where none exists, Taran.”
Everybody took their seats at the table and refreshments were brought by women dressed similarly to those whom Donna had met on her way into the crypt. She watched them, curious about what they looked like beneath their masks.
“My Lord, His Amaranthine Majesty Demian, King of Terror and of the Otherworld, returned from his exile of two centuries, bids you all welcome,” the steward announced, gesturing to the head of the table. “Who would speak first?”
Miranda leaned forward. Her face was pale but composed. “I want to know what we’re all here for. Why go through this charade when you could just kill us all with barely a thought?”
Demian’s lips twisted into something resembling a smile. “You overestimate my power, alchemist.”
“I don’t think so,” Miranda said. “You demonstrated your power when you destroyed the British Museum.”
The Demon King waved his hand, dismissing the complete destruction of a British institution as though he’d