When Blood Runs Cold - Chapter 226

“What’s your name?”

I ask to the Faery as we walk, heels tapping with a series of loud clicks as we make out way further down the corridor, weaving past the servants of the palace with a careless ease. All the while I hug my arms tightly around myself, rather keen not to have my body on display for all of the Faey Folk to see- even if they are under a trance. If only I didn’t have to wear something so utterly revealing.

It takes a moment for her to answer as her fingers clench by her side, a slight tenseness to her body that certainly wasn’t there before. There is a clear hesitation in her voice when she talks, as though she is straining to hide something underneath.

“Reshma,” she states, voice wavering, before she straightens herself up again, glazed look overcoming her features once more as she asks in a monotonous voice:

“What is your name, young Queen?”

But I do not hear her.

Instead my mind is busy reeling, fishing for the answers that I never knew I needed.

She just told me her name. A faery under a complete trance of Azrael’s power- not just a form of semi control that Azrael has over me, has just told me her name.

In every sense of the word, what just occurred should not have happened. Not in a million years. If it is true, and Azrael has the entire court under complete mind control, they should not be able to say anything without even permission. Not even their name.

As we continue down the corridor, I can tell by the anxious twitch of Reshma’s fingers that she is waiting on my response. There is a small, wet, crunching sound as she bites on the inside of her cheek, but her façade remains otherwise unbreakable as she leads me down the hallways in a robotic fashion. Perhaps she supposes I will report her to Azrael, or that I am looking to route out traitors who strive to fight against the authority of his crown. But in reality, I couldn’t be more relieved.

“Serena,” I say, without moving my gaze towards the faery beside me. “My name is Queen Serena Ventrue, high Queen of Sezeria.”

***

By the time we reach Azrael, my mind is tingling with questions and my heart pounding with the hopeful spark that maybe, just maybe, I am not the only conscious one in this place. That some miracle or fateful event has sent the favours of the heavens in my direction so that I might live here in a much less solitary disposition than I originally intended. The faery- Reshma, has not said a word of response since I have told her my name, pondering over its significance in an unrelenting silence that only breaks as she reaches the dining room.

“Azrael awaits for you inside.”

Blandly, I nod, not saying a word.

I mustn’t waver in my resolve, I remind myself, brushing down my body as I fix the strap of my ‘dress’. Maintain the illusion of obedience to Azrael and nothing can go wrong. No one will suspect you.

At least that is what I hope as we stalk out to meet Azrael in the grand faery dining room.

Reshma takes the lead, pushing open the set of wooden double doors with a surprising amount of strength. It is not something that I would not expect to see considering how relatively frail and petite looking her figure is, but I suppose the faery folk always have been much leaner in stature anyway.

She bows as I pass, but I try not to let my eyes wander over her too much, try not to let any notion of my awareness slip as I walk proudly into the dining room, my head held high, a large smile plastered on my face as my eyes meet Azrael’s. In reality, my mind is screaming against it, retching and clawing to be free of this façade that I have set myself up for. But there is no escape. No way to flee from those revolting memories of biting and kisses and blood from a body and a mouth that is foreign and filled with a wicked deceit.

The sooner this is over, the better.

But nevertheless the game continues as I curtsey to the room of faeries with a light bow of my head. I am glad to notice that while my outfit is rather skimpy and does little to hide the voluptuous curves of my body, it is a relief to notice the glazed expression on most of the faeries faces, as though they are not truly seeing at all.

All except one, that is: a man – faery- at the other end of the table to Azrael, bearded, gaunt faced, and with a long hooked nose that protrudes low on his face. One might suppose from the sickliness of his pale skin that this man used to be rather tanned in his past, but the shadows of the fairy realm have reduced his outward appearance to a mere ghostly shell of his former disposition, the radiant glow of health and longevity long since faded. But despite everything, he tries his best to make a show of himself. His hair is combed back into a neat and fanciful array of spiked shards, his lacey wings fluttering with a mixture of awkward discontent, and another, much more potent emotion that wafts into the air mixing with the frantic beating of his tiny little heart.

Fear.

This one is awake. Looks like I am going to have to be on my best behaviour today.

“Sit, Serena, you must be hungry,” Azrael offers with a sickly smile, tapping an empty space beside him with one gloved hand. Hurriedly, but not so much so that it seems forced, I tip toe my way across the room, sinking into my seat next to Azrael with a light huff, taking a moment to gaze out in wonder at the miraculous array of food that graces the table.

Truly, it is a feast fit for a king. The table is lined with spiced goods that are staples of the faery realm- spiced breads, meats, a variety of salads and baked dishes, roasted vegetables and even the occasional sweet treat- macaroons, jellies and all manner of cakes lay on the spread of the table, wafting the delectable smell of food up from the table with a mouth watering sensation. My stomach gurgles.

“Eat, my pet,” Azrael coo’s, brushing his hand over my own with silver ringed fingers, very nearly eliciting a shudder to rumble through me. “You haven’t eaten properly for days.”

The words are an invitation as much as they are a threat, so as I wait for Azrael’s nod of confirmation, I am reminded once again of Azrael’s rage over my inability to consume his blood. How livid he became with rage, consumed by it, until all that was left was a cold, unfeeling shell of anger. All over the simple fact I could not drink his blood.

I do not intend to encourage another episode like that again.

So in the best faith one might possibly have in a room full of drunkenly bewitched people, I begin to pile breads and a few hunks of spiced lamb onto my plate, the hunger that whorls in my stomach practicably undeniable, and yet at the same time, I wish I didn’t have to eat. There is something unnerving about the way Azrael watches me as I collect my food, a wolf to a rabbit, merely intent to study the way it moves. It seems as though he is tracing me for a scent of fear, and deciphering which might be the best way to tear me apart if he catches a whiff of it.

But I have learnt how to mask my fear for a long time now, he would find nothing there. Nothing but a blissful happiness, and a blank, unthinking mind.

That is what I want him to see, and he will envision nothing else.

Yet the analogy doesn’t exactly sit well in my mind as I sit there, blood cold, trying not to look at Reshma who flits about the entrance of the dining hall. She is obviously hungry, but not showing it enough to seem suspicious, her eyes still filled with that dazed expression, her face an unmoving slab of granite.

As Azrael’s gaze returns to the table, an idea strikes me as I slip a loaf of pumpkin bread silently on to the polished marble floor, too swift to be noticed by the rest of the table as I pretend to continue piling food onto my plate. I will get back to that later.

“Right,” says Azrael loudly, bringing the room to attention as he presses his fists against the table, eyes lowered. He pays no attention to me as I sniff the food fleetingly, searching for any signs of poison of a distinct drug, but upon coming up empty from any smells to recognise, I sink my teeth into a buttered roll, relishing the warmth of familiar food in my mouth. The other faeries begin to eat too, movement robotic, monotonized, as they lift food to their mouth, chewing and swallowing with ample time in between, listening to Azrael’s demands…