The Crimson Crown. Cinda Williams Chima

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      Fiona pressed her lips to his neck, then behind his ear, and began fumbling with the closure on his coat.

      Finally regaining his senses, Han rolled out from under her and off the bed, scooping up her amulet as he did so. He stood, his feet slightly apart, her amulet dangling from one fist, glad his coat extended to the top of his thighs.

      She slid off the bed and walked toward him, her robe gaping open in front. Han struggled to keep his eyes on her face. She was probably trying to make him late to the meeting.

      “You said you had a proposition for me,” Han said. “Spit it out quick, or I’m gone. As you know, I have to be somewhere.”

      Fiona halted a few feet away. “I’ve underestimated you,” she said. “Oh, I knew you were attractive and clever. I guessed that a dalliance with you could be … interesting, in a dangerous sort of way. To put it bluntly, I thought you could be useful, and entertaining, and easily discarded when I no longer needed your services.”

      Flatterer, he thought. “And now?” he said.

      “I’ve been impressed with what you’ve accomplished on your own. And I think you can help me get what I want. Partner with me, and when I am queen, I will make you consort.”

      She stood just in front of him now. Gripping his stoles, she pulled his head down and kissed him again. Han, distracted by a torrent of thoughts, didn’t resist.

      “We have to act fast, though,” she whispered. “My family—my father—intends to marry me off to cement some political alliances.”

      “Who’s the lucky groom?” Han asked.

      Fiona shuddered. “Adam Gryphon. Can you imagine? Me married to a joyless, bookish, shriveled-up cripple like Adam?” She pressed herself against him. “We can’t let that happen.”

      Han felt a rush of sympathy for his former teacher.

      “Think of it,” Fiona murmured, against his chest. “You are bodyguard to the queen—in a perfect position to eliminate her and that pallid sister of hers. Then they’ll have no choice but to make a change in the succession. I’ll be there to step in, and you can support me on the council. Once I’m queen, my father will no longer be giving the orders.”

      Murder Raisa. Fiona meant to murder Raisa and claim the throne for herself. Han’s pulse pounded in his ears, making it difficult to put two thoughts together.

      You’re the one needs murdering, he thought.

      She leaned back from him, studying his face, still keeping hold of his stoles. “Well? Do we have a bargain?”

      It would be so easy, he thought, looking down into Fiona’s impatient face. Nobody knew he was in the Council House. A quick killing charm or a blade to the throat, and this threat to Raisa would be handled.

      But only one threat among many. He had to keep his game going—he had to play for it all if he was ever going to make Raisa safe.

      He couldn’t very well pretend to sign on to murder Raisa, but he didn’t want Fiona going off and hiring her own bravo to do the job. Better to be on the inside of this little plan.

      He struggled to control the rage in his voice, make his tone cold and sardonic.

      “Will you be there to support me when I climb the deadly nevergreen and dangle for murder?” Han said. “Seems like I’m putting in a lot more than you.”

      Fiona looked confused, as if the offer to couple with her was all he could ever hope for. “What else do you want?”

      “You say you’ll make me consort,” Han said. “If I’m to do the killing, I mean to aim higher.”

      She blinked at him, nonplussed. “Higher than consort? You? What else could you possibly want?”

      “Maybe I want to be king,” he said. “Help me, and I’ll make you consort.”

      He’d never seen Fiona Bayar totally speechless before. It was far more pleasant than hearing her talk.

      “You? A king?” The color drained from her face, leaving it sheet-white with anger. “A jumped-up, gutterbred thief—son of a—a ragpicker? I present you with a serious and generous proposal, and you answer with this preposterous—”

      And then Han lost his temper. He was so bloody tired of hearing the who do you think you are line from the Bayars. And he was afraid—afraid he’d make a misstep and Raisa would die.

      He gripped Fiona’s elbows, gripped them hard. “Is it preposterous? Is it?” He gazed into her eyes. “Do you know who I am?”

      Fiona’s usually icy eyes had gone wide and a little frightened. “You’re Han Alister. A … street thief turned wizard.”

      “Look at me, Fiona,” Han said. “Really look at me. Do you think that’s all I am?” Unchanneled magic stormed through him, buzzing under his skin.

      She shook her head, staring into his face as if looking for clues. “I … I don’t know what you want me to say.”

      “You bluebloods are fixed on bloodlines,” Han said. “I am the perfect marriage of royal lineage and wizardry, of legitimacy and magic. I’m heir to a legacy even you Bayars can’t match, that was stolen from us centuries ago.”

      “Royal lineage!” Fiona was going for disdainful, but not quite pulling it off. “Who do you think you—”

      “What you need to know is that I won’t stop until I get what I want. You can be with me or against me. But choose carefully.”

      He gave Fiona’s amulet a toss, and she leaped forward to catch it in her two hands.

      “Let me know what you decide.” Han turned on his heel and walked out.

       CHAPTER TEN

       INTO THE SNAKE PIT

      Han strode down the corridor, back the way he’d come, all his senses on alert in case Fiona came after him, either to attack him or to accept his proposal.

      As he walked, he berated himself, sorry he’d lost his temper and spoken so plainly. Once something was said, it couldn’t be unsaid. How could he forget that?

      He hadn’t spilled it all, but with what he’d given her, Fiona might figure it out. And if she did, she might tell her father. Or she might not, since she was so far into her own schemes.

      If he heard back from her, it might keep Raisa safe for a little while, even if Fiona meant to renegotiate later on—after he hushed the queen. But if she didn’t contact him—

      He had ten minutes to find the meeting room. He hadn’t meant to arrive at the last minute, but now there was no avoiding it.

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