Page 62 of The Midnight King
I raise my eyebrows, a little startled at her openness. She looks back at me and smiles slightly. “Welcome to the family. Help me drag your stepmother’s body through the portal back into Faerie. If we leave it here, there will be too many questions.”
We take hold of Gilda’s body together. The limp heaviness of it sickens me, and when her head flops to the side on her partly severed neck, I nearly vomit.
“You get used to it,” says Clara.
“Do I want to get used to it?”
She chuckles ruefully. “That’s up to you. Are you planning to live in the mortal realm, or in Faerie? Because Faerie can be as brutal as it is beautiful.”
“Me, live in Faerie?” I almost choke on the words.
She gives me a quizzical look. “I thought you and Killian…”
“I… well… he… that is… I haven’t…” Fuck, what is wrong with me? Heat floods my face, intensifying as Clara smiles.
“I see. You’re still inthatpart of things. Trust me, I know how loving a Faerie can feel at first—perilous and painful. But from one human to another—they’re worth it.”
We both fall silent as we drag Gilda closer to the portal.
“Will it accept all of us?” I ask.
“Yes,” Clara assures me. “It accepts two living beings and whatever they’re carrying.”
We step through, bringing the body with us, and we drop her on the floor of Finias’s candy shop. He’s sitting on the counter now, with the heels of his boots propped on a stool, and he’s licking a peppermint stick.
“Look at you two,” he croons. “Bonding already, hauling corpses around together. Adorable.”
Killian rolls his eyes. “My father is dreadfully casual about murder, especially when Clara is the one killing people.”
Clara sighs, exasperated. “You make it sound like I kill people often. I only do it with very good reason. In this case, the bitch had it coming.”
“I’ll dispose of her, dearest,” Finias offers, hopping off the counter and vanishing his peppermint stick into midair. “Feedthe boy another sweet, would you? The rare ones, the red glossy kind. They’re most effective with this sort of thing, regenerating limbs and such.”
“Maybe Celinda would like to feed him the sweets?” Clara suggests. “I’ll run over to the palace and ask the Keeper of Artifacts to come down and fetch this anklet. It belongs in a vault, not lying around where anyone could touch it. Before you deal with the body, help Killian to a bedroom, would you? And clean up those ashes as well. What if a customer came into the shop and saw the mess?”
“Of course, sugar,” responds Finias.
Clara gives her son a kiss on the forehead and kisses Finias on the mouth, then smiles at me before leaving the shop.
“She likes you,” says Killian with a weary grin. He winces as his father helps him up.
“Bring those red sweets, will you, Celinda?” asks Finias.
I collect the candies he indicated and follow the two of them. Is it my imagination, or is Killian’s residual limb already longer? Can his leg already be growing back, just minutes after it was severed? I already know how Faeries help mortals heal—but what kind of substance could regrow a Faerie’s limb so fast? I’m not sure I want to know, so I distract myself by admiring my colorful surroundings.
The house is a cozy, rambling structure with beautiful paintings covering most of its walls. Some of the artwork nearest the floor is messy and faded, as if it was painted by children and has been there for years. The rooms are slightly untidy, filled with cushions and comforts, and there’s a pervasive air of warmth, joy, and creativity. It’s ahome, in every sense of the word.
Finias takes Killian and me into a first floor bedroom and settles his son on the bed.
“If you’ll step into the hallway with me a moment, Celinda,” he says coolly.
“What are you going to say to her?” asks Killian, frowning.
“She can share it with you later, if she would like to,” Finias responds, taking my elbow gently and guiding me out. He closes the door, and we walk several paces away from the bedroom before he turns to face me. His eyes have lost their sparkle, and only earnest regret remains.
“Killian did not treat you well,” he says in a low tone. “Did he apologize for his deception?”
“He did,” I reply.