Anouk pushed forward, nearly getting trampled by the Goblin musicians who were dragging their drum kits and guitars toward the door. At last, she reached the front of the crowd.
It was King Kaspar.
Only moments ago, during Rennar’s performance, his hacking cough had been impossible to ignore. He was a hunched old man whom she’d barely have noticed if it hadn’t been for Prince Aleksi’s concern. Now the king’s normally curved back was ramrod straight, grotesquely so, as though someone had thrust a metal pole through his spine. He must have stood over seven feet tall, towering over even the tallest partygoers. His head was tilted toward the ceiling as though he’d been suspended on invisible wires from his eyes; his crown slid backward, and his arms contorted behind his back.
Anouk’s stomach turned. Bodies weren’t meant to move like that.
All the Barren Court delegates fled, clearing her view completely, and she gasped. The king wasn’t naturally that tall; he was floating about a foot off the floor. Thin ribbons of satiny black smoke curled from his mouth and ears.
She clapped a hand over her mouth.
Black tears—?just like the ones from her vision—?were pouring down his face.
Chapter 22
“He’s possessed.”
The man who spoke was Baron Winter, a Court of the Woods delegate. He was one of the few Royals who hadn’t fled to the edges of the room.
“It’s witch magic,” Marquesa Ana spat.
Several sets of eyes turned to Petra, the only witch in attendance. The three Crimson Court sisters turned on her like a pack of wolves, wrestled her to the ground with violent whispers, and held her in place with spells. Tablecloths bound themselves around Petra’s wrists and stopped her from reaching for her flask of lavender ash.
“It isn’t me!” she cried.
Before she could get out another word, the tablecloth wedged itself in her mouth as a gag.
Anouk clutched at the bell, wanting to rip it from her neck. She was useless! The Lunar King’s contorted body rose higher. The ribbons of smoke poured out of his mouth. Black tears rolled down his face, dripping into a puddle of tar. Suddenly she was back in the flames, having her body pulled apart, burning without burning at all, and sweat broke out on her brow.
“Let her go,” Rennar ordered the Crimson Court sisters, motioning to Petra. “She wouldn’t do this. She’s a new witch, anyway. It takes decades to master a possession trick.”
“It must be her,” Marquesa Ana insisted. “She’s commanding that smoke. There’s something unnatural about it—?I can feel it making my skin prickle. It’s poison.”
The smoke twisted toward the Marquesa as though drawn to her voice, and the Marquesa recoiled.
A chill ran up Anouk’s back. She grabbed Rennar’s arm and dragged him a few feet away. He frowned when he saw how her hands were shaking.
“Anouk, what is it?” Concern laced his voice.
“It’s the Coven.” She gestured toward the puddle of black tears. “I saw all of this in a vision during the Coal Baths. I thought it was just delusions, but the Oxford witches were there, somehow, in the flames. A group of them were summoning smoke that curled just like this. It rose so high that I couldn’t see them anymore.” She shivered. “They were crying black tears too.”
He pursed his lips. “You’re certain?”
?
??I know I disappointed everyone before, but I’m positive. They’re here.”
Although she sounded crazy, he didn’t argue. Before he could act, Prince Aleksi shoved to the front of the crowd and touched silver powder from the vial around his neck to his lips. He began to whisper. Threads of magic wove themselves together into golden ropes that wound around his father’s limbs and tried to pull him back to the floor. The king’s head twisted unnaturally to observe him. Blankness filled his eyes. Something was looking through them, but not King Kaspar.
The threads of golden magic pulled the king back, but each inch was a battle. The Lunar Prince was straining under the pressure. Rennar reached for his own powder vial, but then the king’s eyes began bubbling with tar. His mouth hinged open and a blast of bright light bolted out. Prince Aleksi was struck. He fell back into a chair, clutching at his chest.
Words began pouring out of the king’s mouth along with more ribbons of smoke. They grew from low, unintelligible hisses into fragments spoken in the Selentium Vox.
“Previso . . . rivet . . . morfin . . .”
“What’s that?” Viggo grabbed her shoulder. “What’s he saying? I don’t speak that damn language.”
“Get back, Viggo,” Luc snapped. “Don’t breathe in the smoke.”