Young Immortals

One: Obsession

Three brothers duel, their swords clashing in silver sparks. Prince Silas is the best swordsman and Prince Eldor is the most handsome, but only Prince Devlin is worth watching. He doesn't know me, but I know him.

He stars in every page of my sketchbook – eating, laughing, fighting, fucking. You name it, and I've drawn him doing it. I've studied him so much that when I close my eyes, his face stares back at me, burned into my eyelids, every feature as clear as day.

His half smile, his ears ending in dagger-like points, his thick burn scar spanning the left half of his face ... all of it belongs to me.

"Isobel."  At the sound of my name, I look away from the sparring grounds, refocusing on the palace gardens. Princess Aerwyna sits on an ivory bench surrounded by roses, just a few feet in front of my canvas. "You don't go in the woods much, do you?" 

"No." I hide my sketchbook behind a pile of painting rags, leaving my newest drawing of Devlin half-complete. "I never leave the servant's quarters."

Aerwyna pauses. Since the fae cannot tell lies, they focus more on the meaning of the words than tone or delivery. Hyperbole and figure of speech tend to fly over their heads.

"Almost never," I amend.

"Good," she says. "For the life of me, I can't understand why the villagers won't stay away." 

I could remind her that not everyone's meals are brought on a silver platter. Some must choose between a quick death while hunting in the woods or slowly watching their family waste away from hunger.

But I don't want to burden her, so I duck my head and say I don't know why, either. Sighing, Aerwyna shuts her eyes, tilting her head back to bathe in the sun. I swallow my jealousy at the sight, and it trudges down my throat like a gagged nail. I haven't felt the sun on my face in ages, nothing but a cold copper mask ending just above my nose.

Coppers cannot remove their masks; magic gelds the metal to our skin until our deal expires. It's partly done so we don't run away, but mostly because the fae do not like looking at ugly things. Compared to them, anything and everyone is ugly. Even the most attractive mortal has nothing on the most horribly grotesque fae.

"What's the long face for?"

The princes emerge from the rose bushes, their sweat-stained shirts clinging to their muscles. While I can't look away from the brothers –  especially Devlin – none spare me a glance.

My copper mask marks me as more of a piece of furniture than an individual. Eldor glides past me to sweep Aerwyna into his arms. They were still in the honeymoon period, having only just married three decades ago.

"The beast in the woods," Aerwyna replies. "Another villager has died."

The smile fell off Eldor's face. "Another?"

"Oh, must we dwell over gossip?" Silas drawls.

"Gossip?" Devlin echoes, arching a brow at his younger brother. "They produced a body."

"Of a villager, not the beast."

"He had claw marks up to his neck. What other creature could have caused that kind of damage?"

"That's a good question." Silas grabbed Aerwyna's wrist, examining her long, painted nails. "Aerwyna, where were you the night of the villager's murder?"

"Oh, hush!" she says, pushing him away.

As the four ribbed back and forth, a shadow fell over my back. I turn around, and for a second, I only see rose bushes, but then I look down to find a tubby, green-skinned youth, his silver mask glinting under the afternoon sun.

I've known Hunkletoad – one of the resident artisans –  for a few months now, but I'm still not sure if he's a troll or goblin or what. I'm not bold enough to ask, and the same goes for him. Most assume I am a nymph or dryad because humans so rarely approach the fae, much less enter bargains with them.

"You cleaned the brushes wrong," Hunkletoad says. "I'm supposed to show you how to do it correctly."

"But I'm in the middle of painting ..." I glance at Aerwyna, just in time to see her take Eldor's arm. He leads her off the bench and deep into the gardens, his two younger brothers already walking ahead of them. "Guess not, then."

As soon as we enter the art room, Hunkletoad whips around and locks the door. I step back, my posture tensing, but he strides past me to grab a canvas from the drying rack. "There are no paintbrushes. I need help with my painting."

"Aren't you in competition with the other RAs? Are you allowed outside help?"

"Don't think of it as a competition. Think of it as making the best art possible."

I narrow my eyes, crossing my arms over my chest.

"Please," he bursts out. He whips off his mask – only coppers are skin-bound – to reveal wide and desperate eyes, like the pair you'd see on a wounded animal. "I'm lost without help."

I bite my lip, stalling. When I first traded the typical copper duties – scrubbing floors and emptying chamber pots – to become Aerwyna's personal painter, I thought the resident artisans would hate me.

They worked for years to get a spot painting for Court, while I got one just by being the princess' friend. But instead, they pitied me. What a shame. She might have had a real shot at The Goblet.

"I'm not going to paint for you," I said. "But if you want my opinion on what I'd change if it were mine..."

His mouth curves into a grin. After I give him a rough outline, I return to the gardens, and my easel and paints are just as I left them. But when I pack my painting rags, my blood goes cold at what I see. Or, what I don't see.

My sketchbook is gone.