A Court of Rage and Fire

Chapter 19

"Last time I welcomed a Night Court bitch into my city, she made false advances toward our High Lord, spat on our hospitality, and stole from us." Cresseida's cunning brown eyes bored into Nesta as the Princess of Adriata accepted a fruit-garnished cocktail from an attendant, though she did not drink it and instead set it on the low table near where she lounged.

Nesta smirked, sipping her own cocktail, savoring the blend of citrus, mint, and sparkling water. Tarquin's pleasure barge staff had been considerate enough to offer brightly flavored options with and without alcohol—a practical choice, given that the year-round heat of the Summer Court could dehydrate even the strongest of immortals—and she had appreciated the option of something besides tea.

After the way the wine had dulled her powers when she needed them most last night, she wasn't sure she would be able to stomach drinking again until all was safe. Until Beron was dealt with. Until Feyre's child was nestled in her living embrace. Alcohol had been her defense, once—against herself, against the deathly power within her. But now, after weeks of dedicated practice in the ever-dying Autumn Forest, that power was her dearest ally.

Since she had found her silver flames again, in the bathing caves after Eris had healed all but the worst of her burns, she still hadn't let her power extinguish completely. She had felt the subtlety in the way that the magic of the Summer Court tried to reject hers when they winnowed over the border, but that only made controlling the flames all the more intoxicating. Her Mind-Stilling was an ocean wave as her breath mingled with magic, now timed to match the rhythm of the real waves that rocked Tarquin's pleasure barge, lighting up her eyes enough to sparkle just a bit too unnaturally.

Just enough to remind everyone of what she was.

"Let me guess," Nesta drawled casually. "You're still waiting for an apology? You'll never get one from an Archeron."

"You're wrong, Cress," Varian said. Nesta had been disappointed to see that he was home from his extended visit to the Night Court—which meant he was present to witness her honeymoon and would undoubtedly report her every move back to a judging Amren. "The entire Night Court—High Lord, High Lady, their armies—came here and aided us when Hybern attacked. When I asked."

"I didn't invite them." Cresseida snapped. "They trespassed, regardless of what they did once they were here."

"They saved our city," Varian said. "And organized the war effort against Hybern. That's not apology enough for you?"

Cresseida opened her mouth, evidently poised to say no, but Tarquin interrupted her. "The point of a cruise in the pleasure barge is that it's supposed to be pleasurable. Take the sibling bickering elsewhere."

Nesta leveled a cool gaze at the Princess of Adriata and leaned her head against her husband's shoulder. "Anyway, I might be a bitch, but I'm not a Night Court bitch. I never belonged there." Eris smugly wrapped his arm around Nesta a little tighter, his fingers lightly playing with the thin, translucent fabric that fell loosely around her arms in slit sleeves. She felt, rather than saw, his mouth open, then turned to him and said, "Don't even think about saying it."

Eris's smirk only grew more foxlike.

"I don't care, I'll say it. So you're an Autumn Court bitch now. Do your loyalties change so easily?" Cresseida pressed.

"You might have left, too, if you were given an ultimatum between certain death and perfect obedience. If you were locked up on top of a cliff for the crime of not faking a pretty smile when you didn't feel like it," Nesta said coldly. Eris's weight shifted against her. She felt Varian's sharp gaze fall heavily on her, but she kept her focus on Cresseida. Let Varian go tattle to Amren that Nesta was telling everyone the truth of what she and Rhysand had done to their High Lady's sister. Gods only knew what Amren had told him.