Trick (Foolish Kingdoms, #1)

by Natalia Jaster

Instead, the specter snapped his fingers lightly,

The brackets of his shoulder blades cut through the miasma, and the ridges of his forearms flexed, candlelight burnishing every contracting part of him.

“My fellow monarchs of the Seasons,” he boasted. “I give you Poet, the Court Jester of Spring.”

I saw vicious, green irises. I saw wicked lips and a great deal of trouble. A long, black diamond pierced through one amused eye. A simpler thread of kohl lined the other orb. He was older than me, perhaps exceeding my age by one or two years. Poet. A jester. A beautiful one.

With a final bow, the jester turned, excluding me from the gesture. I pretended not to care. I even went so far as to audibly harrumph. I should have kept my mouth shut. Poet paused mid-saunter, catching the sound.

Hmm, that devious expression said. I’ve neglected someone. Who could it be?

The people whom this world called mad were deemed dangers to society. They were locked away in dungeons and oubliettes, the cells located either within each castle or across the lands. The people whom this world called simpletons were forced into service in various ways, depending on the kingdom. Spring used those born souls for amusement.

But in this Season, a third type of so-called “fool” existed. A professional one. The jester. A licensed figure and the product of training. Unlike born souls, jesters weren’t owned by their sovereigns. They were high-ranking players specializing in the arts of candor, performance, and the turning of a phrase.

A pose both lazy and intentional, sinister and sinful. A devil who carried himself like a dancer.

In a syrupy tone, the jester said, “Highness.” “Sirrah,” I clipped,

“You must be jesting.” Poet set his palm on his chest. “Who, me?”

“A jester doesn’t corner a woman. He snares her in the middle of the room, where she belongs.”

“Nay, I’d rather fuck the ones who can handle me.”

Lol

“What precisely do you have against fuck? ’Tis a lovely word. I do have a fetish for lovely words.”

“Would you care to know such an upheaval of the body?” And when I could only stare, that devious intonation thinned to nothing but a hushed breath. “Would you allow yourself that pleasure?”

Unbidden, my fingers stole out to touch the bands at his wrist. I wanted to unravel them, to feel the frayed edges under the pads of my thumbs, to untighten the knots and see how long they dangled before falling to the floor. Poet’s pupils flared. The black wells dilated and swallowed his irises, a second before those orbs dimmed like snuffed candlelight. At which point, a protective shadow darkened his mien.

“’Tis not polite, touching what isn’t yours,” he cautioned. “Was the ribbon I gave you not enough? Do you want more of me?” His whisper deepened, rustling over my lips like black silk. “Careful what you ask for, Princess.”

Whoever caught the Court Jester’s attention became his target.

The band of fabric marked me. It was the jester’s way of singling out the renowned, stuffy princess.

Panels of darkness covered half his face, as though he wore a mask, yet those mischievous eyes glowed through the murk. The corner of his mouth tipped. And there, amid a hundred mirrors, the jester blew me a thousand fiendish kisses.

I favored women, with all that succulent wetness pooling from beneath their skirts. Other times, I sampled with fervor a masculine mouth, a muscled weight pinned beneath me as I thrusted my hips into a welcoming male body.

In general, I loathed tension in the body.

My lips crooked, even whilst a knife speared my chest. Daily, I lived and breathed for this pain, which covered me like a second skin. I needed the hurt, needed to keep it close like a weapon.

for whom the strips of fabric became markers. I picked those who could be made an example of. Sometimes it was a dark and direct cut intended for social ridicule or political criticism. Other times, it was a mirthful tease meant to sway a person’s perspective or mood. And other confidential times, it was a seduction, an enticement—providing I saw interest, an unspoken invitation in their eyes.

Thereupon, I imagined pressing my finger into the slant of that female’s throat. I imagined counting that sharp pulse, wondering how many beats it would take until her lips parted for air.

Traditionally and historically, our kind didn’t have ambitions beyond revelry, ridicule, and sex. In their minds, I embodied that rule. Therefore, they presumed I wasn’t a threat. I intended to keep it that way for now. For what I had in mind, I couldn’t afford to take risks yet. I needed more time.

What attractions existed beneath the tight stitching of that outfit? How easy would it be to dismantle the braid, to unravel it like a brushfire and tangle my fingers in that blaze? What would she do, and how would she sound, if I pulled those flames from their roots?

Fascinating. I’d never made someone hate me with this much devotion. The ivory, amber, and red shades of her—innocence and fire—drew me in like a moth.

“Good evening, Princess,” I said, then mouthed, I’ve missed you.

“I dismiss bigots,” I said. “I don’t dismiss lovers.”

I’d backed the female into the hedges and whispered decadence into her ear, the graphic friction of my words alone making her come.

She and Eliot must know one another well, which made him a chink in her armor. I had one of those, too. To that end, I wouldn’t react any differently than she, if I suspected a stranger of taking advantage. I’d rip them to pieces without a second thought.

“Do you know the difference between a hard kiss and sweet fuck? One is deep, the other is long. A nobleman will give you a choice between the two, but a jester will give you both.” My voice burrowed into the gritty crawlspace left between us. “And he’ll do it at the same time.”

glancing toward a distant iron rotunda crammed with roses behind its locked gate. Press a finger into one of the thorns, and they had the power to intoxicate a person to the point of sexual gluttony.

The ribbons tapped against my wrist, as if to remind me. As if I needed reminding. Correcting her would make no difference.

We traded awkward smiles. She reached out, her fingers smoothing my hair and adjusting my bun. I swore, the contact felt like waking up and falling asleep, like protection and loneliness.

The sensuous gaiety of life. The wild, unpredictable full moon. The spiraling free fall. A time to lose control. A time to be bold.

Then I thought of Poet sleeping alone, his bare chest exposed, a stack of muscles contorting as he breathed, and his arm flopped above his head. If he rested on his back, the sheets might hang low to reveal the slopes of his hips and the base of his …

Does it sound like I’d had malicious intent in mind? Pay attention and find out …

The tip of something sharp jabbed between my legs. Glancing down, I was treated to the sight of a hoof pick strategically aimed at my cock. Based on the angle, the head would go first. I respected a female who could make an otherwise innocent object look deadly.

“You are a wordsmith, therefore a liar. I know what your tongue is capable of.” And I knew an opportunity when I heard it. I prowled forward, lowered my voice, and let the words drizzle down her skin. “Now, now,” I husked. “You haven’t begun to learn what my tongue can do.”

It meant she felt my words between her hips, every slick syllable rooting itself deeply through the slender walls of her cunt. I savored this precious reaction, so fetching to behold. Unfortunately, the sudden image of Briar’s parted thighs flanking my head and the taste of her climax on my tongue inserted itself into my brain.

Yet dread and regret weren’t the responses I wanted to extract from this Royal. Nay, I wanted that heartbeat, that erratic button pounding in her neck, aching to burst through. I wanted it. If she were of any other rank, I would make good on this moment. I’d press her against the tree, slip my hand under that skirt, and curl my fingers into the molten slot of her pussy until she came hard and sweetly into my shoulder.

As for my stash of ribbons, the princess couldn’t have located those unless she’d found the compartment hidden inside my bed’s headboard. No worries there.

“Hmm. Repenting for the intrusion whilst suspecting me of being a criminal and holding a weapon to my cock? Such irony. You truly are from Autumn.” “I merely intended to return your ribbon.” “But the color goes so well with your hair.”

I told him I was going to be a new person from then on, not the same one he met. And Eliot said that was okay, then he played me a song until I fell asleep in his lap. I’d saved him, and he saved me.

“My turn,” she announced, wheeling to face me. “How old are you?” “A profligate twenty-one tonight and a provocative twenty-two eventually. Which is more appealing? Take your pick.”

“You’ll forgive me if I remain mysterious, Sweet Thorn. Not that I’m the brooding type—men of the like are dull. Mystery tends to compensate for that. Also, it’s sexier. In other words, my history is otherwise unimpressive, and I do prefer to impress.”

Hopefully, despite whatever damage this kitty did to me, I’d still be able to crawl another mile or so from here. I didn’t want to be anywhere near this spot when the cavalry arrived. It was too close to what mattered most.

I pictured a little pair of eyes, greener than mine. Soon enough, those eyes would peek outside a window and alight. They would wait for me to arrive, unaware I wasn’t coming.