The Half-Lie Truth

Viera Kaine stood on the balcony of the Dragon’s Spire, nursing a flute of Glass Empire sparkling champagne and contemplating how much force it would take to throw herself over the railing.

Not to die. Just to escape the dress.

It was a monstrosity of emerald silk and whalebone, cinched tight enough to bruise her ribs. It exposed an obscene amount of cleavage, which was the point—distraction—but Viera felt like a trussed ham.

“Forty years on this earth,” she muttered, tipping the flute to her rouged lips and gingerly sipping the bubbly liquid. “Survived the Pits of Oron, three wars, and a poisoning attempt by my own sister. And I’m going to be killed by underwire.”

She flicked the remaining spirits over the railing; it was delicious, but she had to maintain a clear mind and flawless reflexes to complete her mission. Below, clouds swirled around the peaks of the Dragon Spine mountains. Inside the glittering ballroom behind her, the music swelled, a pretentious waltz played by a quartet of nervous musicians.

The Peace Summit. A joke.

The Iron Kingdom and the Glass Empire didn’t want peace. They wanted a pause. They wanted to smile, sign a piece of parchment, and then go back to stabbing each other in the dark.

Viera adjusted the slit in her skirt. Strapped to her right thigh was 'Widowmaker', a slender stiletto coated in paralytic venom. In her hair, holding up a complex braid she hadn’t done herself, were two pins made of blackened steel.

She wasn’t here for peace. She was here for the Glass Emperor.

He was inside at the head table, fat and laughing, drinking wine that Viera had earlier tried to poison. (He had a food taster. Poor kid. Died foaming at the mouth.)

Plan B was messier: A knife in the ribs during the Midnight Toast.

“Enjoy the stillness while you can, Viera,” she told herself as she took a calming breath of the crisp mountain air.

She turned to go back inside.

And ran straight into a wall of midnight-blue velvet.

“Viera, my love,” a voice purred. It was deep, resonant, and dripped with false politeness. “What brings to you the Glass Ballroom on this fine night?”

Viera looked up. And up.

Standing in the doorway, blocking her path, was Lucian Devereux.

The Spymaster and Head Assassin of the Glass Empire. The ‘Shadow-Bender’.

He was devastating. There was no other word for it. He was tall, muscular yet lean, and held himself with the languid grace of a predator that had already eaten. His hair was black as pitch, tied back with a silver ribbon, revealing temples dusted with distinguished silver. His eyes were the color of violet glass, the mark of his High Fae father. Impeccably dressed and groomed, it would be quite easy to mistake him for one of the royalty seated at the head table.

He looked roughly forty-five, in human terms. In Fae terms, Viera knew he was older than the kingdom she served.

“Oh gods,” she muttered under her breath, closing her eyes and pursing her lips. She had hoped to be able to avoid detection by the Spymaster tonight.

“Get out of my way, pretty boy,” Viera said, her voice scratching like gravel. “You know damn well why I’m here. I’m working. Let me pass, Elf, so I can go kill your Emperor.”

He didn’t move. He scanned her, his gaze lingering on the pulse point of her neck, her cleavage, then the slit in her dress.

“Look at you! You clean up remarkably well for a sewer rat. Magnificent cleavage! I imagine that dress cost the Iron King a month’s tax revenue. I like it.”

He drew her closer to him. “Why don’t we retire to my quarters and I’ll show you just how much I like it?”

Before she could react, he found the slit in her dress and Widowmaker.

“But before we go, I need you to divest yourself of this,” he whispered in her ear seductively.

Viera exploded. “Don’t you dare touch my blade, you pig! I’ll kill you!”

Lucian laughed as he removed his hand from Widowmaker and slid his bare hand up her thigh to the cheek of her derriere. Viera felt her face redden and her breaths deepen. His sensuous touch was betraying her; she couldn’t hide her attraction to this powerful, mysterious man.

“And don’t touch that, either!” she screamed, pushing away. “You really do have a death wish, Elf.”

Lucian laughed. It was a soft, terrifying sound.

“Darling, I cannot let you kill Emperor Laurent tonight,” Lucian whispered, leaning down. “It would be dreadfully inconvenient for my schedule. I have spent six months arranging this treaty.”

“He’s a psychotic tyrant who doesn’t give a crap about his citizens,” Viera said, her hand drifting toward her thigh.

“Granted, but he is a stabilizer of sorts,” Lucian countered. “And your King Fedaur is a drunkard. If Laurent dies, the Glass Empire splinters and your drunkard invades. Thousands die. It is messy. I dislike messy.”

“I don’t care about politics, Elf,” Viera growled. “I have a contract.”

“And I have a counter-offer. Since I can’t tempt you to leave with me.”

Lucian held out his hand. His fingers were long, manicured, and adorned with rings of silver and moonstone.

“Dance with me,” he said.

Viera stared at the hand. “I’d rather eat glass. Anyway, where’s your strumpet-du-jour?”

“Jealous, m’lady?” Lucian grinned, with a raised brow that raised his attractiveness edge ten-fold. “Actually, I’m alone, a truly rare occurrence, I know. But if you dance with me,” Lucian murmured, his violet eyes glowing faintly, “I will tell you which of the Iron King’s advisors is planning to slit your throat tonight.”

Viera froze.

She knew there was a leak in the Iron Court. She just didn’t know who.

“You’re lying,” she said.

“Fae cannot lie, Viera. You know the lore.”

“You’re half-human,” Viera narrowed her eyes. “Which means you can half-lie.”

Lucian smirked. “A fair point. But in this, I am truthful. One dance. Then we return to our respective corners and try to murder each other’s monarchs. And perhaps, once again, each other?”

Viera looked at the ballroom. The Midnight Toast was in twenty minutes. She had time.

She took his hand. His skin was cool, shocking against her feverish palm.

“One dance, and you keep your hands to yourself,” Viera warned. “If you try to use your charming mind-tricks on me, you prick, I will stab you in the liver. I know exactly where it is.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Lucian said, sweeping her onto the floor.

He led perfectly. Of course he did. He probably invented the waltz centuries ago out of boredom.

Viera hated how well they moved together, and how much she was enjoying his attention. She was used to brawling, to jagged movements and impacts. But Lucian moved like water. He guided her through the crowd of spinning nobles, his hand firm on the small of her back, keeping her boxed in but making it look like intimacy. Gods forbid that anyone think that she was his ‘strumpet-du-jour’!

“You’re stiff,” Lucian commented, spinning her past a table of fruit.

“I have a knife strapped to my leg and a fucking corset trying to crush my lungs,” Viera gritted out. “Forgive me if I’m not floating.”

“Relax,” Lucian murmured. “You are safe with me. For the next three minutes, at least.”

“Who is it?” Viera asked, looking over his shoulder at the Iron delegation. “Which advisor?”

“Patience,” Lucian chided. “We haven’t even reached the crescendo.”

He spun her again, pulling her chest-to-chest.

Viera looked up at him. Her heart was pounding. Up close, he was infuriatingly beautiful. Age hadn’t withered him; it had just refined him, stripping away the boyishness and leaving hard angles and wisdom. He looked tired, though. There were fine lines around his eyes that spoke of a century of keeping secrets.

“You look exhausted, Lucian, and do I see a bit of gray at your temples?” Viera noted. “Empire keeping you up?”

“The Emperor is a petulant child,” Lucian sighed, a moment of genuine weariness slipping through. “Managing him is like herding cats. Cats with capricious magic.”

“Why do you stay?” Viera asked. “You’re powerful enough to leave. Go back to the Otherworld. Go live in a hollow hill and steal babies or whatever your father’s people do.”

Lucian’s eyes darkened. “I am not welcome in the Otherworld, Viera. I am a ‘mongrel’. Too human for the Fae, too Fae for the humans.”

He tightened his grip on her hand.

“This game,” he gestured to the room, “is the only place I fit. I am the necessary monster.”

Viera felt a twinge of something that felt suspiciously like empathy. She squashed it immediately.

“We’re a pair, then,” she said. “The Monster and the Knife.”

The music swelled. The clock chimed.

11:50 PM. Ten minutes to the toast.

“The name,” Viera demanded.

Lucian leaned down, his lips brushing her ear, causing her cheeks to flush and her pulse to quicken.

“Lord Harrow,” he whispered. “Your King’s treasurer. He sold you out to the Shadow Court three days ago.”

Viera stiffened as the reality of situation struck home. Harrow. The man who signed her paychecks.

“Why?” she breathed.

“Because he thinks you are too dangerous to keep on a leash,” Lucian said, pulling back. “He plans to have you arrested for the Emperor’s murder immediately after you commit it. You are the scapegoat, Viera.”

Viera’s mind raced. It made sense. It was clean.

“Thank you,” she said stiffly. “Now let go of me so I can go kill Harrow instead.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Lucian said.

He stopped dancing. He didn’t let go of her hand.

“Why?”

“Because,” Lucian looked toward the massive stained-glass skylight above the ballroom. His expression shifted from charming to terrified in a split second. “Harrow isn’t just selling you out. He opened the Wards.”

“What Wards?”

“The mountain’s Wards,” Lucian hissed. “The ones that keep the Dragons and the Shadow Court out.”

CRASH.

The stained-glass skylight exploded.

Shards of glass rained down on the dancers like glittering hail. Screams erupted. Lucian shadows immediately formed a protective umbrella above them.

Rappelling down from the darkness were figures clad in armor made of black smoke. The Shadow Court. Fae mercenaries who killed for sport.

And behind them, descending with a roar that shook the stone foundation of the castle, was a massive shape. Copper-tinged scales. Eyes like molten gold.

A dragon. A very fat dragon.

“Ignis,” Viera swore, reaching for her thigh dagger. “The Gossip-Lizard is here.”

“He’s not here for gossip,” Lucian said, his eyes darkening and his shadows swirling around his legs and hands. “He’s here for the buffet.”

A Shadow Court assassin dropped directly in front of them, dual blades drawn.

“Run!” Lucian shoved Viera back, his protective shadows churning in front of him.

“I don’t run!” Viera snarled. She kicked her skirts aside, drew the Widowmaker, and lunged through the shadow barrier.

But before her blade could connect, the assassin threw something. A silver bolo.

It wrapped around Viera’s right wrist before Lucian’s shadows could intercept it. It hissed, burning her skin.

Another bolo flew from the left, also avoiding Lucian’s shadows and wrapping around his left wrist.

The assassin chanted a word in the Old Tongue.

The two bolos slammed together with magnetic force despite Lucian’s magic trying to force them apart.

CLANG.

Viera was yanked off her feet. Lucian was jerked forward. They collided, shoulder to shoulder.

The silver cuffs fused. They glowed with a sickly green light.

Viera scrambled up, slashing at the chain connecting them. The knife sparked and bounced off.

“Soul-Manacles,” Lucian gasped, clutching his wrist. He looked horrified. “What the…?! Old Magic. They bind the life-force.”

“Get it off!” Viera yelled over the screams of the crowd.

“I can’t!” Lucian yelled back, losing his composure. “It resists magic!”

The Shadow Assassin grinned beneath his cowl. “The Master sends his regards, Mongrel. And to you, King’s Shiv.”

Lucian’s shadows became tendrils that attempted to wrap around the Shadow Assassin’s neck, but the monster quickly evaporated into thin air.

The dragon roared again, breathing a column of fire that incinerated the buffet table, including Emperor Laurent and King Fedaur.

“We have to go!” Lucian shouted.

“We have to fight!” Viera argued.

“We are handcuffed together, you insufferable human! We cannot fight a legion of Shadow Fae with bound arms!”

Lucian didn’t wait for her agreement. He grabbed her shackled hand and bolted for the balcony.

“Jump!” Lucian ordered, dragging her toward the ledge.

“Are you insane?” Viera dug her heels in, her heels skidding on the marble. “That’s a thousand-foot drop!”

“I have a feather-fall spell!”

“You’re a liar!”

“Not about gravity!”

The Shadow Assassins charged.

Viera looked at the blades. She looked at the dragon eating the Iron King. She looked at Lucian.

“I hate you!” she screamed.

“The feeling is mutual!” Lucian screamed back.

They jumped.

The fall was terrifying. The wind whipped Viera’s braid into her face.

Lucian shouted a word in a language that sounded like breaking glass.

“Aero-Vela!”

They didn’t stop, but they slowed. The air thickened around them, turning into a cushion. They slammed into the snow-covered slope of the mountain, tumbling over each other in a tangle of silk, velvet, and limbs.

They rolled for fifty yards before coming to a stop in a snowbank.

Viera gasped, spitting snow out of her mouth. She was freezing as the wind howled across the jagged peaks of the Dragon Spine, driving icy needles into her exposed skin. The emerald silk of her gown, once a masterpiece of distraction, was now a shredded, frozen liability clinging to her bruised ribs. The icy cold intensified the chafing of her wrists from the manacles. And she was quite lucky to have avoided impalement by her hair adornments and the Widowmaker strapped to her thigh. Luckily, she chose to complete tonight’s ensemble with her snow boots, so her feet were only half-frozen at this point.

She tried to stand up, but her right arm was yanked down.

Beside her, the supposedly immaculate Spymaster of the Glass Empire was attempting, and failing, to wring the packed snow from his midnight-blue velvet robes with his one free hand. He looked impeccable even in defeat, though his hair was loose now, spilling over the snow like ink.

The sickening, phosphorescent green glow of the Soul-Manacles pulsed between their wrists, casting long, eerie shadows against the pristine snowdrift. Every time Viera shivered, the magical tether clinked, pulling taut against Lucian’s arm.

“Get up, Elf,” Viera kicked his boot. “We have to move before the lizard finishes his snack and comes for dessert.”

Lucian opened his violet eyes. He winced, clutching his temples.

“By the stars,” he whispered. “So loud.”

“What?”

“Your thoughts,” Lucian looked at her with horror. “You are screaming in my head.”

What is he talking about? I’m not screaming. I’m just cold and I want to stab Harrow in his fucking face.

Lucian flinched. “Stop it. Stop projecting. It’s like standing next to a waterfall of profanity.”

Viera froze. She stared at him.

“You can hear me?”

“Yes,” Lucian gritted out, sitting up. “The Soul-Manacles. They bind the essence. Apparently, that includes the mind.”

Viera narrowed her eyes. She tested it.

Lucian Devereux wears silk underwear and probably sleeps with a night-light.

Lucian’s jaw tightened. They are satin, actually. And I do not need a night-light, I have dark-vision.

He looked at her, offended. She looked at him, stunned.

“And for the record, Viera,” Lucian smoothed his robes. “Your thoughts about my... ‘arrogant, punchable, perfect cheekbones’... are noted.”

Viera felt herself blush, hot and furious.

“I did not think that.”

“You did,” Lucian smirked, though he looked in pain. “You possess a very vivid imagination. And a surprising amount of lust for someone you claim to hate.”

“I am going to kill you,” Viera said aloud.

“You can’t,” Lucian held up their shackled wrists. “If I die, the manacle detects the loss of life-force and detonates. It kills you too.”

Viera stared at the glowing green cuffs.

“So we’re stuck,” she said.

Stuck with a mind-reading, half-Fae snob in the middle of a snowdrift while being hunted by a dragon.

“Precisely,” Lucian stood up, brushing snow from his knees. “Shall we go? And please... try to think quieter, less profane thoughts. Your hunger for violence is giving me a migraine. I know of a cave nearby where we can shelter and plan our next move. And don’t worry about Ignis. He prefers cow for dessert.”

Far above them, the silhouette of the Dragon’s Spire was illuminated by the fiery orange bloom of a very satisfied dragon. The sickening crunch of ancient masonry and the occasional terrified scream drifted down the mountainside on the frigid air.

“He’s eating the carriage horses now,” Lucian murmured, his violet eyes tracking the distant plumes of smoke as the whinnies of the animals reached the valley. He pinched the bridge of his nose, his silver-dusted hair whipping wildly in the blizzard. I specifically requested he stick to the target list.

Suddenly, the valley echoed with a deafening sound that could only be described as a volcano erupting, followed by the foulest stench that Viera had ever smelled. Instantly, it began to snow heavily again, and she realized the force of the eruption caused the mountain peaks to shed their white coverings. She recoiled instantly, forcing the wet, icy fabric of her dress against her nose.

“What the fuck was that, Lucian?”

“Dragon eructation,” he answered, fanning his free hand in front of his face, “or perhaps passing gas. I can never tell them apart.”

“Gods, that creature is disgusting!” Viera yelled, staring at Lucian in amazement. And you work with him?! You gave him a target list?

“Yes,” Lucian responded. “He’s been my partner for some time now.”

Viera shook her head, looking down at the fluffy snow accumulating around her nearly frozen feet. Why am I not surprised?

She continued aloud. “Let’s get out of here Elf, before we suffer irreversible nose blindness. Where’s this cave?”