Chapter Sixteen
MAGENTA
Invisible, I sprawled on the thick carpet of the Prince's floor in the East Wing, resting against a grand wardrobe, which was picked out with a mosaic battle scene between Immortals and Princes. I'd been concerned that the wards would stop me from following Willoughby into this forbidden part of the castle, but it appeared that in my ghostly form, I could trick them.
Number 77 in the Advantages to being Undead.
I had to admit that the title Voyeur Ghost did rather fit, as I remained ladylike and only peeked...twice...as Lysander and Midnight changed into pink silk pajamas. I couldn't decide whether the curve of Midnight's ash wings next to his alabaster shoulder blades or Lysander's emerald wings were more beautiful.
Lucky me, I didn't have to choose.
To my surprise, Willoughby perched on the edge of his ice bed, which glittered like crushed diamonds, without changing.
Did he wear that military style uniform even to bed?
Willoughby was pale, and I was decidedly certain that it was my fault. My goodness, that hurt.
To my even greater surprise, Lysander shot Willoughby a glance that was tender, as he strolled to the marble counter at the far side of the room and fingered the stallion cup as reverentially as I had. Then he unscrewed one of the seven jars of tea.
Why, I most certainly would like a cup, how kind.
I bit hard on my lip not to let the words tumble out, even as I eagerly sniffed the scent of fresh earthiness, which took me back to my morning ritual of tea with my father in the Bird Turret.
If I asked Lysander to serve me, he'd most likely spit in it...or faint. Unlike the Immortals, he wasn't used to ghosts making demands of him.
So, tempting...
Yet it was even more tempting to watch how that the Princes were around each other, when they weren't puffing themselves up like they had to play at being the Immortals’ rivals. Lysander's expression was soft in a way that I'd never seen before, and Willoughby's was more broken.
Sweet Hecate, I didn't know them at all.
When Lysander smiled at Midnight, the vampire crawled with a confident swagger towards the basket next to the counter, which was lined by a blanket. The basket was rough and nothing like the rest of the luxurious bedroom. Midnight climbed in, turning around and tucking his wings close to his body…wings that would be broken tomorrow.
I winced. I'd saved my mage, yet Lysander had failed his whipping boy. I'd mocked the fact that Lysander could care for him.
Well, didn't I feel the foolish one now?
Midnight stretched out one arm and then the other, wriggling around to fit his long limps into the basket. Cauldrons and broomsticks, that must be uncomfortable.
As Lysander poured the hot water onto the aromatic leaves, he absentmindedly patted Midnight's head.
Ah, so the princes did have their own dog after all.
Perhaps, Bask would get to play with a puppy, just not quite in the way that he'd imagined. I shivered, as Midnight licked Lysander's hand, between each finger, and then sucking his thumb into his mouth.
I held my breath, waiting for Lysander's hex or crisp slap.
Instead, Lysander laughed.
I'd never heard him like that. It felt like he'd slapped me.
All of a sudden, I knew what I wanted even more than the tea that he was preparing. And I never wanted anything more than a decent cup of tea.
Lysander disentangled himself from Midnight, who let his hand go with a reluctant pop. "Tasty as I am, restrain yourself. You may feed from my royal personage in the morning."
My eyes widened. Feed? Did a Prince truly sacrifice his blood to a vampire whipping boy?
Lysander glanced at Willoughby, who was curled against the headboard of his bed with his arms around his knees. "You're not still worrying about that witch? She's beneath a Prince's notice."
It shouldn't have hurt, but it did.
Lysander carried the black tea over to Willoughby, passing it to him, before he perched next to him on the bed. It looked like the same easy ritual that I'd had with father. In the West Wing, it was more like a mad scrum for the bathroom, dive for pillows, and then cuddle together on the same bed. This was quieter and fitted royalty.
But it was still familiar and relaxed.
I'd been expecting Lysander would act like a guard or with his usual snark. But then, expectation makes an ass of us all, especially a witch who'd been stuck in a tree for a century and had never even seen how the Rebel boys had lived together before that.
Perhaps, a lot of what I'd imagined had been wrong.
I stood up, before floating closer to the bed.
I just needed to touch. One single touch....
When Willoughby took a sip of his tea and sighed in satisfaction, I couldn't help my own groan of frustration.
Willoughby looked up, sharply.
I pinched my non-existent self. Invisible people do not groan.
Lysander tapped Willoughby on the knee to get his attention. "Drink up. There's no time to get distracted by witches, who as I said, are bene—"
Willoughby slammed the cup onto the bed, and the teeth sloshed out onto the sky-blue velvet covers. Lysander gaped at him.
"She wasn't beneath your guardian's notice." Willoughby's eyes narrowed.
Lysander snarled, and his eyes flashed with a sudden predatory danger. I rushed forward to block him, but I'd forgotten that I hadn't materialized.
His hand whooshed right through me.
Hecate's tits, that tingled.
Lysander knocked the stallion cup thudding to the carpeted floor. Willoughby became ashen.
"Thunder, no..." He scrambled to the edge of the bed after the rolling cup, but Lysander caught him by his long hair and dragged him back.
"Do not speak like that about my noble guardian." Lysander leaned over Willoughby, pinning him to the bed. Yet his gaze darted to the glowing board on the wall with the lists of scrolling Privilege and Punishment Points. Could the magic woven into the room tell if he didn't defend the academy's patron? I knew from Robin that Titus was a narcissist, but was part of him inside the academy as well? My magic shook at the thought. "You don't have the right and you don't know..."
Willoughby cupped Lysander's cheek as gently as his fellow Prince's words were violent. "I beg pardon."
Lysander slumped against him like that was all he'd needed to hear. He eased off him, before casting an uneasy glance above him at the ceiling of the bed, which glistened with ice for a moment like it too had been enraged by Willoughby.
"Do you imagine that it’d bring me much pleasure if your brother tightened your suit or made your nightmares worse?" Lysander drawled.
Willoughby's lips twitched. "Not much."
Lysander chuckled, before pulling the ribbons out of Willoughby's hair, which swung like a waterfall over his face. "Why would you risk anything for her?"
For me….
Willoughby wet his lips, hesitating. "Because of the way that her magic and she make me feel. Tonight, for the first time in an age, I heard the rivers sing."
My heart clenched. I'd heard it too: beautiful clear notes.