How the King of Elfhame Learned to Hate Stories (The Folk of the Air, #3.5)

by Holly Black

He can’t believe his good fortune, can’t trace the path that got him here.

And if, as he had floated in the cold darkness, his thoughts turned to the curve of an ear, the weight of a step, a blow that was checked before it could land, that didn’t matter. It meant nothing, and he should forget it.

There was absolutely no reason to think of Jude in that moment.

And all through that night and for many nights after, he couldn’t rid his thoughts of her.

But every night, Jude haunted him. The coils of her hair.

He traces the edge of her lip, runs his finger over the soft human hair of her cheek, pausing on a freckle, and comes to rest on a tiny scar, a line of pale skin drawn there by some blade.

“Not in the least,” he says instead, and feels her smile against his skin.

“Why didn’t you hate everyone?” he asks. “Everyone, all the time.” “I hated you,” Jude reassures him, bringing her mouth to his.

“You don’t think monster girls and wicked boys deserve love?”

“And you think it was sunrise I was waiting for and not my queen. Do you not hear her footfalls? She has never quite managed the trick of hiding them as well as one of the Folk. Surely you’ve heard of her, Jude Duarte, who defeated the redcap Grima Mog, who brought the Court of Teeth to their knees? She’s forever getting me out of scrapes. Truly, I don’t know what I would do without her.”

Her fingers are cold against his flushed skin. It’s nice. He hopes she won’t take them away.

“There is one thing I did like about playing the hero. The only good bit. And that was not having to be terrified for you.”