Untamed - A. G. Howard Page 0,74

you. We need this heated.”

My royal advisor brightens the light in his eyes and concentrates on the floor.

“What in bloody hell?” Morpheus bellows at Rabid as his bare soles turn bright red.

“Your feet cold, were not?” Rabid asks, frothy lips pouting. “Gossamer said . . .”

We all stare at Gossamer.

“I said his feet would do well to be cold,” she scolds Rabid. “Master displays a startling lack of caution when it comes to certain aspects of his life.” She smirks and flutters around us, trying to look busy and innocuous in spite of how her coppery eyes flash with mischief.

When I first left to live my human life in reality, the sprite and I had mended fences. But since my and Morpheus’s wedding, she’s become increasingly prickly and envious, as if living all those years as Morpheus’s confidante in my stead rekindled her unrequited affections for him.

Rabid frowns remorsefully at Morpheus. “Rabid White gave you a hot foot . . . not necessary?”

“No, blast it!” Morpheus barks, lifting a sole to observe the flaming, tender skin. I grasp his hand, a reminder to be gentle. He squeezes my fingers in response and his furious expression softens to annoyance. “My feet were not cold.” He casts a warning glare Gossamer’s way. “Nor will they ever be where Alyssa’s concerned.”

The sprite looks down, green skin darkening with a flush.

“Sorry I am, Majesty.” My apologetic advisor bows so low he nearly tumbles headfirst into the bed.

Morpheus catches him by his antlers then nudges him toward the bucket of treacle. “There, Sir Bumble-noggin. That’s what you’re to be heating. Get to it.”

Rabid nods and readjusts his visual aim until the metal bucket glows orange. The syrupy liquid bubbles and pops, filling the room with a cherry scent. Having done his job, the rabbit-size netherling gathers some fallen cloud residue to make a pallet on the floor, curls atop it, and starts to snore.

“I don’t understand why you sent for treacle,” Lorina caterwauls to Gossamer, so loud my eardrums clash inside my head like tambourines. “Humans always use boiled water. I’ve seen it in their box pictures.”

“You mean their tellie-visors,” Gossamer corrects, and as if to make up for her earlier wickedness, hustles Lorina out the door and offers a polite thank-you for her services, assuring the bird-woman she had brought the right bucket.

“Televisions,” Morpheus growls to everyone and no one at once while rubbing a still-red foot. “Also, what in the name of Fennine and all the fairy saints is the treacle for?”

“Perhaps we use it to christen the baby?” a chorus of sprites twinkles.

“Yes, yes. We christen it!” echoes another. “Wait . . . what does that mean?”

“Dunk it, headfirst,” a lone sprite chimes.

I yelp, horrified.

“Everyone, shush!” Morpheus barks the order. He strokes my hair in a calming rhythm. “Do not worry, blossom. No one is dunking our prince in boiling syrup.”

Gossamer returns, rounding up her sprites like a drill sergeant. “Treacle sap comes from the sassyfras tree, Master.”

“I’m aware of its origins, pet.”

Her bulbous, brass-colored eyes brighten, a sure sign she’s pleased to have his full attention. “Being as it’s the most flippantly happy of all the trees in the wilds,” she says to him, intent on holding him captive for as long as possible, “I sent for undiluted syrup to sweeten and tame the beastly toys.”

“Ah, well played.”

Gossamer beams at his praise.

“To your posts then.” Morpheus shoos everyone off the bed. “Our queen needs her rest.”

Pouting, Gossamer leads the sprites away. They settle beside the boiling treacle as Chessie and Nikki drag over a box. Inside is an octopus-like creature the size of a half-dollar with rattlers similar to a rattlesnake’s tail sprouting from each tentacle—venomous and creepy enough to entertain even the most cynical member of the Red Court; a self-playing xylophone made of living fish bones; and some teething rings formed of actual snapping teeth, among other oddities.

Using Chessie’s tail as a rope, the sprites dip one of the snarling teething rings into the boiling syrup. It resurfaces—nothing but gums . . . soft and rubbery. They do the same with the octopus-creature, transforming it into an eight legged rattle—colorful, brittle, and harmless.

Upon seeing the fate that awaits them, the other toys hiss and clamber over each other in an effort to escape the box, desperate to retain their wild, dangerous forms. The sprites screech and give chase.

The scene is morbidly chaotic and funny enough that I giggle. It’s a mistake, for the muscles in my abdomen respond with