The Viin


    “I feel like a jackass,” Trystan muttered.


    re contemted her brother in the entry hall of Lord Fowler’s home. Her dress was spun in green and a pattern of twisted vines, small pink flowers popping up in all directions: the perfect depiction of a forest nymph. “I thought you were supposed to be a demon?”


    The two creatures may as well have been synonymous for how ridiculous he felt in the getup Fowler had saddled him with. He swore on everything he hated that when Fowler released them, Trystan would return for a visit in the very near future, with Fluffy in tow.


    This ce would be vastly improved if it were lit on fire.


    “I am a demon,” he said with the conviction of a fruit fly. “Don’t you see my scary horns?” “Scary” was not the word—“absurd” fit better. There were two sharp horns clipped so tightly to his head they may now be a permanent fixture. The red cloak they’d put him in was hardly serviceable, considering it was made of thin silk. It wouldn’t keep him warm during a heat wave. His shirt was another red, the dip in the neck lower than the shirts he wore to bed and also silk.


    And also ugly.


    A whistle sounded, and Trystan whirled at the noise, hoping to see Sage, but that hope deted when his eyes locked on Tatianna, though she was lovely as always. He peered at his sister out of curiosity and watched with begrudged amusement as re slowly wilted into a besotted, lovestruck fool.


    “All right there, little sister?” Trystan asked casually. “Would you like a handkerchief for the drool?” He handed her the leaf-green cloth from his pocket.


    “Ha. Ha.” She ripped it from his hand and squinted down at it. “I haven’t seen this color before. Is it new?”


    Trystan felt a blush creeping up on his cheeks. Or blood—not blush—it was blood in his face. That sounded better.


    No, it didn’t.


    “No.” He swiped it from her, shoving it back in his pocket. “It’s not new.” It was. He’d had to special order it yesterday. The color was difficult to pinpoint.


    Tatianna reached the bottom of the staircase and preened, turning left to right. “What do you think? Do I resemble one of the office pixies?”


    re’s entire mien read tortured. “I have seen the office pixies, and they do not look like that at all,” re said.


    “It’s true,” Trystan uttered. “Tatianna is much taller.”


    Tatianna stared at him, and Trystan felt a twinge of self-consciousness. “Tryst.” There was a patronizing air as she patted his shoulder. “That was actually funny.”


    “Compliments are usually negated when you add the word ‘actually,’” he grumbled, shouldering off her hand and turning away with a huff and roll of his eyes. Internally, he was quietly growling in frustration that his sense of humor had cropped up when Sage wasn’t there. Would it have made herugh? Would she have teased him?


    Would he ever pick himself off the floor and muster what was left of his godsforsaken pride?


    Severed heads. Murder. Rage. Revenge—


    “There you are, Evie!” re called, and Trystan stubbornly nted his feet on the polished wood floor, determined not to turn, determined not to care what creature Fowler had bestowed upon Sage.


    A unicorn, Trystan tentatively hoped. There was nothing remotely sexual about a unicorn. Surely his depravity didn’t extend to being attracted to someone with a horn stuck in the middle of her forehead. Hardly as alluring as Trystan, who had two rising from the sides of his head.


    “Sage, hurry up and let’s get this over with.” Trystan checked his wrist, and Kingsley leaped to his shoulder, wearing a tiny court jester hat atop his crown. The bells jingling in Trystan’s ears were akin to nails scratching against concrete.


    The traitorous frog held up two signs.


    No


    Timepiece


    ?


    Never mind, the question mark made three.


    “You’re not helpful,” he growled, keeping his head pointed toward the room where guests were amassed, the buzz of social enjoyment making his brows draw together in contempt.


    There was a light clicking sound against the stairs as Sage descended, and Trystan had an internal war within a matter of seconds. If you look at her now, it will be quick, like ripping off a bandage…or a fingernail. But the longer he waited, the longer he was disying that he was in control of himself and the miniscule amount of emotion he carried. Oh, this is ludicrous. She’s one person! He was a living legend of evil.


    A living legend of evil who locked eyes on her and felt a brick thrown into his skull. Metaphorically speaking, of course, but the pain level seemed an aptparison. He had the authority to say so—he had been hit by a brick before, and it did fucking hurt.


    But this, incredibly enough, hurt more.


    Her hair was loose, cascading down until it brushed the tops of her hips, her warm, dark tresses catching the candlelight. The pearls and shells pinned throughout the mass of raven-colored locks gleamed. They sparkled. But her hair wasn’t even the whole of it; the gown she wore clung to every curve, a clear mesh revealingrge patches of soft skin. The skirt looked like it had been sewn together with bits of fishing—hardly enough to cover the fronts of her thighs and certainly not enough to cover the sides of them.


    Theting climbed, ending at the wide part of her hips. His hand itched at his side, and he pped it against his leg as if it had fallen asleep.


    But nothing in his body was asleep at this moment.


    She pulled her thick locks behind her shoulders, revealing that the skirt was attached to a small scrap of fabric in the middle of her stomach. He followed the line of fabric up and up until it stopped, covering her breasts. Trystan was suddenly grateful that he was having such a violent reaction to her; if he didn’t, it would surely mean he had fallen over dead.


    Years of practice at hiding his emotions was the only thing keeping his lips from falling open farther than a brief parting before he pressed them back together. But he had a strange feeling Sage saw it, that she watched his mouth and found something telling.


    “Are you a mermaid?” re guessed, adjusting the ivy leaves around her skirt.


    “A siren.” The voice that cut in sounded so foreign to his ear, lower and hoarser than his usual unemotional deliveries. It took Trystan three heartbeats before he realized that the voice was his.


    Sage stared at him. Her eyelids were painted a glittering gold color. Though he supposed the gold could be considered more of a bronze? What in the deands was the difference?


    Trystan only knew that he was morbidly appreciating glitter and that he had to stop immediately.


    Sage quirked a brow, stepping forward, flicking one of his horns in a yful gesture. Not knowing how close Trystan was to dragging her into the nearest closet and tearing theting away from her body. It didn’t look very sturdy. One hard tug and it would probably fall clean off.


    Dear gods, man. Stop it.


    A distant, raucousugh reminded him that the lot of them were about to be in a room with all of Fowler’s closest acquaintances, and if the lord rubbed elbows with Trystan so readily, he could only imagine the other people Fowler keptpany with.


    He was no longer eager to enter the room and ce Sage, Tatianna, and re in a space so wrought with dishonorable presences. His met their quota. If even one person made a wrong move toward any one of these three women, Trystan would…


    No. They likely frowned upon violent murder before dinner was served. Could Trystan hold out for dessert? No. He was asking the wrong questions.


    Could he hold out until appetizers?


    Sage flicked the horn again, snapping him back to the present, where she was looking him up and down with a mock pout. “Aw. They didn’t give you a costume?” She admired the horns like they were of her own doing—


    Oh, that little—


    “You did this, didn’t you?” Anger cast a dark enough shadow over his attraction to her for him to be sufficiently incensed.


    She bestowed her usual wide-eyed innocence upon him. “I merely reminded Lord Fowler not to forget your horns.”


    You drew me? he’d asked when they searched her father’s house a few weeks prior. When they were in her old bedroom and he’d found the sketch she’d attempted of him.


    Yes. She’d been irritated that he’d found it. But I forgot to add the horns.


    Dear gods, she must have been stewing on this for weeks. Waiting for the right moment to exact her revenge for teasing her. Trystan was impressed…and minutely terrified. But only minutely.


    He wondered if it would make it better or worse if he told her he’d stolen the sketch and had been carrying it in his pocket every day since. Including right now.


    Worse.


    Folding his arms, he red down at her. “You’re evil.”


    She smirked, her eyes shining with vindication. Her words were smooth like the silk of his shirt brushing against his skin when she said, “Now you’re getting it.”


    Tatianna hummed to herself. “Let’s take this spat into the party. I’m sure Lord Fowler would hate missing you two at each other’s throats, and the sooner we get this over with, the sooner we get the wand.”


    Kingsley held up a sign.


    Pocket.


    Trystan swept him up, jaw clenched as he tossed the ingrate into his cloak pocket.


    “He wants to reside in someone’s pocket for the duration of the party,” he exined, feigning a cough so Sage wouldn’t notice the wild movement as Kingsley fumbled with the paper drawing, trying to pull it out.


    Sage folded her hands in front of her, the way she did during their morning debriefs. A ridiculous stance to see her in when she was dressed like a sea descendant, eager to drown him. “Oh.” She frowned, turning to reveal a wide expanse of her back, searching. “I don’t think I have any pockets for him.”


    Kingsley seemed to almost be smirking at him.


    “Do you see any, sir?” Sage twisted and stumbled, trying to see for herself. “Maybe on the back?”


    “No. There aren’t,” he said, quick and firm, uncaring.


    A thousand pockets could’veid on the back of that dress and Trystan would have no clue. He saw the curves and his vital organs began to shut down.


    “My friends, my friends! Come!” Lord Fowler stood just outside the room where the guests were gathered, dressed as a king of the realm. Arge, ostentatious crown sat atop his head, his fur robeing untied as he opened his arms to wee them.


    Tatianna entered first, gliding through the room and smoothly slipping a ss of sparkling liquid from a serving tray. re tracked in after her, warning daggers aimed at Fowler.


    Fowler took a gant, sweeping bow, gesturing for them both to enter. “Come now, Viin! A dinner party for the ages. I think you’re due for some fun.”


    Trystan crossed his arms, replying coolly, “I tortured a man a few days ago. That was fun.”


    Sage’s hand flew over her mouth, and her eyes were wide. They glistened, as if filling with tears. She shook her head and pushed past both men into the throng of costumed guests.


    He realized his error toote.


    Trystan had just made a jest of the man who had broken into the manor and hurt her. A man who’d been the son of another man who had hurt her, forcing all of her pain back to the forefront. It was perfect, actually, Trystan tried to tell himself; he hadn’t even needed to try to push her away. He was skilled at it all on his own.


    But keeping away from her in turn—Trystan found that considerably more difficult.


    Which was hisst scathing thought before he tore after her.