Meanwhile, Oliver had a lovely high elf to seduce.

  Ailuin Silverthread, younger sister of the Elven Concord’s twin heads—Myriil the eldest, Caillou the brother. Charming, clever, and politically na?ve enough to be useful—if you knew how to flirt in fluent subtext.

  Which, not to brag, Oliver spoke in at least three and a half dialects—four, if you counted Southern Bureaucrat under pressure. Sadly, elves did not appreciate an authentic Georgian drawl.

  “Let me refill that for you, miss,” he offered smoothly, summoning a shadebound to top off her glass with practiced ease.

  He laid on the charm he was famous for within the Sanctum—not that it ever got him far. The women of the Vampiric Court knew every one of his tricks and played him like a fiddle. Not that he minded. He liked being the fiddle.

  But here? Here, he could feel the pull of a different tune. He missed being the rakish flirt—the lingering smiles, the little thrills, the kind of nights that ended in warm sheets and fresh blood.

  He missed modernity.

  Ailuin scoffed softly. She knew exactly the kind of man she’d caught the attention of. One that was clever and too smooth for his own good. A predator dressed in charm.

  And yet…

  There was something about that smile. The kind that disarmed you before the dagger left the sheath. Dark, fathomless eyes locked on hers with steady, shameless focus—like no one else in the room existed. It kept her lips curved even when she knew better. For tonight, she could pretend she didn’t.

  After all, he was probably trying to get close to her siblings.

  Everyone did, eventually.

  She’d long since grown used to being the stepping stone—pretty, polite, and perfectly positioned. But as the night wore on and he refilled her glass again—and again—he never once mentioned Caillou or Myriil. Not even in passing. And that, more than anything, gave her pause.

  This was highly suspicious. But before Ailuin could ask, a voice like cement and gravel rolled over the table.

  “Oliva’s. Good ta see ya’s.”

  A little goblin in a gleaming top hat climbed onto the chair beside Oliver, his formalwear festooned with sprockets and shine.

  Oliver gave him the customary nod up. “How’s the missus?”

  Chief Vrig swept a stubby hand toward the dance floor, where his wife spun like a storm through silk and sequins. She was having the time of her life.

  “Sees for ya’s self.”

  He then turned to Ailuin with a polite dip of his head. “Forgives my, whatcha’s call it, intrusions, miss.”

  “You’re forgiven.” Ailuin smiled the sort of smile that only looked polite if you weren’t paying attention.

  “Ya’s look familiars,” Vrig tapped the mole on his chin—the very one, he often claimed, that seduced his wife into marrying him. With a snap of his fingers he remembered. “Ya’s must be Myriil’s baby sista’s.”

  Oliver widened his eyes in mock astonishment. “Myriil’s your sister?” Then he leaned in with a grin. “Kidding. I already knew. I just didn’t want to scare off the prettiest girl here.”

  He gave her a wink. “Forgive me?”

  Ailuin rolled her eyes, smiling despite herself. “Hm. We’ll see.”

  “Charmin’s as ever,” Vrig said, pouring himself a tall glass of trouble he’d regret in the morning.

  “So’s, what’s the story with the little lady’s the Boss just married?” Vrig asked, nose twitching with curiosity. No one was immune to gossip—especially not the goblins. They traded rumors faster than the Bank of Elysium moved coin.

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  “I still say he married her for blood rights,” grunted a dwarf from the next table, arms crossed thick as anvils. “No man throws a party like this unless it’s buyin’ him something rare.”

  “Like fey-blooded territory’s?” Vrig grinned. “Or a tree nymph’s womb. Forest queens always get knocked up by da legends.”

  Oliver swirled his wine, half-listening, fully aware of how lovely his date looked rolling her eyes. “Hey now, there’s a lady here,” he said, mostly to the goblin. “You’ll offend my date’s refined sensibilities.”

  “She’s a highs elf,” the goblin shot back. “They’s offended by sunlight.”

  The dwarves howled at Ailuin’s expense.

  “Only because it dares to shine on all of us equally.” Ailuin chirped, her smile bright beneath the treasure of her upturned nose.

  Oliver nearly spat out his wine. He loved his dates to have a little bite.

  Even the dwarf and Vrig were delighted by the comeback.

  “Oh’s! Excuse me’s. Didn’t thinks my’s tans took up so mucha the sun’s scarce resources, long ears.” Vrig cut back as the dwarves slammed the table in drunken delight.

  “I’ve forgiven you once, and now you want two in one night? Typical.” Ailuin sighed, “But I suppose I can only take the high road.”

  “Only cause you’re tall enough to reach it.” Came another, shorter dwarf.

  “Jealous, Grimsby?” Oliver grinned, leaning back, lips pulled just enough to hide the bite of his fangs.

  Said dwarf blubbered his reply, causing his table mates to jeer.

  Ailuin’s eyes cut across to meet with Oliver’s gaze. The unspoken alliance between them was a little thicker—woven from wit, wine, and mutual mischief.

  But she was no fool. Her siblings had saddled her with the grunt work of mingling with “lesser races.” She’d better return with something useful. Play without profit was unforgivable in their eyes.

  “So,” she said, the brightness in her tone sharpening to something cooler, “what’s this about fey-blooded territory? Sidestepping the sanctions are we?”

  “What? Me? Nooo.” Oliver flicked his wrist, smooth as silk. A half-truth.

  “Hehe. I knew I liked this one.” Vrig took a swig from his tall floor pint. “Figures the Boss had an angle.”

  Oliver’s grin froze just a fraction. That sort of talk spread fast—and if it reached the Chapel, inquisitors would be crawling through the Sanctum by sunrise.

  “Careful now, Chief,” Oliver said, smooth but pointed. “That kind of rumor can get a man’s tongue nailed to the Chapel doors.”

  Ailuin arched a brow, enjoying his discomfort. “So I’m wrong, then? No clever little loophole? No caravans slipping through the wards with skins of moonlit vintage?”

  “If there were,” Oliver said lightly, “I’d be the last fool to admit it at my cousin’s wedding. Especially with half the city’s wardens in attendance.” He jabbed a thumb in the direction of one in particular just three tables over.

  It was almost convincing. Almost.

  Because truth be told, the idea wasn’t ridiculous. Mortals assumed fey-blood flowed like any other supply line if you had the coin. They never considered what the fey demanded in return.

  One sip of their essence could bind you in contracts you never meant to sign. A smile at the wrong moment, a word spoken sideways, and suddenly your veins weren’t your own. The stories were old, whispered warnings passed through the Vampiric Court: drink deep of fey-blood and you might wake up with your heart missing, but still beating.

  But none of that mattered to mortals. They didn’t drink blood. They didn’t carry the risk of binding their souls by accident. To them, fey-blood was just another exotic vintage. Hell, most of them didn’t even know there were different blood types.

  Oliver missed modernity, but ignorance he could do without. It made rumors far more dangerous than truth.

  “As tasty as a bottle of glitter sounds, I wouldn’t recommend fey-blood to even my worst enemies.” He swirled his wine lazily, letting the candlelight catch on the glass. “They say the fairfolk are worse than demons to make deals with. At least demons have the courtesy to tell you the price up front.”

  He shrugged, aiming for nonchalance, though the warning rang true. Ailuin understood, but could still catch the flicker of a lie in his voice. The light in her gaze was enough to let him know.

  A loud bang came from the table of dwarves as fist met table. “Then what in the bloody hells is Sullivan doing bringing the Bitch Queen’s daughter here?”

  “I just told ye—that forest’s overflowing with rare resources. If we get in good with the Lord of Leeches, we’ll be swimming in gold by Tidal Season.” Grimsby never met a door of opportunity he wouldn’t kick.

  The dwarves quickly fell into debate: what riches might lie beneath the silverwood trees and amethyst paths? Sullivan was a pragmatist; he wouldn’t waste his time if there wasn’t something worth seizing. That man was busier than a sprite hive before a frost.

  So clearly, that gods-forsaken place had something worth cracking open.

  They were already deep in talks of mines, quarries, sawmills, and tunnels. Typical of them.

  “That’s not a place to tread lightly.” Came the cold warning of another dwarf. “The last excavation crew didn’t even leave footprints behind—just a pickaxe turned inside out.”

  Each dwarf stroked their beards, nodding in thought to the old folktale.

  The fairfolk truly were worse than demons.

  Ailuin rolled her eyes, brushing a golden lock back into place, but summarily agreed that disturbing the Crystal Forest was akin to suicide.

  “I agree. Not even the Concord heads would dare trespass. Rude, really, to treat your cousins like strangers.” She sighed in mock melancholy.

  “No need for ya’s worries, long ears. Me and the boys gots it unda control once the Boss gives us the go ahead to bulldoze the damns place.” Vrig seemed to be lost in thought, almost wiping a tear away. “That parking lot’ll’s be godsdamned beautiful’s.”

  Ailuin’s mouth nearly hit the floor in disgust. She was appalled at the very notion of disturbing the Crystal Forest—especially with filthy little Goblin feet. Her siblings had deliberated over whether or not it was even safe to go in the first place; the land itself swallowed every soul, every secret, every step.

  It never forgives, but it always forgets.

  “Just think of the merchandise!” out cried a particularly inebriated dwarf. “Crystallized fey tears! Limited edition!”

  Ailuin turned to the only other sane individual, which so happened to be Oliver.

  “One day,” she muttered, “they’ll pave over the sky itself.” Truly the elven folk were the only bastions of civilized reverence left in this world.

  Oliver raised his glass, the faintest grin tugging at his lips. Let the dwarves plan their tunnels and the goblins their parking lots—he only cared about the elf across the table, sharp enough to keep up, foolish enough to keep drinking with him.

  So long as none of them uncovered the truth—that Sullivan hadn’t simply toppled Tempesta, but had spent a year plotting with her son Ilios to place him on the throne in her stead—they could theory-craft and bargain all they liked.

  Let them think the Crystal Forest was the prize. It was better that way. Far better than realizing the real spoils were the promises Ilios whispered in return.

  He felt eyes on him, and if instinct was right, it was the dreary gaze of his newly wedded cousin.

  Oliver met abyssal black with his bright marbled gaze. He gave a nod up in Sullivan’s direction, knowing how much he hated the casual gesture…