LXXXVIII
The woman gripping Lorian's arm like a vice was beautiful, yes, dazzling in a way that made the chandeliers seem dull, but there was something in her eyes that made even demons look gentle by comparison.
Not malice, nor cruelty.
Just pure, unfiltered entitlement.
The kind that had never once been told "no."
Her gaze swept over me like I was a stepping stone, not a person. She didn't ask Lorian's opinion, didn't even acknowledge his discomfort. She simply pulled him, expecting him to follow because that was the world she lived in. The one where doors opened, people obeyed, and futures were arranged around her convenience.
She was terrifying in the way only the royally spoiled can be.
A princess twice over — fairy by blood, European by lineage. If the war hadn't shattered her mortal inheritance, she would have been a princess of Austria and Greece. And she still carried herself like one: chin high, shoulders back, every movement dripping with the confidence of someone raised to rule.
Her tiara glittered like a crown. The gown she wore sparkled like a treasury spilled across silk. Her accent cut like crystal. And she wanted something.
"Lorian, introduce me," she demanded, eyes bright with greedy excitement. "I want to into see that brilliant blond dancer again."
She meant him. I looked towards the hat-man, the golden-haired dancer was still standing beside me, paw raised, top hat gleaming with emeralds. The hat-man's yellow eyes flicked toward her, amused, predatory, delighted by her audacity.
Lorian looked miserable. This woman wasn't just another fairy-blooded beauty.
She was the one his mother wanted. The one with the right lineage.
The right magic, and the right political weight.
The one who would make Lorian's mother's dreams come true.
His intended fiancée, if the matriarch got her way.
And she was already acting like she owned him.
The hat-man leaned closer, voice a velvet whisper only you could hear.
"Oh pet… she is far more frightening than any demon I've ever met."
His paw flexed, claws glinting beneath the ballroom lights.
Lorian's harumph was the sound of a man resigning himself to fate, and he delivered the introduction with all the enthusiasm of someone announcing his own funeral.
"This is Eveline‑Claire," he said stiffly, "the fiancée my mother arranged."
Eveline‑Claire's jeweled eyes gleamed with triumph, not warmth. She didn't even pretend to be shy about it. She stood straighter, chin lifting, her expensive tiara catching the chandelier light like a crown accepting its due.
Lorian swallowed, then added with deliberate emphasis:
"Eveline, this is my girlfriend, the one I brought from America."
The word girlfriend hit the air like a thrown gauntlet.
A few nearby nobles gasped.
Someone whispered, "Oh dear."
Someone else muttered, "His mother will faint."
Eveline‑Claire's smile didn't falter, but it tightened, just slightly, the way silk strains before it tears. Her gaze swept over you, assessing, measuring, calculating how much of a threat you were to her carefully curated future.
She had the posture of a woman who had never been denied anything.
Royal blood from two worlds ran in her veins, both fairy and European, and she carried herself like someone who still believed she should have inherited two thrones if history had cooperated. Even stripped of mortal crowns, she remained a princess of Fairy by lineage, and she wielded that entitlement like a blade.
And now she was being told, publicly, that the man she expected to claim was already taken.
Beside you, the golden‑haired dancer. The hat‑man in his elegant glamour, leaned in with a soft, wicked purr.
"Oh darling," he murmured, "she looks like she's deciding whether to challenge you to a duel or adopt you as a pet."
His yellow eyes gleamed with delight. The hat‑man's whisper was velvet‑soft and wicked.
"Shall I eat her."
I didn't even flinch. "Shh. Stop trying to eat everyone."
He huffed, affronted, as if you'd denied him a perfectly reasonable snack.
Eveline‑Claire was still staring at him like he was a prize stallion she intended to acquire. Her jeweled tiara glittered, her curls perfect, her posture imperial. She was terrifying in the way only someone raised on royal entitlement could be, a woman who had never heard "no," who had been groomed for thrones that history stole from her, who still carried herself like a princess of Austria and Greece and Fairy.
Eveline‑Claire didn't just look at him — she devoured him with her eyes.
In her jeweled gaze he was perfection incarnate: tall, golden‑haired, elegant as a swan gliding across a lake. Every inch of him shimmered with princely allure. His embroidered coat matched your gown so precisely it looked intentional, his top hat ribbon glittered like a comet's tail, and the magic radiating from him pressed against her skin like warm, seductive air. She wanted it. She wanted him.
She wanted the glamour, the power, the attention he commanded simply by existing. She wanted to peel it away from you, to make it cling to her instead, to claim him the way she'd been raised to claim everything else.
Her fingers twitched, she wanted to touch him, to test the magic, to see if it would bend for her.
The hat‑man's glamour was intoxicating, and she was already drunk on it.
He stood beside me, posture perfect, yellow eyes glowing with wicked amusement. He knew exactly what she saw. He knew exactly what she wanted. And he knew exactly how impossible it was for her to have it.
I breathed deep, steadying myself, and let the mirror's energy flow through. It shimmered along my spine, through my gloves, into him. It fueled the glamour that made him shine like a storybook prince.
He leaned in, voice a velvet whisper only you could hear.
"Oh pet… she wants to steal me."
His smile sharpened. "She doesn't realize I'm already yours."
The pressure of his magic pulsed outward, brushing Eveline‑Claire like a tide she couldn't resist. Her breath caught. Her pupils widened. She looked ready to fall to her knees in awe.
I you stood beside him, calm and steady, the source of the power she coveted, the drab American girl she'd dismissed, now glowing with magic she couldn't touch.
The ballroom watched. Eveline‑Claire coveted.
The hat‑man smiled like a creature who enjoyed being wanted by someone who could never have him.
He moved toward her with that perfect, princely grace — the kind that made Eveline‑Claire's breath catch and her jeweled eyes widen with delighted hunger. She leaned in, ready for a flirtation whispered against her ear, ready to claim him the way she claimed everything else.
And then the glamour shifted.
Not violently. Just… decisively.
His golden skin paled to a moonlit white. The elegant smile stretched into something too wide, too sharp. Waxy yellow eyes ignited, glowing like lanterns in a crypt.
The princely charm melted away, replaced by the predator I had first met in the graveyard. The entity who drank spirit energy like water, the one who had once looked at me as a meal before fate rewrote our story.
Eveline‑Claire froze.
Her fluttering heart stopped mid‑beat. The greedy delight curdled into terror.
A once glamorous, glittering form seemed to dim under the weight of his true presence.
He didn't touch her.
He simply showed her what she wanted, the magic, the allure, the power, and then revealed the teeth behind it.
The ballroom air tightened.
A few nobles gasped.
Someone dropped a fan.
Someone else whispered, "Oh gods…"
He leaned in just a fraction closer, enough for her to feel the cold shimmer of his true nature.
The hat‑man's voice was deep velvet and graveyard‑soft.
"Princess," he murmured, "you should be careful what you try to claim."
Eveline‑Claire stumbled back, her jeweled gown rustling like frightened wings.
And beside him, I stood steady, the only one in the room who had seen this face before and lived to tell the tale.
The command cracked across the ballroom like a whip.
"Keeper! Curb your demon!"
One of the council members came forward away from the crowd. His face grew pale, sweating, suddenly very aware of how close Eveline‑Claire had come to becoming a diplomatic catastrophe. He pointed at us with trembling authority. A princess of Fairy being eaten at a ball would start a war, and everyone in the room knew it.
I lowered my head, hiding the smile tugging at my lips. It had been a wicked prank. It was perfectly timed, perfectly executed, perfectly humiliating for someone who had never once been denied anything in her life.
I glanced toward him.
The hat‑man's true form stood there for a heartbeat longer. His pallid skin glowing like moonlight, eyes burning gold, grin stretched too wide, too sharp. He looked like the creature I'd met in the graveyard, the one who could drink a spirit dry without blinking.
He gave me a sassy wink.
Then his shape dissolved, sudden glamour collapsing like a curtain falling, and the golden gentleman melted back into the tuxedo cat. The transformation left him trembling, tiny chest rising and falling rapidly, his little heart racing from the effort of shifting so fast and so dramatically.
He shook himself once, kitty sized top hat askew, emeralds glittering.
A soft, exhausted meow escaped him.
The crowd stared, stunned, whispering, unsure whether to applaud or flee.
And I reached down, scooping him gently into my arms, feeling the faint tremor of his paws as he pressed close, proud of his mischief, proud of his performance, proud of the chaos he'd caused.
The council member exhaled in relief.
Eveline‑Claire looked like she might faint.
the hat‑man nestled against me like a creature who had just won the night, face tiny but smug.
They had forgotten me. They had let themselves grow comfortable, lulled by politics and etiquette and the illusion that the world was safe simply because the chandeliers were bright and the orchestra played on.
But the moment the hat‑man's true face surfaced, his face pale, teeth sharp, and hungry. The entire ballroom remembered.
The council members' shout wasn't just panic; it was recognition. A jolt of reality. A reminder that the "drab American" was not drab at all, but the Keeper, the one who walked with a demon who could consume spirits like water. I was the one who had survived him, bargained with him, and held his leash not through force but through bond.
Their fear wasn't of him. It was of what it meant that I could calm him with a single nod.
They had been lax, letting politics and fairy lineage distract them. They had ignored me, underestimated me, treated me like a novelty on Lorian's arm.
But now? They remembered I was the only stop to a potential weapon. I held it in check.
I didn't need breeding. I didn't need a title, or a tiara.
In my arms lay something old, and dangerous, something potentially lethal.
And they had just been reminded of it.