Treachery Queen (The Callistra Chronicles #1)

SIX

Chapter Six

The girl named Charlize hustled around the submarine, pushing buttons and pulling levers to work the machine. Seth had introduced her as a friend of his, but Pasiphae only required a few moments of observation to see that Charlize treated him as a superior.

He was definitely a fae of the noble class then. And his clothes had magically dried.

"We've got to get that dreadful make-up off of you," he said now, bringing a damp cloth to her face.

Pasiphae gripped the seat under her legs, twitching in the dark dress. It looped around her neck and fell to her mid-calves, scratching the skin at the hem. The colours were truly gorgeous, like shimmering stars, but the dress was as mass-produced as paper bags. She didn't mean to sound pompous, but Pasiphae had truly never worn such coarse fabric.

"The cosmetics?" she inquired, moving her face back. "Why?"

She didn't want it rubbed off. It was the last thing that Circe had done for her, not counting the necklace still tight around her neck. She needed to find a small body of water soon. She needed to hear about what was happening in Medeis.

Seth smashed the cloth into her cheek. Pasiphae froze up, afraid that this was where he poisoned her and dumped her body out for the monsters of the sea to eat, but there was only freshwater soaked into the cloth.

"The dark lines mark you as a witch immediately," he was saying, either oblivious to or simply ignoring her discomfort. "No faery or human in their right mind would willingly draw their eyes to look like some cross between a vixen and a cat."

Pasiphae scoffed, relaxing. "How old are you? I hardly know what a cat looks like."

"Eighteen," he answered without a pause.

"A hundred and eighteen," Charlize intoned from the control panel.

"Okay, let's not get hasty," Seth shot back, "I'm eighteen in here—" he tapped his head, "—but ninety-six physically, if you must know. Still not old enough to have seen the cats in person."

The average faery lived a whole two hundred years longer than the average witch, but they aged a lot slower.

"Our first sub has surfaced," Charlize reported.

There was one window in this submarine, next to Pasiphae. There was only crystalline darkness outside.

"How long until we're bombarded with security?" Seth asked.

"I'd say about a minute." Charlize glanced back. "Your— I mean, sorry. Better hurry with that."

Seth scrubbed at Pasiphae's face harder.

"Ow," she protested. "Can't you remove it with your magic? And can I have my cloak back?"

Seth raised an eyebrow. Something akin to confusion flashed in his eyes. "I'd drain your source if I used fae magic near you."

Pasiphae clucked her tongue. "Right," she said plainly, and left it at that, casting her glance back to the murky blues and blacks outside the window. As if there was anything left to drain.

"I think that's about all that will come off," Seth muttered, peering at the cloth. "No matter. Your cloak, meanwhile—"

He bent down and threw her a bundle of fabric, now dried.

"The dagger is tucked back in the pocket," Seth said. "I'll trust you won't brandish it at me again."

Pasiphae gave an ambiguous shrug.