The king looks utterly shell-shocked for a moment, and I can’t decide whether he’s blown away by Des’s power or his audacity.

When he recovers, magic begins to form in his fist, bending the light as it takes the shape of a spear. He throws the bolt like a javelin, aiming straight for Des.

The Bargainer doesn’t move, though he has time to sidestep the throw. Instead, he takes the full brunt of it as it slams into his chest.

He grunts at the impact, then touches his chest with mild interest. “I am impressed. How many of your subjects have you drained to amass this sort of power? Hundreds? Thousands? You must be cobound to damn near everyone to wield this level of magic.”

Another spear begins to form in Typhus’s hand. “They’ve bequeathed their power willingly,”—uh huh. And cake has no calories—“so I could defend them from men like you.”

Des waves a hand, and King Henbane is thrown back in his seat, his magic disintegrating in an instant.

“Enough.” The King of the Night says it with such finality that the room full of hardened criminals now stills.

Des steps forward. “I was told you could give me answers, and I will have them, one way or another.”

Typhus grimaces in his seat, his body slightly contorted. It takes a moment for me to realize that’s because the Bargainer’s magic has him pinned in place. Around us, the fairies crowding the room seem to be held back by invisible hands.

For the first time since exiting Galleghar Nyx’s tomb, the air is thick with power. It slips over my arms and curls around my ankles, caressing my skin. But unlike the magic in Galleghar’s tomb, Des’s power is familiar and inviting; it drapes itself over me like a shawl.

Des closes in on the dais, each careful step echoing across the quiet room. He’s struck us all dumb.

“There’s a grave in the southwestern territory of the Banished Lands,” he says, his gaze trained on Typhus. “It’s marked by several large boulders. The body inside it was impervious to damage. And now, it’s missing. I want to know how that came to be.”

Typhus narrows his eyes, a calculative gleam in them. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, his words ringing false.

I fibbed better when I was in diapers.

“But even if I did,” he continues, “why should I tell you? You don’t recognize my rule.”

Des studies the fairy, his head cocked to the side.

My body tenses, expecting some reaction with a good dose of panache.

But that’s not what I get.

Des’s expression becomes almost contemplative. He nods, like Typhus didn’t just feed him a load of horseshit.

Around the room, the Bargainer’s magic lifts, and the air tastes parched once more. Cautiously, fairies begin to get to their feet.

Typhus doesn’t move, instead pretending that he deliberately chose to sit like a folded up Pretzel.

“There is one other matter I must attend to before we head back to my kingdom,” the Bargainer says, waiting until he’s sure he has the room’s undivided attention. “You know as well as I do that I can’t leave here with you as you are,” Des says. “So either you give them,” He jerks his head to the desperate hordes that bracket us in, “back their magic, or I’ll do it for you.”

I’m thinking that I’ll do it for you involves sharp weapons and a dead body.

Typhus rises from his throne, his face darkening and his hands trembling with his rising anger.

The scent of the banished king’s borrowed magic saturates the air; it smells just how you’d imagine it would—like that time you idiotically sampled too many perfumes on yourself and now all those strong, potent smells are clashing and giving you a mother of a headache.

“Kill him where he stands!” It’s an open order, and I’m pretty sure this idiot expects all of the fairies in this room to answer to it.

“No.”

I feel the power of that one word ripple through the enclosed space. But it’s not Des who says it.

I step away from the Bargainer, my skin illuminating.

I’ve had enough of this place, where the air itself feels like it’s trying to squeeze your magic out of you, and I’ve had enough of this man, who for all his years of life, has learned nothing except how to be a brutish A-hole.

In response to my magic, the crowd around us begins to press in, none so close as our guards. As soon as their eyes fall on me, they forget they are self-respecting fairies who have duties. They move towards me, ready to touch my skin, stroke my hair, drink me up and consume me whole. It’s the way it always has been, only here, in this magicless place, my glamour is all the more alluring.

“Get out of my way,” I order, my power filling my voice.

The fairies do as I say—albeit, a little reluctantly.

“What are you fools doing?” this king shouts at them, despite the fact that he can’t rip his gaze off of me.

“Shut up,” I order.

His mouth clicks closed.

The sheer outrage on his face! I savor every last drop of it.

“No one move—except to breathe,” I order, my voice echoing in the cavern. “Oh, and Des, ignore my commands. You can do whatever you want.”

Around us, the room seems to freeze in place. If I didn’t know better, I’d say I was in a hall of statues.

The Bargainer folds his arms and leans against the nearest frozen fairy, using him like he would a wall. Des has a good deal of mirth in his eyes, and it’s clear he’s eager to let me steal the show.

I begin to walk down the aisle, towards Typhus’s throne, my hips swaying.

I head up to the dais, Typhus’s gaze pinned in place. “You can move your eyes,” I allow.

Immediately they snap to me. It’s hard to read his emotions, since the rest of him is still frozen in place, but I’d definitely say that I’m getting some strong anger vibes coming from him.

“I really shouldn’t let you do this,” Des says behind me. He sounds gleeful.

I reach Typhus’s throne, and God, his chair is even uglier up close. His crudely made crown rests right there, within reach, and I just can’t help myself. I reach out and lift the thing off of his head, then settle it onto mine. “Look at that,” I breathe. “The slave you wanted to shackle is now your queen.”

Now I can see Typhus’s anger bubbling in his eyes. Still, he’s powerless.

On a whim, I command him, “Stand, Typhus.”

Robotically, he rises from his chair.

“Now, oh great king, bow before me.” Typhus dips low, his nose nearly touching his knees as he’s forced to follow my command.

As a PI, I’ve seen my fair share of pissed off looks when someone is caught in the web of my glamour. King Henbane is no exception. He stares at me like he’s cursing my very existence with his eyes.

I lap it up like a cat does cream. “Sit.”

He sits.

He won’t recover from this. Not now that his subjects have seen how easily I took his crown and bent his will.

I tilt my head at the sight of him, sullen and powerless. There is just something about a felled man that gets to me in the most twisted way.

Giving in to my baser nature, I move forward, climbing onto the king’s lap, straddling his thighs.

I feel just the thinnest thread of jealousy through my connection. That, too, I lap up.

I am something to envy.

Lifting a hand, I reach for one of his necklaces, enjoying the sick way the bones and teeth shiver as they brush each other.