2_-_court_of_mist_and_fury_a_-_sarah_j._maas

High Fae.
She wore no clothes. Her long, dark hair hung limp over her high, firm breasts—and her
massive eyes were wholly black. Like a stagnant pond. And as she moved, the afternoon
light shimmered on her iridescent skin.
Lucien’s face tightened with disapproval, but he made no comment as the lesser faerie
lowered her delicate, pointed face, and clasped her spindly, webbed fingers over her
breasts.
“On behalf of the water-wraiths, I greet thee, High Lord,” she said, her voice strange
and hissing, her full, sensuous lips revealing teeth as sharp and jagged as a pike’s. The
sharp angles of her face accentuated those coal-black eyes.
I’d seen her kind before. In the pond just past the edge of the manor. There were five of
them who lived amongst the reeds and lilypads. I’d rarely glimpsed more than their
shining heads peeking through the glassy surface—had never known how horrific they
were up close. Thank the Cauldron I’d never gone swimming in that pond. I had a feeling
she’d grab me with those webbed fingers—those jagged nails digging in deep—and drag
me beneath the surface before I could scream.
“Welcome,” Tamlin said. Five hours in, and he looked as fresh as he’d been that
morning.
I supposed that with his powers returned, few things tired him now.
The water-wraith stepped closer, her webbed, clawed foot a mottled gray. Lucien took a
casual step between us.
That was why he’d been stationed on my side of the dais.
I gritted my teeth. Who did they think would attack us in our own home, on our own
land, if they weren’t convinced Hybern might be launching an assault? Even Ianthe had
paused her quiet murmurings in the back of the hall to monitor the encounter.
Apparently, this conversation was not the same as all the others.
“Please, High Lord,” the faerie was saying, bowing so low that her inky hair grazed the
marble. “There are no fish left in the lake.”
Tamlin’s face was like granite. “Regardless, you are expected to pay.” The crown atop
his head gleamed in the afternoon light. Crafted with emeralds, sapphires, and amethyst,
the gold had been molded into a wreath of spring’s first flowers. One of five crowns
belonging to his bloodline.
The faerie exposed her palms, but Tamlin interrupted her. “There are no exceptions.
You have three days to present what is owed—or offer double next Tithe.”
It was an effort to keep from gaping at the immovable face, and the pitiless words. In
the back, Ianthe gave a nod of confirmation to no one in particular.
The water-wraith had nothing to eat—how could he expect her to give him food?