“Princess Rasha, marry me!” some rabid swooner yells.
Without releasing my hand, she responds to the compliment by sashaying a flamboyant curtsy at the court and yelling back, “Feel free to ask my mum’s permission.” The crowd laughs and the blinding lights slide away, but Eogan raises his glass once again and they’re instantly returned to us.
“If I may go beyond a toast, Your Highness,” Eogan says.
I yank away from Rasha. “Oh of all the litches, let’s just—”
“Nym, you have to trust me.” Her frantic voice fills my ear.
“I am honored by Your Majesty,” Eogan-who-is-Draewulf booms. “To carry your extension of friendship home to Bron, both in the form of your word and your delegates when I depart. No one knows better the amount of work required in upcoming days to make this peace treaty a reality among our subjects as we rebuild our hearts and lands.” He pauses. Clears his throat. “Thus, if I might be so bold to ask . . . as a continued symbol of goodwill, and in celebration of what is to come . . .”
His tone grows elevated, agitated. Obligating, as it carries over the entire room. “I’m officially requesting that I, and your delegates, move up the departure date for the trip to my homeland. I will leave first thing tomorrow morning.”
My gasp joins the audience’s. I peek at Rasha. Was this what she wanted me to wait for? To hear Draewulf announce his intention to depart sooner? We won’t even make it until then.
King Sedric hesitates a moment, and I catch the flash of concern. Then he’s extending his goblet toward Eogan. “Go with the Creator!” he bellows, and the approval it elicits is overwhelming. Just like Eogan’s sneer as he turns, suddenly in my face, consuming my vision.
“Sleep well tonight, pet.” There’s no attempt to hide the malevolence coating his words. He steps away to join his Bron and Faelen guards and the lights move away for good.
I twirl on Rasha. “What the bolcrane just happened? You wanted me to wait until—what—he moved up his time frame for taking you and the delegates to Bron? What blasted difference does that make?” But even as I say it, my voice cracks.
“If you’d killed him, you would be dead right now! And Eogan—”
“Do you think I care? Look at him! You could’ve let me free him and myself quickly. Because if I don’t, we might all end up dead.”
She grabs the side of my skirt as I start to follow him. “That’s what I’m telling you—I am looking, and Eogan’s still whole inside his body. Whatever Draewulf’s done, he hasn’t managed full control.” She throws her hands up, glancing around as if trying to find a better way to explain. “Draewulf hasn’t been able to even begin absorbing Eogan.”
The world stops.
My breath stops.
Even as the room keeps going and the crowd’s voices keep soaring.
“Eogan’s soul, his essence, is still intact. Draewulf’s not taken it.”
I shake my head. That’s not possible. Maybe her Luminescent powers don’t work as well as she thinks they do—Eogan once told me they’re not always clear. Maybe her sight is hazy. “Draewulf indicated he took him over at the Keep a week ago, and I saw the bruising and the incision even then. I just didn’t connect it.”
“I’m not debating that he invaded his physical form. I’m just telling you what I see. And what I see are two whole men sharing the same shell. Eogan just can’t surface.”
Hope, joy, heartbursts tear at me. Eogan’s still whole? Is that actually possible? I flip around and watch the back of him stride through the crowd toward the balcony door as the party guests press us toward the railing and stairs. My breath is thin. “Rasha, how good is your sight?”
“There’s a lot of interference in here, but I’m still better than most Luminescents twice my eighteen years.”
“Have you ever heard of anyone surviving a shifting before?”
“Never.”
I slip my hand in hers and pull her to follow him. “But somehow he did and we need to figure out why.”
“I’m working on that, but where are we going?” she says a tad too loud, which garners interest from a few people.
I smile for their benefit and keep walking, pointing a discreet hand toward Eogan. “Just following him,” I say in a way I hope makes me sound lovesick and not like a desperate murderer.
“To do what exactly?”
“To keep an eye on him. To figure something out. I don’t know—can’t you tell what I’m planning?”
“Maybe if your ideas weren’t fluctuating all over the place like a band of hyper ferret-cats. Because honestly? I’m not a magician.” Except the way her reddish gaze is suddenly narrowing in on me, we both know she might as well be.