The Cruel Prince (The Folk of the Air, #1)

by Holly Black

Three is an odd configuration of sisters. There’s always one on the outside.

“Tired of what, sweetmeat?” it asks me. I sigh and answer honestly for once. “Of being powerless.” The hob studies my face, then flies off into the night.

“Dirt. It’s what you came from, mortal. It’s what you’ll return to soon enough. Take a big bite.” “Make me,” I say before I can stop myself. Not the greatest comeback, but my palms begin to sweat. Taryn looks startled. “I could, you know,” says Cardan, grinning as though nothing would please him more.

And Cardan is even more beautiful than the rest, with black hair as iridescent as a raven’s wing and cheekbones sharp enough to cut out a girl’s heart. I hate him more than all the others. I hate him so much that sometimes when I look at him, I can hardly breathe.

What they don’t realize is this: Yes, they frighten me, but I have always been scared, since the day I got here. I was raised by the man who murdered my parents, reared in a land of monsters. I live with that fear, let it settle into my bones, and ignore it. If I didn’t pretend not to be scared, I would hide under my owl-down coverlets in Madoc’s estate forever. I would lie there and scream until there was nothing left of me. I refuse to do that. I will not do that. Nicasia’s wrong about me. I don’t desire to do as well in the tournament as one of the fey. I want to win. I do not yearn to be their equal. In my heart, I yearn to best them.

When I allow myself to truly think on it, I cannot fault Locke for choosing her. I am violent. I’ve been poisoning myself for weeks. I am a killer and a liar and a spy.

Cardan grins at me as though we’ve been great friends all our lives. I forgot how charming he can be—and how dangerous that is.

“Most of all, I hate you because I think of you. Often. It’s disgusting, and I can’t stop.”

I lean toward him, close enough for a kiss. His eyes widen. The look in his face is some commingling of panic and desire. It is a heady feeling, having power over someone. Over Cardan, who I never thought had any feelings at all. “You really do want me,” I say, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath as it hitches. “And you hate it.” I change the angle of the knife, turning it so it’s against his neck. He doesn’t look nearly as alarmed by that as I might expect. Not nearly as alarmed as when I bring my mouth to his.

The blade is beautiful enough to catch my eye.

“What have you done?” “I poisoned you. Don’t worry. It was a small enough dose. You’ll live.” “The cups of wine,” he says. “But how did you know which one I would choose?” “I didn’t,” I tell him, thinking that he’ll be at least a little pleased by the answer, despite himself. It is the kind of strategy he likes best. “I poisoned them both.”