Court of Blood and Bindings: A Steamy Fae Fantasy Romance (Fae Isles Book 1)
Author: Marshall, Lisette
Date: 2022-06-21T16:00:00+00:00
Publisher: anonymous
Rights: Copyright &#x00A9;2022 byanonymous

Court of Blood and Bindings

Fae Isles - Book 1

Lisette Marshall

Copyright

Copyright © 2022 by Lisette Marshall

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in promotional texts and/or book reviews. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

ASIN: B09YKCCGKW

Cover design: Saint Jupiter
Editor: Erin Grey, The Word Faery

www.lisettemarshall.com
www.facebook.com/LisetteMarshallAuthor
www.instagram.com/AuthorLisetteMarshall

Dedication

To my 14-year-old self,
who was kept afloat by this story

Contents

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Other books by Lisette Marshall
About the Author

Chapter 1

Wine, mathematics, and distant shouting were a terrible combination.

I groaned, rubbed my eyes, and made another attempt to add up the numbers crawling over the parchment before me. Finishing our administration for the month was the last of my tasks this morning. Just three more pages of paint and canvas purchases to go, and then I’d be free to leave this office – free to finally finish the dress I’d sewn for today’s victory celebration and make my way to the village square, where the long tables would already be filling up with roast lamb and grilled goat cheese and Nettie’s famous honey figs.

Just a few last sums – but doing sums would have been a whole lot easier if not for the one glass too many I’d had during the festival preparations the previous night. Or for the sound of my parents’ voices in their bedroom, loud enough to signal they were having one of their more vehement fights.

So much for the festive atmosphere.

I muttered a curse, grabbed another piece of scrap parchment, and scrabbled down some preliminary totals. No, that couldn’t be correct – there was no way my prudent, occasionally penny-pinching father had spent twice his monthly income on varnish. I’d probably misplaced a comma somewhere …

Vibrating through the walls and ceiling, the unmistakable sound of my mother’s sobbing reached me.

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ I muttered out loud, shoving away from my desk. It was one thing to still be working for my parents at an age when I’d hoped to be long gone from this island. To continue attempting to work while they insisted on interrupting me with their dramatics of the day … I had better things to do.

I’d finish the embroidery on my new dress first. With a bit of luck, they’d calm down and leave the house soon; then I could quickly finish my accounting tasks before following them outside.

I slipped out of the office and crossed the wide-open space of Father’s workshop. Above my head – intelligible now with one less wall separating us – my mother was yelling about the neighbours and expectations and …

Recognisable even through the walls, my name.

I froze mid-step, holding my breath to better hear them. Gods be damned, what had I done this time? Had someone been gossiping about my six months on Ildhelm again? Or was it about men and marriage, as these fights were more and more often lately?

Ulda is pregnant with her second already, Mother had told me yesterday, her lips tight with annoyance, and she’s younger than you are …

Nobody had asked for my hand, had they?

Heart jumping into my throat, I trotted to the workshop door and opened it a chink. Their voices came much clearer now, unaware of my listening ear.

‘I’m telling you we can’t risk it!’ my father shouted, his voice accompanied by the sound of his heavy footsteps. I knew those footsteps. They rarely promised anything joyful. ‘That Othmar fellow has been studying magic for decades! If Em has even the tiniest slip—’

‘She hasn’t slipped for months! For years!’

‘You weren’t the one who had to explain to Matilda why her apprentice suddenly started burning dresses!’

My heart clenched at that. Two years and still the familiar sting of shame, loss, and guilt didn’t come any gentler than the day after that catastrophe. If they were afraid of me slipping again, for the festival’s high-born visitors to see, no less …

What were they planning to do? Lock me inside the house?

‘Fine, then let me explain the situation to your bloody Othmar!’ my mother snapped upstairs. Ah. That was the source of the dispute – she did not want to lock me inside the house.

‘There’s no explaining this!’ A door slammed, vibrating through every wall. More footsteps and a joyless laugh loud enough to make it through two closed doors. ‘He’s been hinting he might commission portraits for the academy gallery! The academy gallery! If he finds out my daughter is … is …’

I stiffened, waiting for the rest of that sentence. It didn’t come.

A disappointing little mess, carrying a shred of that erratic magic that should have died out of my mother’s family generations ago. Father had never spoken the words to my face, but then again, they weren’t hard to read in his eyes.

‘She could cost us an astounding amount of money,’ he continued, not as loud now, and almost pleading with her to see sense. ‘It’s not just Othmar, remember? That White City senator has mentioned he’s looking for someone to paint his family portrait, and you know how they feel about magic in that place …’

‘But you can’t just ban her from the festival, Valter! It’s going to be the celebration of the decade!’

I swallowed, anxiety churning in my gut. Of the century, more likely. A hundred and thirty years of forced tribute payments and finally Cathra had found a way to fight back against our rulers. The scientists and senators – they weren’t coming here to visit a little backwater island and have some roast lamb. They were here to see the iron ward around the beaches with their own eyes and determine whether they might use the same method to keep the fae off their own shores.

And to order portraits from Valter of Cathra. That too. If his embarrassment of a daughter didn’t spoil the prospects, at least.

‘Well,’ my father snapped. ‘It won’t be much of a party for her either if she accidentally obliterates the buffet tables, will it?’

I closed my eyes and leaned back against the plastered white wall, willing my mother to say something sensible. Come on. It would be so easy shut him up. Don’t talk about our daughter as if she’s a toddler prone to tantrums. She’s a grown adult, for the gods’ sake; you can hardly tell her what to do unless you threaten to cut her pay. She’s been preparing for the festivities for weeks like every single person in town, and wouldn’t it be a little unfair to ban her from the amusement just when she’s finished her dress for the occasion?

She cried, ‘But think of what the neighbours will say if she’s not there, Valter!’

The neighbours.

Right.

Ten years ago I might have stormed up the stairs and shouted at them to be reasonable. Five years ago I might have pled and argued. But after twenty years in this household, I knew shouting would only result in stricter measures, that pleading would only win me some additional glares and not an inch of goodwill.

I clenched my fists and swallowed down another fit of nausea, my attempts at accounting forgotten once and for all.

‘I don’t care about the bloody neighbours!’ my father burst out upstairs. ‘Are the neighbours’ commissions going to feed us for the next year?’

‘You don’t have to listen to their nagging for the next six months while—’

‘Nagging? You think nagging is the worst that could come out of this?’

My mother uttered a shrill laugh. ‘You forget there’s guaranteed to be nagging, while the chances of Em slipping are—’

‘I don’t care how small they are!’ He was shouting loud enough for the neighbours to hear now. I wondered if he realised. ‘They are there! That’s all I need to know!’

A breathless silence; I could picture them pacing around the bedroom, my father flustered and ruffled, my mother cold and severe. Their voices came softer now, the words harder to catch.

I tiptoed through the door and into the kitchen, all festive anticipation gone. With my cheek pressed against the kitchen window, I could just see the decorated pine trees on the town square, garlands and lanterns and the occasional banner. A dark, heavy dread settled over me, a weight that even the bright sunlight couldn’t wash away.

I had been naïve, of course, not to expect it. Had been naïve to think they would finally have let it go, that disaster of two years ago.

Not for the first time, I found myself wondering if I should have returned to Cathra at all. If I shouldn’t just have left them all behind, home and Miss Matilda and everyone I knew … but where should I have gone at the time, eighteen years old and penniless?

‘Emelin?’

Father, using my full name. That, too, never promised anything joyful.

I swallowed a catch of bitter regret and yelled back, ‘Yes?’

‘Come here for a moment, will you?’

Like an accused about to receive the judge’s verdict, I steeled myself and trudged up the stairs, not sure if I should pretend to have missed their shouting match entirely. They should know better than to think I had been that engrossed in my sums. Then again, the fact that they should didn’t always mean they would.

Mother stood leaning against the wardrobe, in the floral dress I’d made her last year. The hard lines around her lips spoiled every last illusion of festivity. Father was pacing between the bed and the balcony door, his cheeks too red, his lips too pale.

‘Em, your mother and I have been thinking about the celebration.’

Thinking, I wanted to say. Funny thing, I’m usually a little quieter when thinking. But snide retorts would only squander their last bit of goodwill and potentially half of this month’s pay.

I needed that money, little as it was, if I ever wanted to get out of this place.

So all I said was, ‘What is it?’

The explanation came out in a tangle of lies and half-truths, with the occasional honest confession thrown in – worried about my reputation if anything were to happen, surely I didn’t want to ruin the festivities either, and the honoured guests from the White City could cause me a lot of trouble – but of course they couldn’t keep me at home against my will, and either way, questions might be asked if I were to stay away from the festival …

‘So what do you want, Em?’

What did I want? That most treacherous of questions. What I wanted, at this point, was to get thoroughly plastered at that damned celebration. What I wanted was to wear the dress I’d made and eat the food I’d prepared and hear the mothers of the town compliment the garlands I’d sewn.

But that wasn’t the right answer.

Twenty years in this household had taught me that lesson, too, that the enquiry after my wishes was never an open question but rather a test, an assessment of my daughterly adequacy. Usually the honest answer meant failing that test. And failure resulted in days of cold silence and one-syllable answers to everything I said – or, if I was unlucky, yet another pay cut for my work as my father’s assistant.

The problem was that the right answer wasn’t clear today. Rather, there were too many of them.

Father’s right answer was that, indeed, I didn’t want to spoil the festivities and would gladly stay at home. Mother’s right answer was that I didn’t want to miss the celebration for a thousand gold coins but would be very careful not to draw even a fleck of colour or give any of the honoured guests reason to think me more than a boring, unremarkable young woman. Whatever I said, I was bound to displease someone, and the wronged party would take care to let me know.

I could take the risk, of course. Could join the victory celebrations and just make sure not to get near any colour I might accidentally lose control of. But I’d spend the full evening with my father’s eyes on my neck, and if I made even the smallest of mistakes …

I didn’t want to think about that possibility. I’d seen him after my return from Ildhelm. This would be a hundred times worse.

Mother would inform us of every gossiping housewife for weeks if I didn’t go, though. Would report every underhand remark to us, every sideways glance, and be an insufferable martyr about it.

By now I no longer cared about the entire damn celebration. I just wanted a way out of this corner.

‘Why don’t you tell them I couldn’t come because I didn’t finish my chores yet?’ I heard myself say, voice flat. ‘I’ll make myself useful here and do some work in advance. I’d enjoy having a free day tomorrow, after all the excitement.’

The neighbours would still gossip, of course, but not about my mother and her failure to keep the family in line. Just about me. And they’d done that since my hasty return from Ildhelm anyway.

My mother brightened. ‘Well, if you don’t mind a little white lie, Em …’

I lied, told them I didn’t mind, and they chose to believe me. Ten minutes later, they were on their way, into the loud buzz of voices three streets away.

I stayed behind in the silent house, cursing myself and my stupid unwanted powers for all I was worth.

I folded the laundry. I cleaned the kitchen. I reordered Father’s paintbrushes and gathered his aprons, cleaned out the sketches and studies he’d thrown away, and sorted his inks and paints.

By the time I was done, it was barely noon. On the square outside, music was playing, glasses were clinking, people were cheering. Most voices I recognised even from a distance; I could probably identify every one of the island’s less than two hundred inhabitants by their whispering.

My absence, if it had even been noted, didn’t seem to bother anyone in the slightest.

As had been the intention, of course. As my mother needed. But I found myself sulking into the kitchen like a petulant toddler, senselessly frustrated that no one had even bothered to walk by and offer me a piece of the honey cake I’d baked myself. Even if I was busy with a day of work, they could realise I would take a break or two, couldn’t they?

The thought of cake made me hungry. A quick search through the baskets and crates yielded a handful of fresh figs, some olives, and the remainders of yesterday’s bread. Not much, but it could have been worse. I had lived on less for months last year, when the harvest had been miserable and the yearly tribute rates higher than usual.

I sat down in the back garden, in the golden sunlight but out of view of passers-by, and tried to shut out the celebratory shouts a few hundred feet away as I chewed my bread. An odd thought, that we’d never pay tributes again. That we would never have a winged assembly land on our town square again, demanding money and food in the name of the Mother of all fae who ruled us. That we could harvest and keep the fruits and grains from now on, that we could eat what we had without having to put half of it aside, waiting in our sheds and cellars for the fae to come and get it.

Odd enough for it to seem unreal.

It might have seemed more real if I’d been there on the square right now, drinking and dancing with the rest of the town. Instead I found myself here, holed up like the village idiot, surviving on lukewarm water and dry bread.

I muttered a curse. I should just have told them what I wanted, icy glares and pay cuts be damned.

But showing up now and declaring my work done – that would only make matters far, far worse. Father liked unpleasant surprises even less than snide retorts. I’d have to keep myself busy and hope they would at least return with some of the roast lamb leftovers from the feast.

So how was I going to make myself useful for another few hours?

Sewing? But the thought of my nearly finished dress upstairs turned even the simple pleasure of needlework pale and useless. I’d finish it later, when the bitterness had softened. Today I was better off taking care of the more unpleasant chores; there was nothing left to ruin about the day, anyway.

The paints, then. We were running out of red; Father would appreciate a new supply.

I gathered my materials in unthinking routine, apron and gloves, cinnabar and egg, glass muller and palette knife. At least grinding minerals to powder didn’t require me to think. At least I could just focus on the work below my hands for a few minutes, grinding the soul out of every last grain of cinnabar until I had a bright red spoonful of vermilion powder so fine that even Father wouldn’t be able to find fault in it. I split the egg, added some of the white to the powder, and mixed it to a thick paste. Just a few drops of water, then, and a few more …

I was done far too quickly. The party still wasn’t over by the time I scraped the blood red paint into its jar, and it didn’t sound like it would be over soon.

I checked the other paints, but we still had plenty of most. No sense in making too much too long in advance. Time would only degrade the quality.

Perhaps I could clean something else upstairs. Otherwise I might as well sneak away and take a dive in the bright blue sea instead of continuing this useless loitering. As long as I made sure the neighbours didn’t see me apparently avoiding my chores …

I took off my gloves, then my apron, and froze.

Oh, fuck.

Somehow a bright red smudge of paint had escaped the sturdy linen of my apron and ended up on the front of my tunic, smeared over the white cloth like a handful of blood. As if I’d just committed a violent murder. Staring at that stain, on the tunic my mother had bought for me during their last trip to Rhudak, I damn well felt like killing something.

She wasn’t going to be happy if she came home to find the tunic ruined. Not happy at all. There would be lectures about not wearing expensive clothes around the workshop, and she would not even be wrong. Any credit I had earned by solving the impasse of my festival attendance would be wasted before I could even apologise for this blunder.

Fuck.

I closed my eyes and tried to stay calm. Tried to be reasonable and mature about this newest complication. I was no longer the little girl she’d send to bed without dinner. She couldn’t set on me with the dust beater anymore. There was no reason to be scared. I was an adult woman. I was here because I was working as Father’s employee – and fine, because I had nowhere else to go – and the worst she could do—

Well, the worst she could do was make me pay for the damn thing.

Would she? It had been a gift – mine to ruin, technically speaking. But she’d bought it for me so I’d have something presentable to wear when Father’s rich patrons came to visit. She might argue I needed a new one, and that she wasn’t going to spend her money on it.

I stood paralysed in the middle of the workshop, my mind whirring. I could probably prevent any serious consequences by announcing I would pay for the replacement before I even told her about the stain itself. It seemed worth a couple of coins to prevent the pleading and arguing and days of cold silence, at least.

But I would lose those coins.

Oh, damn it. Why did I have to ruin this for myself? The coming days had promised to be so easy. With the fae ward finally in place and a few prominent new patrons for my father, I had been so sure we would be that simple, happy family again for a while. That family we were when I wasn’t causing trouble. When we could pretend that erratic magic of mine, that loathed fae talent that had run in my mother’s family for generations, simply didn’t exist.

Now I was causing trouble after all, and it wasn’t even magical in nature.

How much had the damn tunic cost? Judging by the quality of the linen and the fashionable cut, it would be a good two months of savings at least. My mouth dried at the thought alone. Two months of useless work, all because of one careless moment. Could I wash the stain out? But no, years around a painter’s workshop had taught me well enough that no amount of vinegar could get that bright red out of a surface so light. The only other option …

I swallowed. The only other option was the option they had most explicitly forbidden. The option that currently had me banned from the town square until every influential visitor had left the island again.

I could draw the colour out.

A terrible idea. But it would save me months of money and some inevitable lectures.

An unexpected, unusual flare of annoyance sent me moving, feet finding their way to the back door before my head had fully come to terms with the plan. If they expected me to burst into splashes of uncontrollable magic any moment, I might as well use the powers for once. If I was careful to not let anyone see me, if I didn’t destroy anything valuable, then what was the harm?

Damn it all to hell, then.

I slipped outside, into the dry garden. Using red magic inside sounded like an even more terrible idea, and nobody should pass by behind our house at this time of the day. My eyes scanned the garden, looking for something I could afford to destroy – not Mother’s cactuses, not the little tool shed … One of the earthen pots in the nearest corner, then.

Behind me, a chorus of loud voices was singing a triumphant ballad about one of humanity’s rare victories during the War. Utterly unaware, all of them, that mere minutes away, a scrawny twenty-year-old was using powers oddly similar to that same loathed magic.

I settled myself in the doorway and ran my left hand over the red stain on my stomach and hip, savouring the smoothness of the tightly woven linen. A small tingle ran from my fingertips up through my arm, the magic waking up within me, preparing itself.

Red for destruction.

I pointed my right hand at the earthen pot closest to the door and let the colour run through me. The red paled under my fingers, vanished, and the hard clay shattered as if I’d smashed a hammer into it.

Fuck.

That had been – a little too much power, perhaps.

I bit down an urge to curse out loud. Was nothing going to be easy, today? But I had to be sure I’d exhausted the colour from my clothes entirely so it couldn’t come back. A partly used pink, no matter how faint, would restore itself in a matter of hours, proving exactly what rules I had violated to get rid of it. Only a fully depleted surface would remain white forever, as I needed it.

I tried to squeeze some more destructive power out of the former stain, but the second pot I targeted remained whole. Good. Depleted, indeed. Now it was a matter of repairing the first one before anyone realised what had happened.

I ran upstairs and found a roll of bright blue linen I had intended for another dress. Good enough. If I didn’t use the colour entirely and made sure to hide the fabrics afterwards, the blue would be restored by tomorrow morning. My parents hadn't set foot into my room for years; this couldn’t go wrong in any imaginable way.

With the blue linen in my arms, I ran back down, knelt at the heap of clay shards, and sucked in a breath. Blue for healing. I should be able to fix this.

And quickly, hopefully.

I kept my left hand on the azure of my fabrics as I puzzled the pieces of the pot back together with my right, ragged edge against ragged edge. A small flow of blue magic and they melted together again. Small pieces became bigger pieces as I worked, and bigger pieces became sizeable parts of the pot that had been blamelessly minding its own business until mere minutes ago. The blue paled more and more under my fingertips, until it was lighter than a robin’s egg and I didn’t dare to exhaust it any further.

The pot still wasn’t more than half repaired.

I cursed as I got up. I had another blue dress upstairs; I could probably get the rest of the work done if I used that magic, too. And if it was truly necessary, I could get a bit of blue paint from the workshop and create a blue surface to use …

First things first, I interrupted my own thoughts as I turned for the house. I’d have to see how far that second dress got me. Then I could—

Someone stood behind me.

I realised it halfway through my turn and jumped back like a startled goat – someone. A human-shaped silhouette, drawn sharply against the burning sunlight, stood quietly behind me in our humble, dry garden …

Watching me?

And only then did my eyes register the rest of their observations. Human-shaped, yes – but not human.

Not human at all.

The stranger was tall, with an advantage of at least six inches over me. His silky hair, so black it seemed to absorb even the blazing light of the sun, hung far below his shoulders, brushing a long, equally black coat. Below that, he wore a pair of knives at his belt, dark trousers, and leather boots reaching nearly to his knees, again black.

And behind all of that, spreading out on either side of his sculpted shoulders, a pair of dark wings shone like inky velvet in the sunlight.

Wings.

Fae.

Fae.

Every fibre of my body screamed alarm, expecting the silvery flash of a knife or a burst of red magic – and then nothing at all. But I breathed. I lived. And the fae male stood barely ten feet away from me, his dark, almond-shaped eyes fixed on my face, and didn’t move. As if finding me here, a sweaty, lanky human girl wielding rogue magic she shouldn’t possess, had stunned him as much as his presence frightened me.

My magic. He had seen my magic.

I wasn’t sure if I was breathing. I didn’t quite know what breathing was supposed to be anymore.

A hint of a breeze rustled around us, a whiff of cooler sea air stroking my clammy forehead. A reminder of my functioning senses, and somehow it was just enough to shake me from my paralysis. I had to be clever now. I had to think fast. If for whatever reason I had surprised him enough to silence him for two whole seconds, perhaps I could distract him for a few moments more. Give myself time to … to do what? Escape? Sound the alarm? Fight him?

Distraction. Distraction came first.

‘Oh,’ I forced myself to say. Miserable, miserable start. My voice was a high, hoarse shriek. Then again, at least I got something over my lips. ‘An unexpected visit. Would you like something to drink, perhaps?’

The fae male blinked.

An expression as perfect, as measured as everything else about him, and yet it sparked a flash of courage in me. At least he didn’t lunge forward to drive one of those knives into my chest. At least he didn’t draw the red from his black coat to blow me apart like I had shattered that pot mere minutes ago. So I swallowed and added, ‘It’s warm, and you must have been flying for a while. I should have some cool grape juice left?’

It was as if he didn’t even hear me. No response followed, not even the slightest movement. He just stood there, staring at me and at the pot at my feet and back at me, in stunned, lethal silence.

Silence.

Another thought hit me like a sledgehammer in the face. A whisper I’d heard so many times around the bonfires … They call him the Silent Death.

The Mother’s executioner.

They call him the Silent Death, because he kills without sound and leaves none capable of speaking in his wake.

My stomach turned as I staggered half a step back. No. No, I had to be jumping to conclusions. Other fae surely knew how to stay silent as well, and what were the chances the Mother would send her most feared killer to this island? But my memory droned on, the story as familiar as the nightmares it had given me. He marks his wounds in his skin, lest he forget an opponent who hurt him …

His face was a thing of impossible beauty, like an overly favourable painted portrait come to life – all sharp angles, all unreadable shadows. High cheekbones, hard lips. But a stark line of ink ran through one dark eyebrow, like a scar marked for eternity indeed.

My eyes sank to his hands. The bronze skin was marred by ink, cruel lines running over his fingers, the back of his hands, the onset of his wrist.

Oh, Zera have mercy on me.

A sound escaped me, something in between a meaningless syllable and a whimper. The Silent Death. The male who’d killed more people than I’d seen sunrises in my life, who had tortured and maimed and obliterated entire armies in the Mother’s name. He couldn’t be here. Close enough for me to smell their festive meal, hundreds of people were celebrating their victory over his kind – were celebrating that they had banned all of faekind from the island forever. But seconds passed, and still he didn’t go up in smoke.

Why hadn't he killed me yet? My people had just declared war on his. If he’d come to seek retaliation, he might as well start with me.

Was he waiting for something?

‘Is there anything I should do?’ I managed.

He stepped back. Back. An easy, graceful retreat, but a retreat nonetheless. I abruptly shut my mouth and swallowed, feeling like thorny vines made their way down my throat.

His dark eyes flashed to the house behind me. Then over my shoulder, in the direction of the square, where the music and laughter sounded louder and louder. Then back to my face, piercing into my eyes with an intensity that made the rays of the midday sun feel like dull, powerless punches.

He nodded. As if to commit me to his memory. As if to mark me.

And with one mighty sweep of his wings, he vanished.

‘Father!’

I’d walked these sandy streets for twenty years, and all of a sudden, I was stumbling as if my feet were finding their way for the very first time. The infinitely familiar white houses were a blur around me, the smell of briny sea air and dry earth a threat rather than the usual reassurance. The music and singing on the main square had become a chorus of mockery, jeering at the fear still pounding in my chest.

‘Father!’

Stares of annoyance and ridicule followed me as I elbowed my way through the crowd, sweaty and dishevelled. For once I couldn’t be bothered to make myself invisible. Father – where was he? There, on the other side of the square, chatting with a velvet-clad gentleman in the shadow of the olive trees. Only when I called him a third time did he look up. The smile stiffened on his face as he met my gaze, moving over for that thin-lipped expression I could feel writhing in my gut like nausea.

Most days, that look would have warned me to get the hell out. Today no warnings could bring down the panic pounding in my chest.

‘Father …’

Next to him, the older man threw me a look of mild curiosity and said, ‘So this is your daughter, Valter?’

‘Yes. Emelin.’ It came out between clenched teeth. I didn’t want to know what I looked like, panting and pale as a bedsheet. Not the first impression he had wanted me to make on a new powerful acquaintance from the islands to the north. ‘Em, this is professor Othmar, from Rhudak. He is …’

I didn’t care. Not if we were all going to die as soon as the Silent Death returned with his brothers in arms. Struggling to control my heaving breath, I stammered, ‘Father, the fae … the fae are coming.’

‘What?’

‘He was here. The Silent Death.’ Ground out in short, panting sentences, the words sounded ridiculous even to my own ears. ‘The garden. He—’

‘The Silent Death?’

‘—stood behind me. I don’t know how long. Then … then he left again.’

My father stared at me, with those narrowed blue eyes so unlike my own. The man at his side stared at me. Half the town stared at me, I realised in the silence that fell around me as heads turned towards us and conversations faltered, faces turning blank as my words sank in.

Then someone chuckled.

An opening shot. Snorts and sniggers rose from the audience surrounding us as the people I’d known for all my life, the people who’d known me for all my life, returned to their lavish luncheon and resumed their chats, their voices now laced with laughter. Next to my father, Othmar’s lips were trembling. My father himself sucked in a breath between his teeth as a disconcerting red rose on his face.

‘Is this a new way to avoid work, Emelin?’

‘No!’ A cold hand clenched around my throat. ‘Please, Father, I swear—’

‘If you had seen the Silent Death, Miss Emelin,’ Othmar said kindly, reaching out to pat me on a sweaty shoulder, ‘you wouldn’t be standing here to tell us the tale.’

‘Fine, perhaps he wasn’t the Silent Death!’ I wanted to break something. Wanted to draw the red from my father’s best jacket and blow a tree to splinters, if only it would make them listen. ‘But there was a fae male standing in our garden – I swear to the bloody gods, he was here, with wings and knives and everything, and he’ll be back soon, and—’

‘Emelin.’ Stop, that tone said. Stop immediately and perhaps you’ll still have dinner tonight. ‘That’s enough. Fae can’t enter Cathra anymore. There’s an iron ward around the island, remember? Whatever you’ve seen, it can’t have been the Silent Death or any of his brood.’

‘But … Father, please, I wouldn’t just—’

He closed his eyes, visibly suppressing a sigh. ‘Professor, if you’ll excuse us for a moment …’

‘Of course, of course,’ the older man said, still looking gently amused. The master painter’s dim-witted daughter. No need to blame the poor lass for her madness, was there?

‘Please,’ I said again, but Father was already dragging me away from the square, away from the mocking glances and the stealthy sniggers. I spotted my mother amidst a small group of housewives, rolling her eyes at them with an expression on her face I knew all too well.

Only around the first corner did he stand still and release my wrist. A vein pulsed dangerously at his temple.

‘Is this some far-fetched attempt at revenge for keeping you away from the feast, Em?’

‘I’m not lying,’ I said, sounding shrill like a liar. ‘I was … I was working in the garden, and then I turned around and he was standing behind me with his enormous black wings and his—’

‘It’s impossible,’ he snapped. ‘You know it is impossible. They can’t cross iron. We checked the ward this morning, and it’s still in place. Couldn’t you at least have come up with a sensible lie?’

‘But—’

‘Enough!’ He sucked in another sharp breath. ‘Do you have any idea what you just interrupted? Othmar may have ordered portraits for half of his department, and we’ll just have to hope he won’t be so put off by your ridiculous little show that he—’

‘But I didn’t—’

‘You embarrassed me, Emelin!’

The words burst out like a wild animal breaking free, loud enough to be heard on the square behind. He jerked back his head the next moment, clenching his jaws as if to keep the ugly truth in after all – but there was no unspeaking it. There was no unhearing it.

Something dulled in my chest as I stared at him, at the face I knew like the back of my hand. Thin lips curled into a furious sneer. Skin flushed with red blots. I’d embarrassed him – and I always had, hadn't I? A failure of a daughter, grown up to become a failure of an assistant. A daughter who resembled some far ancestor of his wife rather than him, who had inherited powers that should have died out with my great-aunt Gisele, who – in spite of all his attempts at discipline and regulations – still couldn’t behave as befitted a member of his household. An embarrassment, indeed. A shameful secret to be kept far from the public eye.

‘I see,’ I said hoarsely.

He took a step back, breathing heavily. ‘Go home, Em.’

‘Alright.’ Even the fury had sizzled out, leaving nothing but lifeless resignation behind. ‘I’ll just … finish the chores, then.’

‘Yes. Very well. Excellent work.’ As if that meagre excuse of a compliment would compensate for the words he’d just hurled into my face. ‘Don’t stay in the sun too long. Perhaps the warmth made you imagine things.’

A peace offering. I couldn’t be bothered to object anymore.

‘Perhaps.’

‘Go home,’ he repeated. ‘We’ll see you tonight.’

I didn’t move. He muttered a curse and awkwardly patted me on the shoulder, then slid past me and hurried back to the square. Back to his impressive guests and his portrait commissions. Back to the meat and the merriment and the mocking whispers about the mess of a young woman he’d raised.

Behind me, the clamour of voices and flutes had risen to its original volume again, as if I had never stormed onto the square to blurt out my warning at all.

Go home.

I did not go home.

I didn’t repair the rest of the pot. I was an embarrassment anyway, whether they knew about my magic use or not.

Instead I made my way to the coastline, kicked off my slippers, and walked.

It took me three hours to walk the full perimeter of Cathra, wading barefoot through the foam and the shallow blue water, following the endless line of iron. Bar after bar lay in the white sand, the ends nailed together by the blacksmith’s apprentices. The ward held. There was not a single gap to be found, not a single hole through which a murderous fae male might have sneaked onto the island.

And yet I had seen the bastard. No amount of smothering warmth could have made me imagine something so perfectly frightening – something so hauntingly beautiful.

But no cloud of fae warriors arrived to put a bloody end to the festivities. When I returned home, the sun now a red jewel just above the horizon, the party was still going and my parents still hadn't returned home.

All as it should be – except for that short, silent meeting in the garden.

I paced through the living room for another hour, fear and confusion warring for preference. Was I going mad after all? Did the Silent Death have secret powers enabling him to cross even the ward we’d made? Or was iron just not as effective as it should have been, despite all reports of the metal keeping fae out?

This was not the moment to ask the men and women who’d done that research, presumably.

I’d hauled myself into bed by the time darkness fell, unable to think of anything better to do. If he hadn't come back yet, perhaps he wouldn’t come tonight. Tomorrow I’d see if anyone could help me figure out the situation.

But no matter how hard I tried to reassure myself, I lay awake for hours. When sleep finally found me, I dreamt of swooshing velvet wings and dark eyes so bottomless they might lead straight to hell.

Chapter 2

I woke to the smell of fire.

It wasn’t the homely kind, the festive kind, fire smelling of freshly chopped pinewood and dripping meat. This was a sharp, foul smell. The stench of something that shouldn’t be burning but burnt nonetheless.

I groaned into my pillow and tried to make sense of the world around me. Fire? There had been fire that afternoon, on the square – for the celebration. For the iron ward around the island. The fae, the winged male in the garden … No, he had to be a figment of my dreams …

With another groan, I rolled to my back and blinked open my eyes. The light peeking between my ragged curtains danced along the walls with an unusual orange glow.

Fire.

At once, all sleep vanished from my mind.

I jerked upright and jumped out of bed, pulling the tangle of thin sheets with me. They knotted around my ankles as I made for the window, and I nearly stumbled face-first into the wall before I even reached the curtains. Heart hammering, breath heaving, I yanked the heavy cloth aside and froze.

Before me, the world was burning.

Hungry flames rose from every single house as far as I could see, licked at the curtains and the roofs and ate its way through the wooden beams and plastered walls. Thick, whirling smoke fumed into the night sky above, and swarms of sparks burst from the inferno wherever I looked, leaving the dry trees and grass smouldering where they landed. Even through the thin glass of my window, I heard the roaring of the flames, the crashing of collapsing roofs and walls.

No other sound disturbed the eerie vision. Nothing else moved.

I staggered away from the window and raised a shaky hand to my upper arm. No. This couldn’t be real. A thought for my paralysed mind to cling to – this had to be a nightmare. Soon I’d wake up and find the skies clear again, the town peacefully asleep. Soon …

I pinched the skin of my upper arm between thumb and forefinger, hard. A flare of pain pierced through me. Real pain. A real touch.

No.

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. I was just going mad; it was the better alternative. I had imagined the fae male too, and all of this was a simple, terrible lie …

But what if he had been real?

I stood there, stupefied, bare feet glued to the wooden floor, as the realisation sank into my thoughts.

It hadn't been madness. It hadn't been the warmth. That brutally graceful vision in the garden had been as real as the sun and the grass and that cursed broken pot – he had been there, and seen me, and spared me for whatever unfathomable reason.

And now he had come back. And brought death and utter destruction with him.

Fear splintered through me, shattering the numbness of my thoughts for the first time. Out. I had to get out. Was our house burning already? The small hall was black as ink when I threw open my door and fled my room – somehow the walls had withstood the gruelling heat so far. Two steps and I was at the other door, the one that led to my parents’ bedroom. Here the smell of smoke was thick enough to make my eyes water, but only a faraway shine of fire lit the walls.

The room was empty.

I stumbled to a standstill in the doorway, my breath squeaking in my throat. ‘Mother?’

No answer. Louder, I tried, ‘Father?’

Nothing.

Head spinning, I staggered inside. A messy bed. An open closet. Shirts and dresses strewn over the floor, as if someone had searched my parents’ wardrobe, then thrown a fit when the object of their interest was nowhere to be found. A misplaced, ridiculous rage rose in me – I’d organised that closet just yesterday, damn it. Wasted half an hour folding my father’s favourite shirts and my mother’s beautiful summer dresses, and after all that work …

After all that work, those shirts and dresses were nowhere to be seen.

It took a while for that thought to come through.

Their clothes were gone. And not just their clothes – there used to be bags beside the closet, too, the bags my father used for his many trips to the other islands. Now there was nothing in that corner of the room. I turned around, breath catching in my throat, and grabbled underneath my mother’s pillow. The necklace she took off at night – gone.

Gone.

They had fled already? Fled without me?

My body no longer felt like my own as I pulled back my hand and wobbled out of the room. It walked down the stairs all by itself, my feet understanding the necessity of flight better than my mind did. The pungent stink of smoke barely reached me anymore. Even the fear had numbed to no more than a dazed, lethal confusion. I should have armed myself before I stepped out, I vaguely realised. I should have been wearing more than a knee-length white nightgown that might catch fire as soon as the first sparks got caught in the linen. But I wandered onto the street like a sleepwalker, noting only that my parents’ coats were both missing from the rack in the hall.

The world was still oddly, eerily silent as I walked.

Smoke churned all around me and turned my breathing into a laboured panting. My eyes stung. Through the tears, I saw only the greedy flames, swallowing everything and everyone I had known in my life – eating people alive in their beds, and yet there were no screams, no cries for help. Had they all left? Had they just forgotten me, left me to burn to death?

But my house didn’t burn. Fire raged down the full length of the street, and through the streets beyond as far as I could see, shrouding every single building in flames and sparks. And yet my house was still covered in darkness. Someone had spared it.

Someone had spared me.

I hadn't been forgotten at all. Quite the opposite – I had been remembered.

But if I was supposed to survive the night …

Something moved in the corner of my eye.

I jolted around, heart slamming into my throat. A weapon. I should have brought a weapon. But here I stood, empty-handed and dressed only in useless, colourless white – and fifteen yards away from me, a study in stillness against the background of the twisting, blazing flames, he stood.

Wings folded in, this time. Long hair bound behind his head. Hands tucked into dark gloves. A dark god ascended from the pits of hell to wreak havoc upon all those who wronged him, to mark his triumph in fire and blood – but there was no trace of triumph on his face. Only cold, ruthless calculation. Only death.

I should have fled.

But what would have been the sense in fleeing? His eyes had locked on me, a predator’s gaze. If I ran, he would be faster. If I swam, he would fly. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, and in this blazing, unreal nightmare, what did I have left to flee for?

I raised my left hand to my face as if to wipe aside the locks that had escaped my loose braid. My fingertips stroked over the dark brown strands – dark brown. Three parts red, two parts blue and yellow each.

Red for destruction.

I flung the magic at him.

The spark of red shot from my fingertips, hurled at him with ten times the force I’d applied to that garden pot. It should have hurt him. It should at the very least have left a nasty cut wherever it hit. But the Silent Death merely raised a hand, as if that commanding gesture would hold the magic back, and caught the flash of power in the palm of his gloved hand like a man catching a fly. The leather didn’t burst. His face didn’t betray a hint of pain. Somehow he had … absorbed the attack?

Was that something he could do? Was it something anyone could do?

I staggered two steps back, flames roaring at me from all sides, and fired a second desperate burst of red at him. He easily stepped forward and snatched the magic from the air again. Then didn’t stop walking. Closer and closer he sauntered, with long, unhurried strides, as I stumbled backwards, away from him, not daring to turn my back on him. Was this an attack? Was he going to kill me after all? But he had magic too, and I wouldn’t be able to deflect his attack like he had done with mine … So why would he even need to come closer? To use his knives? Was he about to slit my throat, and was this the last I’d see of the world, a burning ghost town and a sky full of smoke and dancing sparks?

I had just attacked him. He had no reason to spare me – none at all.

‘Please,’ I ground out. I didn’t want to beg. I didn’t want to offer him that satisfaction. But my tongue spoke for me, clinging to some survivor’s instinct I hadn't known I possessed. ‘Please, don’t kill me – I didn’t mean …’

Didn’t mean to kill him? I had damn well meant to kill him. Still he remained quiet as he continued to close the gap between us, close enough now for me to distinguish the details of his chiselled face in the flickering golden light. He looked … grimmer than that afternoon. There was a tension around his hard lips that hadn't been there before, a shimmer of sweat in his dark hairline. His eyes didn’t let go of me, a fierce, focused look of what was nearly … need?

Oh, Zera have mercy.

Was that why he hadn't killed me yet – was I his reward for his hard work of the night? His toy to fill the hours until even the last ashes of Cathra had stopped smouldering? Move, my thoughts screamed at my legs, but my body had taken root in its spot as he strolled closer, closer, closer. The knives at his belt reflected the firelight in blinding, dazzling fragments. The darkness of his eyes didn’t reflect any fire at all.

‘Please,’ I whispered.

He lifted his left hand to his chest and loosened his long black coat. The expertly tailored shirt below was unbuttoned at the chest, revealing a glimpse of a muscular torso that made me want to throw up. I didn’t want to know the rest of that body, that living breathing instrument of murder and destruction. I certainly didn’t want to touch it. But he ignored my wordless sputtering, tugged the coat off his shoulders …

And handed it to me.

The world seemed to freeze around us. I blinked at the dark piece of clothing half an arm’s length away from me, a velvet creation worth more than the house in which I lived. The fae male didn’t pull back. He didn’t look away. He just stood, his face an unreadable mask of dark, lethal power, and waited.

Did he want me to take it? Why?

‘I – I don’t need a coat,’ I managed.

He raised one eyebrow a fraction and didn’t move. An unexpected but most welcome flare of anger burst through me, shaking the life back into my limbs. That patronising look, that fae arrogance – as if I was little more than an unwitting fool.

‘And even if I needed one,’ I added, my voice trembling, ‘I’d rather freeze than wear yours.’

He shrugged and threw the heap of velvet into my hands without waiting for further objections. I clenched my arms around the warm fabric by reflex and staggered back, away from him. His dark eyes finally let go of me.

‘What are you going to do with me?’ I whispered.

He waved that point away, sizing up my house with a few quick glances. His tattooed left hand trailed lightly over his thigh as he lifted his right arm and aimed it at the walls; a flash of magic and the black of his trousers turned a drab dark purple. Yellow for change. The walls of my house, clay and white plaster until a moment before, had turned into wood.

Oh, no.

Not Father’s paintings. Not Mother’s flowers. Not my fabrics and my needles and my dresses – but the Silent Death stepped back and picked up a burning log from the sand of the streets.

‘No,’ I said.

Another flash of magic. The door swung open, the lock ruined.

‘No!’

He didn’t look back as he stepped forward, the makeshift torch in his hand.

I didn’t know what I was planning to do, didn’t know what chance I had of stopping him. But I leaped forward before I gave myself the time to figure it out, throwing myself between him and the door, my left hand clawing into the dark coat in my arms. The black was the only weapon I had.

The Silent Death stopped his advance, examining me with a look of what was not yet surprise, but at least … interest.

I lifted my chin and held his gaze, ignoring my own shaking knees and laboured breathing. He was near enough now for me to distinguish the long lashes framing his dark eyes. From so close, he seemed even taller; in the flickering firelight, his high cheekbones became edges as sharp as any knife. Behind his shoulders, his wings shifted slightly. The motion looked like preparation for attack.

How often did people throw themselves into his path? How often did they live to tell the tale?

‘Please,’ I said again. I didn’t know where I was going, what cards I had to play. But he had spared me. He made my parents disappear and kept me here. Didn’t that mean I was somehow valuable to him? ‘Please, you’re burning all I have. Let me at least keep something before you—’

He was already shaking his head before I could finish, with the weary sigh of a man forced to endure the company of a particularly aggravating toddler.

He sighed. My rage eclipsed the light of my good sense for a moment.

‘That’s all you’re going to do? Sigh and shake your head at me?’ I spat out a laugh, clenching my trembling fingers even tighter into the black velvet. ‘Imagine you’d stoop to speak to me. You might just sully your sacred voice by using it in the vicinity of some lowly human, and—’

He flung the burning log aside, back into the sand, and surprise made me shut my mouth mid-sentence.

Without taking his eyes from mine, the Silent Death drew something small from the pocket of his trousers – a leatherbound notebook, barely larger than the palm of my hand. With it came a pencil shorter than my thumb. In his crudely tattooed fingers, it looked like it could snap in two at the slightest twitch.

‘What …’

A slender hand beckoned me closer. I blinked but staggered forward – closer to the danger, closer to his knives, but disobeying seemed the deadlier option. The fae male turned his gaze to the notebook, silky strands of long hair falling over his face as he scribbled. In a tight hand, barely readable in the red light of the roaring fires, his words appeared.

Much as I’d love to treat you to the sound of my sacred voice, circumstances forbid me at the moment. Explanation follows.

I lifted my gaze back to his face and opened my mouth, momentarily lost for words. His brows drew together in a clear, cold-hearted warning to shut up.

I did not shut up.

‘You can’t talk? You …’

The way his wings came up and down suggested a shrug.

‘Oh.’ The Silent Death, indeed – was it a matter of necessity, rather than some imposing reputation he liked to cultivate around himself? I uttered a breathless laugh and said, ‘Where are my parents?’

He sighed but lifted his pencil to the parchment again. Gone.

‘Do you mean you killed them, or—’

No. Sent them off. He nodded at the fire behind us and added a quick Everyone.

‘You made the entire town leave? Where would they …’

White City.

I had trouble breathing all of a sudden. The only human city that had never been conquered by fae, that didn’t pay tributes to the Mother – but to buy your place into it cost a fortune, and for over a hundred people to emigrate there …

‘They’ll never get in.’

They will.

‘What …’ I shook my head, breathing a baffled laugh. ‘Why would I believe you would ever help them like that – why would you …’

He produced another irritable shrug as he underlined a few words at the top of his page. Explanation follows. Then, without waiting for my answer, he stuck both notebook and pencil back in his pocket – the voiceless equivalent of demonstratively shutting his mouth.

‘Oh, no,’ I said, stepping back and scanning his arrogant face for clues. None of this made sense. He might as well have killed all of them, somewhere out of sight, and returned to feed me his lies for whatever mysterious reason. I wasn’t going to put my blind trust in the Mother’s most feared killer, the last fae in the world who’d have reason to grant a village of rebelling humans such clemency. This was the same male who had tortured a little girl in Phurys to death before her parents’ eyes. Who had single-handedly slaughtered three dozen adult men at the Miners’ Uprising twenty winters ago. ‘That’s not enough. That’s not even close to—’

He moved forward so fast I never even saw him coming.

One merciless wingbeat, and an unwavering arm caught me around the waist before I had even started running, pinning me against a chest as hard as granite.

‘Let me go!’

He dragged me with him like a bag of grain, throwing his burning log through my front door as he passed it.

‘Please.’ I was sobbing all of a sudden, kicking and elbowing, failing to create even the slightest bit of wiggle room. ‘Please, just let me check if they’re alright – just let me say goodbye, wherever you …’

His arm loosened a fraction, and I clenched my left hand into his dark sleeve and fired a burst of red magic into the wrist holding me. With a sharp hiss, he let go. Not invulnerable, then. I leapt forward without looking back and sprinted down the street with his black coat still in my arms. Closer to the burning houses, the heat was so intense I could barely breathe. But I had to run, I had to be fast. If I could just get to the jetty, see if the boats were indeed gone …

The sand before me moved.

Moved and changed colour. Suddenly the street was no longer a street but a tangled mass of vines, snaring around my feet and climbing up my bare calves, my knees. I screamed and flailed my arms through the air, trying to regain my balance.

A hand locked around my wrist, warm and inescapable.

Wings slammed around me, and my feet were pulled off the ground, out of the vines’ hungry reach. A second arm reached around my lower back, and again the Silent Death pulled me against his chest as he soared farther down the street, never more than a few feet above the ground. At the edge of town, he landed in a single supple motion and put me back on my feet, without releasing my arm.

‘You bastard,’ I managed breathlessly. ‘You—’

He stepped around me, back into my view, and placed a single commanding finger over my mouth.

Every sound dissolved in the back of my throat as his gaze locked onto mine again.

I wanted to bite. I wanted to swear at him again for daring to touch me like that, the pressure of his finger so dangerously firm against my lips. But his eyebrow rose a fraction, and without a voice to accompany the gesture, I couldn’t for the life of me tell if it was amusement, impatience, or bloodlust. Just in case it was the latter, I nodded.

He pulled back his finger, breaking eye contact to check the knives at his belt.

‘And now?’ I breathed.

I barely heard myself over the noise of another house collapsing, but perhaps those pointed ears caught sound more easily than my own. With his free hand, he yanked his coat from my grip and swung it around my shoulders like a Rhudaki cloak.

‘I’m not cold,’ I insisted, trying to back away. The scent of soft velvet and warm skin closed around me, and I couldn’t stand how human, how pleasant it smelled. ‘You set an entire town on fire. Staying warm is really not going to be …’

He nodded upwards. I fell silent again.

‘You’re saying … the sky is colder.’

The Mother’s murderer shrugged and scooped me into his muscular arms, drawing me against his chest again.

‘No.’ It had become a meaningless chant, without conviction or hope. Zera help me – was he going to abduct me? Like fae males did, and the women they took were never seen again … ‘No, please, I …’

His wings flared out behind him, hiding even the burning, smoking ruins of Cathra from my view for a moment.

‘No.’

His wrists didn’t yield under the full force of my nails. His hand around my knees effortlessly held my legs in place. For a last dangerous moment, I considered putting a hand against his black-clad chest and sending a burst of red into his face, because even if he’d kill me in retaliation, at least I’d go down fighting …

Then velvety wings swept out around me, and with three majestic strokes, we shot towards the smoke-stained heaven, leaving the sizzling, smouldering ruins of my life behind.

Into the night.

Into a nightmare.

I gave up on struggling. Hundreds of feet in the air, the infinite sea stretching out below us, hurting the fae male who carried me would inevitably send me plunging to a useless, senseless death.

The glowing remainders of Cathra sank below the horizon within minutes, and then there was only unending night around us – the dark sea below and the bright starry sky above and nothing but me and my kidnapper in between. His arms were unwavering, a cage from which no escape was possible. His wingbeats followed a calm, steady rhythm, like the beating of a heart. Around my frozen body, those wings were all that moved in the stillness of the night.

But there, miles away from our shores already, a small fleet of lights floated on the water.

I gasped as the Silent Death changed course and soared closer towards them. Boats – I could distinguish boats and oars in the light of dozens of lanterns. Sails, too, although there was little wind on this night. I knew those sails, the brightly coloured cloth I had painted together with my father when I was barely ten years old. Sun and sea had paled the fish we had drawn on our fleet, but I could still make out the blue smudges even from hundreds of feet away.

My people. They were alive.

But as soon as I sucked in a breath to cry out for them, the Silent Death abruptly swung in the opposite direction.

‘No!’ Tears were burning in my throat all of a sudden. ‘Please, fly closer – I’ll be silent, I promise. Just let me see – let me check …’

I felt his deep sigh even through the velvet of his coat, but he did as I asked.

None of them looked up to the sky as we flew over them. I saw dozens of familiar heads gathered in the little boats, organising hastily packed bags and food provisions. Heard Ram and Ellard shout commands at the boys who held the oars. And in the first boat, the one bravely cleaving the dark waters towards the north …

Mother and Nettie were singing.

Behind high walls, as white as snow,

Where snowbirds sing and lilies grow …

The ballad of the White City.

So they were going. They were really, truly going, to that place where most humans only dreamed of living – where there were no yearly tributes, no abductions, no rebellions. Where they would be safe.

Where I might one day see them again.

I clung to that thought as we left their small fleet behind and flew out to the south – a straight line to the Crimson Court, into the arms of the Mother herself. One day, I would escape whatever fate this fae murderer had planned for me. One day I would find my way to the north all by myself. And I would find my father in a new workshop, painting for the richest of the city; I would find my mother singing in her rooms. And even if Cathra would never exist again, my family would.

‘Thank you,’ I whispered into the night.

Not for his mercy, wherever it came from. Not for that last glimpse he had allowed me of life as I’d known it. But for the hope he’d given me – for a new, simple goal that could keep me standing through a night that had shattered my future and left me flailing in a world that would never be the same again.

Chapter 3

The stars shifted above us as we flew. Every now and then, the shine of fire reached us from the horizon, a sign of other islands, of civilised life. After a while, a thin sheet of water droplets clung to my face and hair, and my hands and feet slowly grew cold as ice. I refused to notice. If I felt the cold, I’d have to be grateful for the warm velvet coat draped around my shoulders, and I’d rather have dropped a thousand feet to my death than do any such thing.

We must have been flying for hours by the time the lights loomed before us.

The island was larger, much larger than I’d ever dared to imagine, stretching over miles and miles of the horizon as we approached. In the night, it lay glittering in the sea like an answer to the starry sky above. The edges were darkest, only the occasional lit window betraying that buildings stood closer to the coast as well. But towards the centre of the island, up the slopes of its hills and mountains, the place was brimming with life and light. Fires flickered behind the windows, and strange glowing orbs illuminated the streets between. Behind that sprawling city, built on the island’s highest mountain …

The Mother’s home. The Crimson Court.

The palace’s towers rose from the earth in cruel, razor-sharp peaks, like the jaws of some hideous monster that should never have survived to this day and age. Elegant, perhaps, and grand and majestic, but it radiated an ancient power that clenched cold around my heart.

This, then, was the heart of faekind.

The place where humans went, never to be seen again. The seat of the High Lady who’d demanded our sacrifices of food and gold and labour every year, until finally Cathra had taken its stance …

And paid the price.

What in the gods’ names was I doing here?

Surviving. The word welled in me like an answer given by someone else, someone far wiser than my stumped, twenty-year-old self. That was what I was doing here: surviving. Because I was going to travel to the White City one day, and to get to the White City, I would have to stay alive.

Life really wasn’t so complicated when you had a clear goal in mind.

So I didn’t try to run as the Silent Death gracefully landed on a broad marble terrace and put me back on my feet. Running probably wouldn’t improve my chances of survival – not while I was still dressed only in a flimsy nightgown and a black coat that reached nearly to my ankles. Not while I was surrounded by—

Were those dogs?

Yellow eyes stared at me from the darkness behind the terrace’s marble balustrade. I could make out no more than the moving silhouettes of the creatures, as tall as cows, but prowling through the gardens with a predatory agility that told me they were something far, far worse. In the distance, too far to determine what direction it came from, something howled as if to announce our arrival.

I found myself slowly backing towards the castle’s open gate.

The entrance loomed before me like a mouth stretching wide to swallow me, looking dangerously close to the portals of hell that my father had once painted for a clergyman from Asval. The outer walls of the castle were built from a marble so red that it looked like they were gleaming with fresh blood. Inside, behind those high doors, a broad gallery waited to welcome us, the walls between the pillars covered in brightly coloured frescos of battles and victories, violent compositions of shredded wings and bloodied corpses.

Red for destruction, indeed.

The Silent Death didn’t give me time to take in my new surroundings. He grabbed my wrist as soon as I passed through that towering doorway and pulled me with him, his free hand resting on the hilt of one of his daggers. Red and gold and white marble opened up around us, every next corridor more lavish than the last.

And here I was, wet and dishevelled and dirty – a pathetic human captive.

The Silent Death didn’t falter as he tugged me along, through the pillared galleries and the majestic halls of the palace. In this place of deadly grandeur, he was deadlier still, a creature of murderous shadows in his black leather and velvet. I trotted after him, my shorter legs barely able to keep up with his long strides, and tried my best not to slip, not to stumble. I wasn’t sure if he’d stop if I fell. The hand locked around my wrist suggested he might drag me all the way to wherever we were going.

Fae eyes were everywhere. I wasn’t going to give them the pleasure of seeing me treated like an old bag of dirt.

The halls were quiet at first, then grew noisier and busier the farther we made our way into the castle. I’d never even realised there were this many fae in the world. They were tall, all of them, although the Silent Death was still one of the tallest; they dressed in all colours of the rainbow, their heads and necks and fingers wrapped in exquisite gold and silver and gems. Some were olive-skinned and dark-haired like the male pulling me with him, but just as many of the court’s inhabitants were dark like burnt umber or as pale as the people of Cathra, their hair ranging from the brightest honey-blond to a black so deep it was nearly blue.

The looks on their faces were all the same, though, derisive sneers and suppressed sniggers as they watched my graceless stumbling behind the infuriating elegance of my captor’s stride.

It didn’t matter. I could handle laughter. At least I was still alive.

I didn’t know how long we had walked when the Silent Death stopped dead in his tracks at a pearly white door. It looked like every other door in that particular corridor, but he pushed it open without hesitation and shoved me into the room behind without a word of apology. It seemed to be an office of sorts. By the light of only the small glowing orb at the ceiling, I couldn’t tell what the towering piles of books and parchments were about.

My abductor shut the door behind him. My heart slammed into my throat again – but he turned his winged back towards me as if I weren’t even there, as if it hadn’t occured to him in how many unpleasant ways he might make use of this sudden privacy. With two steps, he was at the cabinet at the other side of the room and flung it open.

‘Still no explanation, I suppose?’ I said bitterly, tucking his coat a little closer around my shoulders. I had intended to snap, but after hours of flying in the cold, my voice had weakened to a hoarse whine. Didn’t matter. The displeasure came across well enough.

He turned his head towards me, his scowl a wordless command to be still and stay put. No answer, yet again, and the fury in my veins reached a boiling point in the face of that persistent, careless silence.

‘You could at the very least tell me if I’m supposed to survive the night.’

He furrowed his brow, grabbing his notebook from his pocket again. His bronze fingers picked a lead pencil from one of the desk’s many drawers and scrabbled down a hasty note.

Could have killed you in more efficient ways.

‘You might have been in need of an innocent virgin to sacrifice for some fae ritual.’

He scoffed and turned back to his silent rummaging.

‘Look,’ I said sharply, ‘you can pretend I’m stupid all you want, but your kind does have a habit of making humans disappear without a trace. What else am I here for? Warming your bed?’

The Silent Death snapped towards me again, for the first time with a hint of bewilderment on his vexingly perfect face. I couldn’t help feeling a tad offended, despite the source of the insult.

‘I’m not that ugly.’

His lip curled up a fraction, but again he turned away without answering me and pulled three browned parchment scrolls from the mess of documents. I suppressed a violent urge to snatch them out of his hands and slap him in the face with them.

I was going to survive this place. Hitting a fae murderer in the face with his own documents wasn’t the safest of strategies, even if he needed me for whatever reason.

‘Please. Just …’

Later, he scribbled in his notebook, his fingers clearly strained below those scar-like lines of ink etched into the skin.

‘Later? You destroyed my home and kidnapped me and now you want me to wait?’

He nodded without looking up from the first parchment scroll as he unrolled it, gave it a single glance, and rolled it up tightly again.

‘And at least look at me when you answer me.’

His eyes met mine for the shortest moment, their dark depths shimmering with something that could be a warning as easily as cold, inhuman indifference. Watch your words, that look told me. You’re speaking to the fae whose name alone can make grown warriors shiver, who could turn you into a bloody heap of bones and gore without even batting an eye. The fae who spared your people only by an unusual show of mercy and who has no reason to extend that mercy beyond reasonable limits. Know your place.

I knew my place. It was located somewhere among the ranks of the perpetually stupid and the unreasonably stubborn.

‘That’s better,’ I said.

He blinked.

And looked away. Without turning me into a bloody heap of bones and gore.

A small spark of triumph burst through the numbness – so he needed me alive, indeed. And no matter how coldly and unfeelingly his eyes shot along the text, no matter how utterly in control he seemed, there were still ways to throw him off balance.

Observations to store meticulously in the back of my mind. They might well be the best weapon I had.

He didn’t throw the second scroll aside as fast as he’d discarded the first one. I caught a glimpse of long lists of names and dates, neatly arranged in rows and columns – but he found what he was looking for a moment later and chucked the three rolls back into the cabinet before I recognised any of the names.

‘And?’ I said.

He grabbed his notebook again, tore off the upper page and stuck the rest into his pocket. Planting that single page on the desk, he wrote, Don’t say a word about your magic.

I blinked. ‘What?’

She’ll hurt you.

He threw the pencil back in the drawer it had come from and laid his left hand against his black-clad thigh. A red flash, and the note crumbled to dust on the wooden surface of the desk.

‘Do you mean …’

This time he didn’t even bother with warning glares. I bit my tongue as he pulled open the door again and gestured for me to follow, not dragging me out by the wrist this time. With the words of his letter still etched into my mind’s eye, I was dumbfounded enough to obey.

She’ll hurt you.

There was only one person he could reasonably be referring to – but was the Silent Death, of all fae, keeping secrets from the Mother?

No time to ask questions. No time to even wonder. Again he led me through the labyrinth of marble and gold, identical hallway after identical hallway, spiralling staircase after spiralling staircase, until I was sure I would wander around for the rest of my life if I lost sight of his dark wings for the shortest moment. I didn’t know if he would even notice if he lost me. He never slowed down or looked back even in the most crowded of corridors; a path cleared itself around his tall figure wherever he turned.

Even the people he killed for knew to fear him. And yet …

Don’t say a word about your magic.

I wanted to think. I wanted to be clever. But my mind was slowly caving in under layers of fear and grief and fury and simple, numb shock; trotting after his winged back without collapsing on the cold marble floor of this palace seemed enough of a challenge already. So I focused on keeping up. I focused on surviving. The rest, hopefully, could wait.

It was before a broad, copper-and-ruby plated gate that the Silent Death eventually stood still and grabbed my shoulder. As if he thought I might try to run if I found out what awaited me behind those doors.

That, more than anything else, immediately made me want to run.

But he was holding me. I had nowhere else to go.

So I allowed him to push me forward as the gates slowly opened before us. Allowed him to escort me into the immense hall that lay beyond, its white walls not built from those large marble blocks, but from smaller, browner …

Bones.

The hall was built out of bones.

Thousands, millions of them, stuck together with crude iron nails to form walls higher than three of Cathra’s houses stacked on top of each other. High above my head, they came together in sharp arches, decorated with dozens and dozens of grinning skulls – human skulls.

Human bones.

My knees buckled. If not for the unyielding fingers clasped around my upper arm, I might have dropped to the floor and never gotten up again.

But the Silent Death pulled me forward, and I had no choice but to stumble after him. Around us, the crowd gasped and fell silent as it caught sight of us, and with a hasty flurry of wings and dresses, a path cleared through the centre. It led straight to the monstrosity on the far side of the room, a hundred feet away at least.

It was, presumably, a throne.

But the creation was larger than any throne I’d seen in my life, larger than any throne my father had ever painted. Constructed out of more polished bones, it stood taller than an average human house and was broad enough to seat a small crowd. Yet in the middle of that abundance of space, surrounded by heaps of silk pillows and velvet draperies, only a single woman presided over the room.

There was nothing motherly about her. Nothing soft or warm or gentle.

The Mother carried the air of an icicle come to life, as if the soul of a shard of glass had been caught in a fae body. A face like a powdered porcelain doll, with large blue eyes and pillowy lips. Long, white hair – not blonde, but white, the empty colour of exhausted magic. A body that curved and dipped in all the right places, the contours of it perfectly visible through the many folds of her shimmering, semi-transparent silver dress.

It was a beauty that made me want to jump behind her murderer’s back, pull his wings around me, and hide from her gaze until we left the hall again.

He still held my shoulder, however. His hands pushed me forward, closer and closer to that gruesome beauty on her throne. The firm grip of his fingers was a constant reminder of his words – don’t say a word about your magic. Oh, Zera help me. I’d be lucky if I managed to bring a single sensible word to my lips.

But I would survive. I would survive.

I kept my gaze on the marble floor below her feet and walked on, fighting my body’s desperate reflex to turn and run. To think that I’d been home only hours ago. That I’d thought a hot sun and some dirty aprons were the worst of my problems. It struck me so violently I nearly burst into tears before the eyes of the gathered fae court, that I’d give my life for a list of boring chores and one of my mother’s irritated lectures now.

The hand at my shoulder abruptly halted me, and I stood still, my eyes focused on the smooth marble before the colossal throne. The Silent Death pushed me down. I fell to my knees without another thought. From the corner of my eye, I saw him do the same, albeit infinitely more elegantly.

‘Creon,’ the Mother said.

Her voice was like the tingling of silver bells, high and clear and devoid of all affection. I tried to recall if it that single word had been among the Faerie vocabulary they had us learn on Ildhelm. Then the Silent Death looked up beside me, and I realised that his moniker was probably not the name he had received from his parents at birth.

Creon. Hard and cold. It suited him.

The hall was silent. His lips didn’t move. But the High Lady on the throne hummed a note of approval, as if she’d heard him speak nonetheless. Her answer came in their own language, of which I knew no more than a few sentences – but I heard her say Cathra. I heard her say myris – death.

Again there was a short silence, and this time she laughed. ‘And your companion?’

In my own language, suddenly. The words were intended for my ears now. But the Silent Death didn’t even glance at me as he answered in that mysterious, wordless way.

‘Amused?’ Another melodious tingle of laughter. ‘The gods have mercy. We all remember what happened last time a young lady amused you a little too much, don’t we?’

Some cautious sniggers rose from the fae audience. I glanced aside from beneath the brown tangles of my hair, but Creon’s hard face didn’t show a trace of shame or annoyance. His full lips curled into a smile of faint amusement – amusement and a hint of cruel arrogance. The first smile I’d seen from him, and it confirmed everything I hadn't wanted to know about his sense of humour.

He’d probably found it rather entertaining to torture that girl to death in Phurys, too. May have smiled just like that when he cut the faces of his Vernari prisoners to shreds.

I stifled a shiver. Perhaps I’d best not even wonder what had become of the last young lady who’d amused him.

Whatever his answer was, the Mother seemed content. Her next words came out even more sweetly and sounded even colder. ‘Look up, girl.’

I froze. Next to me, Creon sighed, the loudest sound I’d ever heard him make, and pulled me to my feet without so much as a look at me. I staggered to keep my balance and again heard the lords and ladies of the court giggle behind my back – louder this time, now that the object of their amusement didn’t wear two deadly knives and an even deadlier glare.

Somehow I raised my head and forced myself to meet the Mother’s gaze.

Her blue eyes may have been large like a doll’s, but they couldn’t possibly be mistaken for a young woman’s eyes. There was a wintry cold to them, an infinite frost. Had anyone told me that these eyes had been around to see the mountains grow and the islands rise above the water, I would have believed it.

I was nothing under that gaze. A spindly child in a cheap nightdress and a coat that didn’t belong to me, barefoot and with unkempt hair. I could see her take note of every deficiency as those immortal blue eyes slid over my body and back to my face in a single, blood-curdling heartbeat.

Then she pulled up the corners of her doll mouth. I’d have preferred for her not to.

‘What is your name, girl?’

‘Emelin, Mother.’ I barely breathed the syllables, familiar as my own skin. She heard them nonetheless, or perhaps the male next to me had already introduced me.

‘Emelin.’ She seemed to taste the sound of it. ‘How charming. What do you think of our court, Emelin?’

I’d rather swim back all the way home through the cold and tempestuous ocean than spend a minute longer in this place. True, but not a survivor’s answer.

‘It’s beautiful, Mother,’ I forced myself to whisper.

‘More beautiful than the island you come from?’

More beautiful than Cathra – this place of cruel luxury for which so many of my people had died? Something inside me withered. But I couldn’t let it show, not if I wanted to survive … I was a simple, unremarkable human, I told myself, meek and helpless, of the kind that certainly didn’t possess any magic. I was amusing and compliant. No snarky reply had ever tainted my lips.

It wasn’t hard to look weak in front of this massive throne, under that withering stare. The knowledge that she could split me in two with a snap of her fingers was enough to press the sensation of powerlessness deep into the marrow of my bones.

‘The Crimson Court compares to Cathra like you compare to me, Mother,’ I said meekly, lowering my head.

She laughed out loud. ‘Oh, you’re delightful, indeed. Tell us, girl, did the people of your island suffer enough for the transgression they committed against us? Creon assured us they suffered terribly as they died.’

Creon’s breath caught next to me.

Zera be my witness, I was going to kill him. I was at the very least going to hurt him very, very badly for making me do this, for making me stand here without the slightest bit of explanation or preparation. But if I was ever going to take my revenge, I had to be a timid, powerless human in the Mother’s eyes, and timid, powerless humans didn’t fling destructive magic at fae murderers, no matter how much they deserved it.

So I kept my eyes focused on the floor below her feet, desperately blinked away the sharp tears that threatened to well in my eyes, and muttered, ‘I don’t think anyone could ever suffer enough to make up for their shameless disregard for your generosity.’

‘Not even Creon’s punishment of fire and blood?’ she purred. ‘Of parents watching their children burn alive?’ She sounded like she was taking great delight in every word – every inaccurate word. Nobody had died burning – nobody had died at all. I had seen them sail away alive. So either she was luring me into some dangerous fae trap—

Or Creon had lied again.

What game was the Silent Death playing, exactly?

‘His punishment came close to sufficient, Mother,’ I managed. My heart was hammering so loud I was sure she would hear it even from the top of that hideous throne, but I forced myself to continue, forced myself to utter those treacherous words she wanted from me. ‘But he should have taken the tribute they withheld from you first and made sure to send it to you rather than burn it. They still managed to rob you of your rightful belongings.’

‘Such a clever girl,’ she purred, curling a long white lock around her ringed fingers. ‘Do you hear her, Creon? You’ll have to find us the equivalent of the Cathra tribute elsewhere to reassure your little human. We expect it from you soon.’

He gave a quick bow. Judging by the short silence, his answer was not very elaborate this time, and the Mother’s response came in their own language again. Before I had made sense of the few words that sounded familiar to me, Creon’s fingers locked around my upper arm and pulled me into a curtsy.

‘Thank you, Mother,’ I squeaked, although I wasn’t sure what for. But she laughed behind me as her murderer dragged me away again, and no flashes of deadly magic followed at my heels.

I’d survived.

I’d survived.

Despite the worthless fae male next to me, despite his cruel lack of help or assistance, I had survived – and as that realisation sank in, it only fanned my anger. Explanation follows. To hell with that. To hell with his evasive silence and his useless warnings.

‘So,’ I hissed from the corner of my mouth as he pulled me out through the copper-plated gate, ‘do I have to wait for your explanation of the burning children, too?’

He didn’t look my way as he pulled me across the broad marble expanse that unfolded around us, to the open window that looked out over the sprawling roofs and towers of this hideous castle. If not for the heads still turning our way, I might have refused to follow him.

‘Where are we going?’

He shrugged as he raked his free hand through his silky hair, pulling loose the bun that had held his locks for the entirety of the night. A gesture like a man taking off his armour. Were we nearly at our final destination, then?

‘Are you at least planning to give me answers on our next stop? Or do I have to wait until you mysteriously recover your voice for me?’

His side glare was another clear warning, and I ignored it. Damn him – I’d survived. If he’d gone to such lengths to get me here alive, he could handle a snide remark or two.

When I didn’t avert my eyes, he gestured at the window, then held up his hand with the fingers spread wide.

‘Five minutes?’

He gave me a curt nod, the golden light of the orbs playing over his face with that movement. I sucked in a breath and stepped forward, closer to the tall, muscular body towering over me.

‘Fine, then. Let’s go.’

He scooped me into his arms in reply, and with a powerful wingbeat, we shot into the void again.

Chapter 4

Our destination was the only truly dark patch on the entire island, a ribbon of land enclosed between the outer walls of the palace and the coastline beyond. We descended along the slope of the mountain so fast that I was pretty sure my heart had permanently moved into my throat by the time Creon finally slowed down. How the bastard handled this speed himself …

Perhaps he simply didn’t have a heart to move anywhere, I decided as he landed and pulled his hands off me so quickly I nearly dropped bottom-first onto the ground.

We stood in what looked like a small forest, on a barely illuminated path of stepping stones lodged into the earth. Behind us, the path led up the mountain, back to that cruel castle. When I turned back to investigate the other direction, the Silent Death was already walking away from me, forcing me to hurry after him.

There were no golden orbs here, no burning torches to light our way. Only tiny flecks of light shone in the trees along the path, as if handfuls of stars had fallen to the earth and taken refuge between the rustling leaves. Even the building that emerged between the trees before us was as good as dark. I saw nothing but a row of pillars at first, covered in vines and roses, standing their silent guard in the shadows. Only as we approached did the silvery roof of the pavilion catch my eye, and the stained glass windows spanning the overgrown frame. In the darkness, it was impossible to distinguish their colours.

The world was silent here. Not too far away, I could make out the rushing of the sea, a sound so familiar that I nearly broke down crying on the spot.

‘Do you live here?’ I managed.

He nodded, stepping onto the porch that circled the pavilion without looking back. I expected him to reveal some kind of key, but he merely laid his right hand on the glass between two pillars, and it melted away to let him through. I followed him inside, half expecting the window to grow back just in time to slam in my face. It didn’t.

The room behind was an even bigger surprise.

I wasn’t sure where I had expected the Silent Death to spend his days, but after the obscene abundance of the palace we’d just left behind, a good amount of gold and marble had been the least I’d counted on. What I could see of this place by the faint shine of the lights outside, however, was strangely … cosy?

I faltered two steps into the building, unable to make sense of my surroundings for a moment.

Creon either didn’t notice or didn’t care about my confusion as he walked farther into the dark room and made a quick gesture with his right hand. Little lights glowed up around and above us, turning the round space into a small firmament of its own. In that warm, almost cosy glow, the details of the pavilion’s interior became visible – the reddish wood of the sculpted pillars, the windows in a thousand different shades of green and white, the smooth birchwood floor. To my left, a heavy stove and a sink formed a small kitchen corner, bordered by a long table on one side and a shelving rack with food supplies on the other. To my right stood a heavy velvet couch and a desk surrounded by impressive book cases. The farthest side of the single room was occupied by a wardrobe and a bed large enough to accommodate an entire family, covered in dark blue blankets and pillows that appeared so soft I could feel my sweaty, grimy skin call out for them.

The only place to sleep in this entire household. That thought immediately stifled my temporary adoration, to replace it with a far healthier sense of biting hate.

I was not going to sleep in his bed. I’d rather make myself at home on the floor than anywhere close to that savage body.

Creon didn’t even glance at me as he made a round of the room, throwing quick looks behind the bookcases, beneath the bed, and into the heavy wardrobe. His movements were efficient and deliberate, even the slightest twist of his fingers measured by the inch. A creature of utter perfection – the ugliest kind of perfection.

He didn’t fit into this soft, homely place. As if a dark panther had prowled into a child’s room, looking for blood.

For a moment, I found myself wondering if it was even his home at all. If he hadn't simply seized the place for himself to house me as long as he needed me, so as not to introduce me to the dark, murderous den of sinful delights where he normally spent his nights.

But Creon finally finished his inspection of our surroundings, and judging by the way he tucked in those large black wings, the room was declared safe. Which meant I now had more important things to worry about than the poor sod forced to hand over his home to kidnapping victims.

‘Are we alone?’ I said.

He nodded, squatting to unclasp his boots. His thighs tensed below his dark trousers as he did, muscles tightening against the cloth in what looked like a silent, ruthless warning.

I ignored it.

‘Does that mean I can shout?’

He came up, stepped out of his boots, and gave me another impassive look, eyebrow raised with a hint of resignation. If you absolutely must, that glance seemed to say, but do you really expect to get anything done with such mortal dramatics?

Before I could open my mouth, he turned away and strolled towards the stove, his footsteps inaudible like a cat’s against the birchwood.

‘Hey!’

He lit the fire, filled a kettle, and put it on the stove without a reaction. Even those simple domestic chores looked like preparations for murder in his ink-scarred hands, as if he was bringing the water to a boil only to drown someone in it.

‘I did not ask for tea,’ I snapped between clenched teeth. ‘I asked for answers. Is it really that hard to—’

He gave me a quick, tired glance over his shoulder and gestured at the long table between us. Sit down, that gesture said. Be patient. And shut your mouth.

‘No,’ I said.

He shrugged and turned away from me again.

‘No.’ My voice rose as I stamped forward – only two steps towards him before I thought better of it and changed course. Perhaps physically challenging the Silent Death would be a little too much madness, even after the effort he’d made to bring me here alive. So I stalked to his desk instead, snatched the first notebook and pencil I could find from the drawers, and slammed them down onto the table.

‘Anything else you need?’

Creon finished making his tea as if he hadn't heard me, with what seemed to be demonstrative calm at this point. I fought my rage and frustration, clenching my nails into my palms until he eventually took the kettle from the fire, sauntered towards the table, and sank down on one of the low padded stools. No back rest, I noted. Probably uncomfortable with those wings. Only after pouring two mugs of steaming tea did he finally meet my gaze and raise that scarred eyebrow at me again.

‘Don’t you dare give me that look,’ I said quietly.

His face didn’t change in the slightest – an exquisite statue of bronze and black in the soft glow of the lights. Only his eyes were alive, brimming with dark menace below those long lashes.

‘This may just be another day at work for you, but I just saw my entire bloody life destroyed!’ Where did that sob in my rising voice come from? I wasn’t going to cry, for the bloody gods’ sakes – not for him to hear. ‘You didn’t even let me say goodbye to my own damn parents! And then you paraded me around in front of her and made me say … say …’

My lips couldn’t find words sharp enough for all I wanted to say, all I wanted to throw into that irritated, uncaring face until it bled.

He sighed, gestured for me to sit down, and held out a demanding inked hand. As if reaching two feet over the table to grab the pencil himself would be an impossible effort after all his hard work of the night.

I did not sit down. The restless rage buzzing through my limbs didn’t allow me to. In a useless, powerless burst of fury, I snatched the pencil from the birchwood surface and flung it into the Silent Death’s lap.

He picked it up from his muscular thighs as if this had been the plan all along.

Suppressing a curse, I stumbled towards him. He was writing already when I stopped next to him, his pencil twirling over the parchment in a more regular hand than his previous scribbles. You’ll be able to write to your parents later.

Too late and too little, an ocean away from them. ‘Then what would have been the harm in just letting me see them before—’

Also, he continued, ignoring me, they’re not your parents.

My snapped question froze in the back of my throat.

He put his pencil down again and turned to look up at me, his eyebrow raised a fraction, his face so impassive that it had to be a challenge.

I blinked. I let my gaze slide over those two little sentences again. A laugh escaped me, and I hated how uncertain, how timid it suddenly sounded.

‘What?’

He turned back to the parchment. You wield magic. You’re half fae.

‘Of course I’m not half fae,’ I snapped. ‘That’s ridiculous. It’s just – it’s something that runs in the family. My mother’s great-aunt also—’

She didn’t.

‘You have no idea! You didn’t know her!’

Might have, he wrote, and I would have thought it a joke if he hadn't put it to parchment with such an air of unflinching arrogance about him.

I sucked in a breath and contemplated punching him in the face. Might have. How old was he? As an immortal creature, with the reputation he had … likely more than a century.

A lot more than a century, if I was unlucky.

‘It’s just some erratic talent that runs in the bloodline,’ I said, more feebly now as that thought spiralled out of control. He might be absolutely ancient. Was I going to tell him what his magic was and wasn’t able to do? ‘My great-aunt—’

No.

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’ I bit out a laugh. ‘And how would you know?’

Your mother told me.

Words abandoned me.

Mother. Told him. The empty bed, the vanished bags. How long had I been sleeping while he woke them, told them to pack their bags, and asked them about me and my history?

And in the face of death, they’d informed him—

Not your parents.

The world turned around me, the floor rocking beneath me like we were floating on a wild sea. No. It couldn’t be true. Great-aunt Gisele, that’s what they’d told me the first time I accidentally turned my doll into a small heap of dust – the same great-aunt who’d given me that golden skin and those brown eyes no one else in the family seemed to share …

No one else.

Oh, Zera have mercy on me.

I dropped into a seat. It was all I could do not to sink to my knees before the Silent Death’s impatient watching eyes. But even with a soft padded stool beneath my body and my fingers clenched around the edge of the table, the world didn’t stop shaking.

‘What … what else did they tell you?’

You were a foundling. They didn’t dare get rid of you. Foundling’s curse.

Leave an abandoned child to die and its soul would haunt you for the rest of your life. I swallowed thorns and bitter dust down my throat.

‘But then they must all have known. Not just my parents. The entire village must have known they weren’t …’

Yes.

Stealthy glances as they passed me by, even when I was just a toddler. The children sprinting away from me whenever I rounded a corner. The sympathetic pats on my mother’s shoulders whenever she mentioned me, the lines that had hardened into her face over the years.

I felt like fainting.

‘But then why … why did they never tell me …’

They were afraid.

‘Of me?’

He nodded, black locks dancing around his face and shoulders.

‘What in hell would I ever have done …’ I sucked in a deep breath, tried to cool the nausea that roared through me. ‘What did they think – that I’d run to the nearest fae island and betray all of Cathra to my newfound family if I’d known?’

Exactly.

‘You are not my family.’

Creon sighed, as if to remind me he was well aware and as glad of it as I was. I clenched my fingers into the table so tightly that it hurt.

‘Did they know where I came from? Who my other parents were?’

He shook his head.

‘And then you let them go? Everyone in the village? Why?’

I thought, he wrote, his ink-covered fingers slowing down for the first time, that you’d prefer for them to survive the night.

‘Oh, how very damn courteous.’ I uttered a mirthless laugh. ‘And you didn’t think I might prefer to go with them? That I might prefer not to have my life ruined at all?’

There was no saving Cathra.

It took a few breaths before I dared to trust my voice. ‘She – she sent you there to kill them. All of them. Because of that iron ward they made.’

Creon nodded.

‘Does iron even have any effect on you?’

He shook his head.

‘Oh. Gods. They were so convinced it would work.’ I sucked in a trembling breath. I shouldn’t think about what might have happened if anyone else had come to answer the island’s refusal to pay its tribute, but the burning hell of the town wouldn’t vanish from my mind’s eye so easily. ‘They collected all these first-hand witnesses who swore they had seen fae restrained by iron bonds.’

His face remained emphatically expressionless as he wrote, Some fae make an effort to keep the lie up.

‘Bastards.’ I scoffed. ‘And you never thought to rectify that story?’

She’d find out.

‘Oh, poor you,’ I said, voice dripping with venom. ‘And then you might have to deal with a stern talk and some warnings?’

I’m past the warnings.

That gave me pause. Past the warnings? But the Silent Death was one of the Mother’s most loyal servants, wasn’t he? Wasn’t his name mentioned in one breath with her own – her personal weapon to wield?

‘Would she kill you?’

Yes.

I looked up from the parchment, scanning his face for a hint of dramatics. All I found in his clenched jaw and tight lips was a cool, calm resignation.

‘Why?’

He sighed. Because she can’t afford to risk treason from my side. She knows I might be one of the few in a position to bring her down.

His fingers hesitated for a moment as he lifted his pencil off the parchment again – at the dangerous, treacherous sentences spelled out in those thin lines of lead. Bring her down. The Mother would undoubtedly have his head for those words. And yet he’d scrabbled them down for me so easily, as if this was nothing new to either of us. As if we’d known each other for years, tested and tried each other’s loyalties until we dared to trust each other even with knowledge that could kill in a heartbeat.

Bring her down.

It was madness. All of this was madness. The Silent Death was the Mother’s lethal right hand and had been so for centuries – all stories said the same, stories my grandparents’ parents had already heard from their grandparents. A ruthless, merciless murderer, delighting in the bloodshed she offered him. A mage powerful enough to turn whole armies to dust with a flick of his fingers. And yet …

He had saved my life.

Why? Why?

‘How long have you been working against her?’ I asked slowly, wrapping my arms around myself.

He stiffened for a moment, then raised his pencil to the parchment again. The cruel ink lines on his hands seemed to shift below his skin as he wrote, I’m hardly working against her. But I’ve been mitigating damage since the Last Battle.

The Last Battle – the last desperate charge of humanity against the Mother’s fae armies, a hundred and thirty years ago. A battle we had pathetically lost, and since that day, human islands answered to the Crimson Court, handing over tributes every year. Food, if they were lucky. People, if they were less so.

‘You’ve been taking your sweet time, then,’ I said sharply.

I was waiting.

‘What for?’

You.

I blinked. Closed my eyes a little longer, then looked up again. The word still stood where I’d last seen it, the dark grey lines gleaming mockingly at me from the smooth surface of the parchment. Me. A scrawny twenty-year-old human – no, half human – of unremarkable descent and even more unremarkable power. And yet this epitome of brimming magic and darkness needed me?

‘Why?’

You’re unbound.

I released a breathless laugh. ‘What in the world are you …’

She bound our magic. For all of us. He wrote in short, snappy strokes now, an explanation he didn’t want to think about. When we wield our powers with the intention of harming her, they have no effect. I’m unable to hurt her with my magic, and so is all of faekind.

‘I – I’ve never heard of that.’

It was done long ago. Before the wars. It’s how she gained dominance over all fae.

I stared at the words and then at him. A killer of nearly unlimited power, they whispered on the human isles. Bred and trained to destroy. And yet …

Unable to harm her.

Was this why no fae had ever rebelled against the Mother’s reign in the centuries she’d spent on that throne? Not just because they were happy enough to live in a world where humans did the work and they reaped the profits, but because they had no choice?

She’s careful, Creon wrote and underlined that last word to clarify that this was not just a matter of the occasional check, to make sure no child with magic powers is born without her knowing.

My mouth was dry. ‘Not just fae children?’

When fae females give birth, the child is bound immediately. Unmarried human women who give birth always do so with a physician around to check whether the father may have been fae. All human children at the court are checked within their first year, too. Fae males are not allowed any affairs with humans on other islands, under threat of death – which is why they usually turn to abductions. He tore off the page and continued on the other side, Whoever your parents were, they must have gone to great lengths to hide you.

My parents. I was hit by a vision – a nonsensical, dramatic vision – of a fae flying through the night sky with my new-born body in his arms, away from the Mother, into safety. Leaving me on the doorstep of a childless painter and his wife …

I shook my head, nearly violently. The truth wouldn’t be so grand, so heroic. For all I knew, my father was simply some vicious fae male who’d forced himself upon my mother, and she somehow managed to smuggle the child she’d never wanted out of her hands … Glad to be rid of me. Like the parents I’d known for all my life, the parents who’d fed me and raised me, would have been glad to be rid of me, if not for the foundling’s curse hanging over their heads. Like they’d fled Cathra and left me to the questionable care of the Silent Death.

I wanted to throw up.

Creon was writing again, without any questions from my side this time. I just checked the register of human children on this island in your birth month. Your name is not on it.

First thing he’d done – before I was even introduced to the Mother. Because if my name had been on the list, I should have introduced myself under another one for the woman who kept such obsessive records of every single child born at her court. Hell’s sake, did the bastard think of everything?

‘So does that mean my parents aren’t from here?’

His nod was slow enough to prove his doubt. Or they were cleverer than she is.

I managed a laugh. Cleverer than the Mother. A hundred and thirty years since the Last Battle, and finally someone had managed to smuggle a child with magic gifts unbound into the world—

Me.

That child was me.

I needed a drink. A strong one. And a bath – gods, I really needed a bath. My thoughts clung to that wish with ridiculous fervour. He should have a bathroom somewhere here, shouldn’t he? Or was I supposed to just dive into the sea to clean myself, take a piss between the trees outside if the need arose?

Not what I should be thinking about now. I had magic to consider, and treason and rebellion. But in the night of the Crimson Court, sharing a table with a cold-blooded creature of violence and darkness I could no longer make sense of, bathrooms felt like a much more manageable subject.

His face remained hidden behind the long locks of his dark hair as he sighed and wrote, Don’t panic. We have time.

‘I’m not panicking.’ My voice cracked. I was absolutely panicking, and the bastard could at least have been polite enough not to notice. ‘I’m just confused. How would you feel if someone suddenly told you that you weren’t fully fae?’

The fingers around the pencil stiffened for a moment. Panicked.

I scoffed. ‘I can’t afford to panic. What would you have done if I’d collapsed into a crying mess before that throne?’

He hesitated, the tip of the pencil balancing a fragile fraction above the parchment. When he eventually scribbled his words down, he did it so quickly that it seemed he was afraid of changing his mind.

You did well with her.

Was he trying to soften me with compliments now, after hours of little more than testy glares at me? I scoffed again. ‘Would have been a lot less dangerous if you hadn't made me see her without the slightest bit of information.’

Checking the archives was a risk already. She never allows me to wait before I see her, and I can’t afford to raise her suspicions about you.

‘At the price of my own wellbeing?’

You’ll be a whole lot worse off if she finds out who you are.

Because I was his weapon now. His treasured unbound little mage, the first real danger to her hegemony after decades of uncontested ruling. I shoved away from the table so abruptly that I even alarmed myself.

‘So how exactly were you planning to make sure she doesn’t?’

Creon just looked at me.

That infuriating, impassive look again. Either he was calling me stupid for not figuring it out yet, or he was trying to make me beg for more information. He liked this, didn’t he? Liked being the unchallenged authority, the highborn fae bringing his amusing human captive to her knees—

Amusing.

Oh, for the bloody gods’ sakes.

‘Before that throne …’ My words came out through clenched teeth, as if I were holding back the urge to vomit or to punch him in the face. Perhaps both were true. ‘You told her you found me amusing.’

He quirked up a scarred eyebrow, just a fraction. I wasn’t sure if it was an apology or an unsubtly conveyed hint that I could suck it up, and for our mutual peace, perhaps I shouldn’t press him for clarification of the gesture. I probably was amusing to him. Some pesky twenty-year-old with illusions of understanding – how many steps was that ancient mind ahead of me?

‘You don’t want me to follow you around like a stupid, swoony human utterly obsessed with you, do you?’ I said – slowing down as the sentence continued, because with every subsequent word I heard falling from my own lips, it sounded more likely that this was exactly what he’d want from me.

He shrugged as he picked up his pencil. Doesn’t sound good to you?

I huffed a laugh. ‘I’d rather die.’

Then you’ll be glad to hear that’s indeed your best alternative.

‘Oh, piss off.’ I pulled my legs to my chest and wrapped my arms around them, resting my face against my knees. ‘This is the best you could come up with? Why didn’t you just tell her that you abducted me to lock me in your bedroom? Then at least I wouldn’t have to pretend I liked you.’

It took a few moments of silence before I realised I wasn’t going to get an answer without looking at him. But when I lifted my head again, he wasn’t writing. He hadn't even lifted his pencil yet. He just sat there, staring at me, his dark wings flaring a little wider behind his back. His lips were pressed tight – a cold, hard line of exhaustion.

‘What?’ I said sharply. ‘Fae males do it all the time. Would she have batted an eye?’

With a sharp gesture, he snatched his pencil from the table again. I don’t.

‘What?’

And never have. If I suddenly started the practice after all these centuries, that would raise her curiosity more than we need.

‘And dragging young women out of burning towns just because you find them amusing is a more established habit for you?’

A shadow slid over his face. If you were to spend your time fawning over me … His slender fingers paused above the parchment. That’s something a previous version of me might have found amusing, yes.

‘Your previous version was even more of an asshole than your current version,’ I muttered.

Yes.

Not the answer I needed, damn him. I wanted denial. I wanted him to defend himself so I could hate him even more for it, hate everything about him for the sacrifice he was asking – demanding – me to make. Sucking in a breath, I planted my feet back onto the floor and said, ‘So what made you change your mind about that pastime?’

The War.

‘Did you fight for her in the War?’

For a part of it.

Good. That made the hate come easier, indeed. Because it meant at least some of the stories I knew about him were true – the slaughter on the battlefields, the massacred villages, the arrogant, invulnerable killer. I clenched my teeth and said, ‘I see.’

He raised his eyebrow.

‘Bold of you to think I’d happily do your bidding under those circumstances.’

I didn’t ask for happily.

‘No, but you’re strongarming me into playing your whore, regardless.’ I was spitting out the words now. ‘You could have asked me before we went to see her, and instead—’

Alternative suggestions?

Even the cool air in my lungs couldn’t soothe the anger burning in my chest. I had no alternative suggestions. He knew I had no alternative suggestions. But even then … ‘Would have been better to arrive at this plan together, at the very least!’

He made a disparaging gesture, as if to say, details.

‘You don’t even want to work together, do you?’ I said, digging my nails into my palms. ‘You just want a weapon. And weapons don’t disagree with whatever stupid plan your stupid fae brain comes up with. Weapons just shut up and take orders.’

No reaction. Not even a shrug.

‘I never even said I would agree to whatever you want me to be.’ The words were spilling over my lips as if my tongue had found a life of its own. ‘Would have been wise to first check if I even had any intention of risking my life for … for …’

The Silent Death just looked at me, unmoving. Like a spider in its web, waiting for my thoughts to get ensnared in their inevitable conclusions.

Risk my life. To give all of humanity a chance at freedom.

How could I not want it?

Without the Mother, the fae empire would no longer be half as powerful. If some of them would indeed rebel after they were free from their bindings, if that would destabilise the empire enough to give the human rebels some advantage – that would level the playing field significantly. It didn’t matter that I wanted to cry at just the thought of looking into the Mother’s frosty eyes again, that the prospect of staying here made my gut clench into a cold, fearful knot. Quite as usual, it was not about what I wanted.

And the Silent Death knew it. Knew it and sat waiting for me to admit it, dark and powerful and utterly in control of every word I would speak.

Bastard.

Something hardened in my chest. An unexpected firmness – the sensation of decisions making themselves.

No. This was not how we were going to play the game. Perhaps he’d grown to expect immediate surrender after spending centuries in the company of fae who’d bow to his every whim and command – but he’d also waited decades and decades to find an unbound mage willing to work with him. He needed me. More than I needed him, perhaps.

If I were to be a weapon, he would be mine to wield in turn.

So I folded my arms and met the unsettling darkness of his knowing, probing eyes. The Silent Death. Mage, monster, murderer. And I might just be the one who held the best cards here.

‘It all sounds like a highly unpleasant business,’ I said slowly. ‘Honestly, if sleeping in your bed is the prize of staying here, I’d rather smuggle myself onto the first outgoing ship and take up a silent life in the countryside.’

Something like amusement rose on his face. Somehow it didn’t soften his features – if anything, the opposite. It’s a pretty comfortable bed.

I snorted. ‘Company can make or break any party.’

What are you afraid of?

‘I’m not afraid. Just furious.’ I let out a laugh. ‘You’re not even going to offer me your couch, are you?’

People pass by. Would give you away.

I closed my eyes and tried to breathe the calm into myself. He was right. Why was he always right? But crawling into his bed – putting myself so near to his sculpted body, making myself so vulnerable around him … If anything less than the future of humanity had been on the line, I may have bolted anyway.

But I had no choice. Imagine travelling home without going through with this – travelling to the White City or wherever else home was to be found these days. If I ever told anyone about the Silent Death’s reason to take me with him, they’d be furious I hadn't grabbed the opportunity. If I never told anyone … A lifetime of secrecy, a lifetime of bitter regret with every community slaughtered in the Mother’s name.

Not an option. Even if I wanted nothing more than to get out of this place, out of the Silent Death’s menacing company, it didn’t matter.

I had no choice. I was going to do this. The only freedom I had was in the exact conditions for this unholy alliance, and that freedom at least I had to use well.

I opened my eyes and took the leap.

‘Your kind makes bargains, don’t they?’

His eyebrows shifted, slowly, as he turned back to his notebook. Our kind.

‘Say that one more time and I’ll punch you in that pretty face.’

He blinked, surprise flickering in his gaze for a moment. It wasn’t a hesitation – not yet. But it came close.

Noted. So?

‘I propose a bargain,’ I said, swallowing my nervousness. There were two things I knew about fae bargains: firstly, that they couldn’t be broken, and secondly, that fae were uncannily creative in fucking you over anyway. ‘I’ll help you to overthrow the Mother. In return, you will protect me.’

He considered that for a moment, glancing over me as if to estimate my worth. I’ll protect you whenever you don’t put yourself in danger.

It took a heartbeat or two for that condition to make sense. Whenever I didn’t put myself in danger – which meant I couldn’t count on him to keep me safe if I continued to insult fae murderers or run away from him.

He’d paid attention over the past few hours, apparently.

‘Don’t know why you think I’d ever endanger myself,’ I said sourly, ‘but fine. And you’ll keep your hands off me in that bed, too.’

As I was planning to. He looked up from his writing, eyes mocking me. Unless you change your mind, of course.

‘I’d rather fuck a cactus,’ I informed him.

Interesting. Let me know how you like it.

My face flushed. Oh, damn it. He was toying with me – I was allowing him to toy with me. Time to get back to business. Time to perhaps surprise him for a moment.

Snapping my eyes back to his face, I added, ‘And I want you to help me find my parents – the ones who made me disappear before I could be bound.’

My real parents? Were those the words I should have used? Nothing about them seemed even remotely real to me.

Creon raised an eyebrow, considering my proposal for a few moments. Then he picked up his pencil again and wrote, Won’t be easy to find them.

‘Bringing down the Mother won’t be either.’

Both close to impossible. But finding your parents may be the more impossible task. They clearly went to great lengths to avoid being caught.

To avoid being found even by their daughter? I pushed that spark of discomfort aside and forced myself to shrug – a worry for later. ‘How long did you wait to find an unbound mage, again?’

Creon slowly sat up straighter, folding his arms over his muscular chest. His dark eyes narrowed as he ran his gaze over me, the gesture emphasising his dark eyebrows and high cheekbones even more sharply in that stunning, hard face.

What had he expected? A meek twenty-year-old who would, with tearful gratefulness for sparing her parents’ life, bind herself to him for eternity?

‘I’m willing to take on the Mother first, though,’ I added, smiling at him in a burst of obstinate recklessness. At some point, something other than those small sparks of surprise should emerge from behind the indifferent arrogance and the authoritative elegance, shouldn’t it? ‘I’m not the heartless one here, you see.’

For a fraction of a moment, he sat motionless.

Then he shrugged.

And that was all – that same uncaring shrug again. He didn’t even blink. Because why should he? I was just a bumbling almost-human, a tool to achieve whatever his goals were, to be discarded again as soon as I had fulfilled my purpose. He’d wash me and my snarky remarks off his hands as easily as he had washed the blood of his thousands of victims from his hands—

I swallowed. Those hands, covered in strange, scar-like ink. How often had human blood coated that tanned skin?

Breathing. I had to keep breathing.

I had to keep the whirlwind of my thoughts to the background of my decisions, had to know better than to let my fear and disgust cloud the path to my survival. It didn’t matter how much I detested him and his callousness. It was none of my concern what, exactly, was going on behind those hard eyes, what had made him risk his life to defy the Mother. This was just business. Rational, opportunistic business. He needed me, and if I wanted to save my people and get out of here alive, I had a use for him too.

The rest would figure itself out.

‘So,’ I said, and I tried to keep the slight tremble from my voice, ‘are you willing to seal a bargain?’

He threw his pencil aside and extended a strong, tanned hand towards me.

I should think about this for longer. I shouldn’t close bargains in the middle of the night, after surviving fires and hours of flying and a meeting with the Mother of faekind herself. But at least this deal would keep me safe from him, and I wasn’t going to sleep anywhere on this island without at least one person to protect me.

I swallowed my disgust and laid my fingers in his.

His ink-marred hand was softer against my fingers than I had imagined, save for the callouses formed by his weapons. My own hand looked small and pale in his grip, and so infuriatingly vulnerable.

‘I’ll help you defeat the Mother,’ I said hoarsely. ‘You’ll help me find my parents – both pairs of them. You will not harm me.’

He nodded.

Was there any magic I ought to use now? Why had I expected my newfound fae blood to somehow provide me with the knowledge I needed about these things?

But as I opened my mouth, the air between our intertwined fingers turned warmer – lighter.

A reddish glow radiated from every spot where his hand touched mine, lighting up our skin and the veins below. Tendrils of light slipped out, twirling around our hands like whisps of smoke. I gasped and nearly pulled back, but the grip of his fingers was a vice now, and he held me in place as the light between our palms intensified to a blinding beam so strong I could see the shadowy outlines of my bones through the back of my hand. The warmth grew to a blistering heat, and yet somehow it didn’t hurt.

Something hard and sharp stuck into the inside of my wrist.

‘Ow!’

The light and heat vanished as if they’d heard my cry. Creon’s fingers loosened, and I yanked back my hand, instinctively flexing my fingers to check if they still functioned. Only then did I see the mark on the inside of my wrist – a small, gem-like crack in my skin, glowing reddish in the cosy light of the pavilion.

My breath caught. As I looked up, the Silent Death sat studying his own mark, an identical shard of something hard and smooth embedded in the bronze skin of his wrist. Like a ruby caught in human flesh. Like a drop of blood turned into diamond glass by whatever magic had sealed our bargain.

‘Red,’ I whispered, ‘for destruction.’

Creon smiled, and it was a smile that promised murder and ruin indeed.

Chapter 5

The bed was too soft. The room too quiet. The Silent Death’s winged silhouette far too close.

I lay in the silk and velvet of these unfamiliar pillows and blankets and didn’t sleep. Couldn’t sleep. Even after a night that should have exhausted me to near death, my mind stubbornly refused to slow down, and my muscles remained tense like tightened bowstrings no matter how often I ran my thumb over that reassuring mark on the inside of my right wrist. I was safe, I repeated to myself again and again. The bargain wouldn’t allow him to hurt me even if he wanted to. And why would he want to hurt me, if I was his only chance to kill the High Lady he’d apparently wanted dead for over a century?

But my blood still pumped through my veins at twice the usual speed – an itchy, twitchy restlessness buzzing just below my skin.

His only chance.

Me.

None of this seemed real. None of this seemed right. Hours ago, I had been scrubbing floors and cleaning kitchens. Hours ago, I’d walked Cathra’s beaches and slept in my own bed. And now I’d somehow ended up in the hands of the most dangerous killer of my time, a pawn in whatever long game the Silent Death was playing.

A shiver ran through me, and then I could no longer stop shivering.

He was so close, his silhouette a slender, muscular threat beside me – close enough that I could feel the rhythm of his breathing through the vexingly soft mattress, close enough that he only had to stretch out an arm to pinch me against his ink-scarred torso. Which he wouldn’t do – he had closed a bargain on it. And yet I didn’t dare to turn my back on him, as if my eyes were all that kept him to his word, a cobweb chain restraining his baser instincts.

My shivering had become a violent shaking. I had to clench my teeth to keep them from clattering.

Don’t panic, the bastard had written, but I was panicking now – senseless, useless panic – and I couldn’t bring myself to stop. I was all alone here. I was entirely, pitifully alone at a deadly fae court, an eternity away from everyone and everything I’d ever known, at the mercy of a ruthless fae killer who needed me only until I’d fulfilled my role as his unbound little weapon. If he killed me tomorrow – if he killed me tonight – who would even know?

I was looking down at myself all of a sudden, watching my own trembling body from the starry sky above. A scrawny little human, surrounded by miles and miles and miles of ocean as far as the eye could see … Alone. Alone. Helpless and small and altogether pathetic, and—

Creon stirred next to me, turning his back to me. One of his dark wings came up with the movement and settled over my blankets, a light, reassuring weight pushing me deeper into the mattress. Steadying me – grounding me.

An immeasurable relief swept over me.

A calm so deep it seemed to come from somewhere else, someone else – like a soft woollen blanket wrapping itself around my thoughts and stifling the mortal fear that held my heart in its iron grip. My restless, shaking limbs struggled against it for a moment, then gave in. My whirring mind gave a last few panicking twitches, then slowed. Every muscle in my body relaxed as the sudden sense of calm flowed into the very tips of my toes and fingers, filling me with a warm, soft certainty.

With a muffled whimper, I curled up tighter beneath the blankets and squeezed my eyes shut, still savouring the soothing pressure of Creon’s wing over my torso.

Perhaps all I’d needed was a hug. And for lack of any loving arms to hold me, perhaps this was enough of an alternative.

I hadn't expected to fall asleep before sunrise, in a murderer’s house, grieving the home I’d never see again. But the panic finally dissolved as my body loosened, and within minutes, I sank into a deep, dreamless sleep that wiped the last of my fears from my mind.

I woke to a world of heavy blue velvet and pale green sunlight – colours so soft, so soothing, that it took a moment too long before I realised where I was.

On the Mother’s island.

In a bundle of pillows and blankets in the Silent Death’s bed.

I jolted up, fluffy white pillows tumbling onto the floor around me. The bed was empty, and so was the rest of the room. With the morning sunlight filtering through the green and white of the stained glass flowers, it struck me again how peaceful this pavilion looked. Hard to imagine that this was the place he returned to after a long day of setting farmers on fire and flaying children alive to wash the blood off his hands, pour himself a nice cup of tea, and read a book by the cosy light of the glowing orbs until bedtime.

Where was he now? Off to kill more rebellious humans? I sure as hell wasn’t going to make him tea if he returned all bloody and soot-stained in a few hours.

I groaned, rubbed my eyes, and flung my legs out of my makeshift bed. The white carpet on the floor was so fluffy I could lose sight of my feet in it. I shuffled around a little, enjoying the sensation of the soft wool between my toes more than I wanted to admit.

So. Here I was.

Miles and miles away from everyone and everything I’d ever known, and yet the violent despair and nostalgia didn’t return. Perhaps the world had changed too much. Perhaps even nostalgia required some vague sense that my old life had at least been real, rather than a dream that was already fading now that I had opened my eyes.

Had it been real? Apparently I’d never been who I thought I was. Not Emelin of Valter’s house, painter’s assistant, former seamstress’s apprentice, and unremarkable human cursed with an unfortunate bloodline of stray magic. Instead I’d always been the half fae daughter of unknown parents, the world’s only known unbound mage.

And now I’d become a player in a war that had started centuries before I’d even been born. A war that I alone might be able to end.

It wasn’t exactly optimism that I was feeling. It was more like … determination. The sooner I had all this madness behind me, the sooner I could make my way to the White City. The sooner I could see my parents again. So it was about time I figured out what exactly I was supposed to do in this place and got to work.

What could I do?

Get to know this island and this court. Understand the heart of the conflict I’d only ever seen from the fringes of the world, from the backwater island where news arrived weeks or months after the events had taken place. Figure out Creon.

No – the Silent Death. Calling him Creon made him sound like a creature with a heart, and the bargain that didn’t allow him to harm me shouldn’t make me forget exactly how much of a danger he posed. There was no reason to ascribe him a sense of mercy and morality just because he’d saved my village. That had been a decision of pure calculation, an easier way to win me over. The fact that he hadn't bothered to stop killing and torturing in the Mother’s name even when he was no longer loyal to her – well, that should tell me all I needed to know about the value he attributed to human lives.

The value he’d attribute to me, if I no longer fitted his goals. But what exactly those goals were …

I had no idea what game he was playing. Why did he even want to usurp the Mother? What had made him change his mind about their alliance all those decades ago, and why had he continued to fight in her name, rather than flee the court to spare himself the bloodshed? For all I knew, he had ensnared me in some double-edged plot that would turn against me as soon our bargain ended.

Fae were fae, after all. The Silent Death more so than any of them.

Somehow the thought didn’t frighten me like it should have. Perhaps my blood was showing after all.

Half fae. I glanced down at my body and barely suppressed a scoff. Fae females at the Crimson Court were tall and round-breasted and altogether stunning. I was … lithe, Helmer had said on Ildhelm. Bony, my mother used to tell me. A head shorter than even the shortest fae I’d seen, wingless and bland. Whatever blood my fae parent had given me, it wasn’t worth much.

But even a human body could do with a bath, and since Creon was still nowhere to be seen, I decided I may as well risk it.

The bathroom beneath the pavilion was a softly lit dream of blue and gold, with an ivory bathtub the size of a small lake and warm water if you turned the right tap. A full apothecary’s worth of bottles and herbs was gathered on the shelves against the back wall. Last night, Creon had taken two minutes to point out where I could find towels and washcloths. Now a small pile of clothing lay waiting for me on the rack beside the bath – three dresses and some underwear and a few ridiculously soft pairs of socks. Enough to get through the first few days. Where he’d found these things was anyone’s guess, but I was relieved enough to be rid of my nightgown not to ask questions.

Although, not relieved enough to start feeling grateful. I’d rather have been on that boat with my parents than in a thousand of these baths.

I filled the tub, double-checked the lock on the door, and undressed myself. Even with a few very thorough glances at the mirror, I couldn’t recognise anything fae-like about myself. Round ears, boring brown hair, and eyes that didn’t really have any definable colour at all. A bit of brown, a bit of green. The shade of sickly ditch water.

Only that golden skin had to be a relic of my fae blood. Even if it was a little lighter than Creon’s, it didn’t seem unlikely that one of my parents had belonged to his people.

I abruptly turned away from the mirror. The idea of being related to him – to any of them – gave me goosebumps of the most unpleasant kind. All my life, fae had just been the bastards who showed up once a year to demand a portion of our harvest and the money my father had earned. On the bad years, somehow, the portions tended to be higher. When anyone objected, the rates doubled.

And all that time, my parents had known I might be one of them – in blood, at least. Had been scared of what I might do if I ever found out.

Hadn't they realised I’d rather bleed every drop of fae blood from my own veins than betray them?

I slid into the bath and shivered at the sudden warmth. One day, I would find them again and explain everything. Tell them that I understood the secrets they’d kept from me, that I didn’t even mind about the whispers and the cautious glances I’d never been able to make sense of. That I …

But was any of that true, really?

I groaned and reached for the collection of foams and salts and soaps. Perhaps this was not something I needed to figure out today. The Mother wasn’t dead yet, and as long as she was still sitting on that monstrous throne, my exact feelings about my parents’ lies weren’t the most urgent problem in my life by far.

Over the course of half an hour, I tested every bottle I could find, so that the bath water was a glittery soup of pearly white and purple swirls by the time I climbed out of the tub again. My skin felt cleaner than it had done in years and smelled of lavender and jasmine and something that came closest to … twilight.

I picked the prettiest dress on the pile, a light blue one with a pattern of white irises and slightly puffed sleeves that hid the worst of my boniness. With my hair wrapped in a towel, I made my way back upstairs. Creon was still nowhere to be seen, but a tray full of food had appeared on the birchwood table, with a note next to it.

I snorted. If he was so eager to avoid me during my stay at his house, he could have left me alone entirely.

But the sight of breakfast made me realise I was hungry enough to chew down half a cow, so I shoved my annoyance aside and fell down on last night’s stool. As I snatched a bun from the pile of bread, I pulled the note closer and let my eyes glide over the lines – scribbled down in the most regular writing I’d seen from him so far. Did that suggest he’d spent more time thinking about this message?

Just so you know – all food is coming from fae farms close to the court. No tribute payments or human labour involved.

If you’re looking for me, I’m around the beach. Don’t wander off to the east. There are hounds in Faewood.

No tribute payments. I tore a first bite off my bun and realised it was a relief indeed. The bastard, with his bloody courteousness.

I ate three buns and one of the flaky, buttery, crescent-shaped pastries I’d never seen before but loved from the first bite. Then I spooned all the remaining marmalade from its jar because it was sweeter than anything I’d ever tasted in my life and my tongue kept craving more every time I promised myself it would be the last spoonful. Thank Zera’s merciful heart that this dress wasn’t cut too tightly, because it may have burst at the seams in my first hour of wearing it.

When I had eaten enough – a little more than enough, perhaps – I put on my socks and went to look for a way out of this pavilion.

I found a pair of shoes first. They were a little too big but also more expensive than anything I had ever owned in my life, so I decided not to complain. There was no door to be seen anywhere, but Creon’s note suggested I should be able to find my way to the beach and therefore probably out of this house. I prodded some windows. They all refused to melt away like the one through which we had entered yesterday.

After a few minutes of frustrated deliberation, I picked Creon’s black coat from his wardrobe and blew a window to smithereens with a well-aimed burst of red magic. He’d probably be able to repair it, and I didn’t expect many fae would be waiting for a chance to break into the Silent Death’s home during a few minutes of his absence.

I tiptoed carefully through the mass of brightly coloured shards and then fell into a trot down the hillslope.

The sea was near – I could hear the infinitely familiar roll of the tide again, a few hundred feet away at most. The air had that comforting briny weight to it. I found my way between the holly and hawthorn, pines and bayberry, the landscape so similar to that of Cathra that I imagined for a moment I would see the familiar jetty loom up behind the low dunes. But when I finally reached the edge of the grey-green forest, the coastline looked nothing like the one I could follow with my eyes closed at home.

It was breathtakingly beautiful, though. Such a cruel trick of fate, to make everything in this hideous place so deceptively dreamlike, too.

Ivory sand stretched out from my left and my right, disappearing behind dunes in the distance. Behind the beach itself, the water was a deep azure, frothing powdery white where the gentle waves broke over the sand. And there, in the surf …

He sat with his back towards me, barefoot and shirtless, close enough to the sea for the water to brush over his toes with every wave rolling towards him. The dark wings growing from his shoulder blades were surrounded by corded muscles that rolled and shifted with every breath he took, my view of that raw, ruthless power unimpeded now that most of his black hair was bound into a loose bun behind his head. They moved with the sea breeze, those wings, their smooth shimmer catching the sunlight from a hundred different angles with every slight shift. Even the scar-like ink lines covering his back and shoulders couldn’t take away from the eerie perfection of the vision before me.

It took me a moment to realise my mouth had sagged open.

I snapped it shut again because I wasn’t a silly little human fawning over him, and I wasn’t going to grow into any such thing either. It wasn’t my fault he was stunning enough to steal the breath away from anyone with eyes. The knives at his belt should have been a clear enough hint that the beauty went no deeper than that scarred bronze skin.

Steeling myself, I kicked off my boots and socks and walked towards him, savouring the familiar feeling of the sand between my toes. Time to get this over with, then. He had probably heard me approaching anyway; the longer I stood there hesitating, the more it would seem I was quietly ogling him from behind.

Which I absolutely wasn’t. I wouldn’t even think of it.

‘Creon?’

He slowly turned around, muscles and wings shifting in unfairly alluring ways. A few loose locks fell along his temples to his chest, framing the sharp lines of his profile with even more unfair artistry.

A murderer, I reminded myself as I bridged those last few feet between us, clenching my fists until my nails stung into my palms. The male who had delivered a Khonnian revolutionary to his family in twenty-seven meticulous pieces. Who had tortured that northern sculptor until the poor fellow betrayed his very own children to the fae forces looking for traitors.

If I focused on those stories hard enough, imagined the blood on his hands and the corpses bearing the traces of his knives, I could taste the disgust in the back of my throat again. Good. His beauty was just another cruel fae trick, but I wouldn’t let it defeat me. I was going to be civil, perhaps, but nothing more than that. Composed and cooperative, but never compliant.

If he wanted blind obedience, he had found the wrong mage to toy with.

He followed me with his eyes as I sank down into the damp sand beside him. I gave him my most boring, most civil smile and said, ‘Morning.’

His nod was presumably a greeting to the same effect; it was his only reaction before he turned back to the sea and continued his gazing at the faraway horizon. In the distance, the vague green outline of another island was visible. I searched my memory for a while, but my geography lessons had never covered the islands so far to the south.

‘Mind if I ask a few more questions?’ I said.

Creon gave me a sharp look. He wielded a great variety of sharp looks, I was starting to realise, and I should probably make some effort to learn to recognise them. This one looked like a more or less inviting expression, but by yet another cruel trick of fate, that particular category dangerously resembled the glare that had told me to shut the hell up last night.

Better to start with the easy questions, just to be sure.

‘Is it impolite to ask fae how old they are?’

He sighed but extended a finger into the wet sand and started tracing lines. 368.

Born a good two centuries before the Last Battle, then. Plenty of time to commit a generous number of atrocities before his change of mind during the War. I tried to focus on that point and not on the consequent fact that the lethal predator sitting next to me had seen roughly twenty times as many summers as I had.

‘And when did you start training your magic?’

He threw me a suspicious look. Good gods, was that too much to ask already? I gave him my most helpless shrug and said, ‘I suppose I’ll need some training, too. I’d like to know what I can expect.’

He wrote, 2.

‘What – you were two years old?’

A nod. He had taken up his staring into the distance again. I tried to imagine the male next to me as a tiny winged toddler, drooling into his bib and wobbling unsteadily on his little legs, but the thought wouldn’t make sense to me no matter how long I dwelt on it.

‘Why?’ I said.

Born to.

‘To join her forces?’

He nodded again. I pursed my lips and considered those two words – two years old and promised to the Mother by some unholy bargain? That might make a mess of anyone’s moral compass, admittedly.

I nearly groaned. No. Stop it. Even raised by fae warriors, anyone could realise that torturing humans to death was not a particularly honourable way to spend your days. And even after he seemed to have realised it, he hadn't quite changed his ways in the past thirteen decades since the end of the War.

I wanted to ask why his parents had given him away like that. What trickery the Mother had applied to acquire a child so young in service of her. But that really didn’t have anything to do with my own training prospects, and digging too fast and too deep likely wouldn’t improve my chances of success. So I shifted my shoulders in my comfortable new dress and said, ‘Why did you change your mind during the War?’

He didn’t move. Didn’t even make the effort of looking aside or shaking his head. As if I was talking to a statue – to a solid brick wall.

‘I take it that’s a refusal to answer?’

It was barely a nod, more like a slightly violent twitch. I decided to take it as a nod and told myself I shouldn’t be surprised. I was a tool to him, after all – a tool for which he was willing to risk a midnight abduction or two, a tool that needed breakfast and clean clothes, but no less a tool for any of those reasons. It made no sense for him to hand over unnecessary information, let alone information that I might use to get through to him.

‘Alright.’ I stuffed the small flare of anger behind my new wall of bland, mature civility. ‘More current affairs, then. Do you already have a plan to deal with her?’

He shrugged. Presumably that didn’t mean he had no idea himself, so I took it to be a “sort of” kind of shrug.

‘Outline of a plan?’

Another nod.

‘Can you tell me more about it?’

He hesitated for a moment, then wiped his earlier writings from the sand and wrote, Not here.

Not out in the open, where unfriendly ears might be listening to us in whatever way. Not with only the beach available as writing material. Fine, I could see that. So I pulled up my knees, mirroring his position next to me, and returned to my previous point.

‘About that training – it might be somewhat urgent for me to learn more about my magic.’

This time, his raised eyebrow seemed to be an invitation to elaborate. So I steeled myself and said, ‘I might have broken one of your windows.’

His eyebrow nudged up another fraction.

‘I couldn’t find a way to make it melt and grow back again,’ I said sheepishly. ‘And I wanted to get out. You’ll have to teach me that particular trick.’

He drew in a very deep breath, shoulders and chest rising with the movement. The bastard really should have been wearing a shirt, damn it. Had he taken it off on purpose? Not to do his morning exercises and enjoy the warmth of the sun, which was still pleasant at this time of the day, but just to play his dangerous fae games with my poor mortal mind?

Mortal. Was I still mortal?

I shivered and decided to shove that thought into a dark corner of my mind for the long-term. If I was unlucky, it would turn out to be a very long term indeed.

I can train you, Creon eventually wrote, as if he had needed the loss of a window to convince him on that point.

‘Good. When?’

He tilted his head at me, running his eyes over me in an obvious investigation of my physical state. I scoffed.

‘Don’t worry. You only burnt down my village and kidnapped me last night. It’s not as if I’ll collapse if you make me draw some colour now.’

His expression turned a little more sceptical, but he wrote, Now?

I jumped up. ‘I’m ready.’

After all, the sooner I got this operation behind me, the sooner I would find my family again.

Chapter 6

Creon repaired the window while I locked myself in the bathroom to change into the black dress he’d found for me. If I were to practise with magic for a full afternoon, I needed as much colour at hand as possible; black gave me access to all three of them together.

It seemed that the Silent Death had the same idea, because when I emerged upstairs, he was fully dressed again, and busy packing last night’s coat and three black shirts into a bag that was also, helpfully, black. I gathered a notebook and three pencils and considered the rather homogenous composition of his wardrobe. In all likeliness, his preference for dark colours was a matter of magical prudence rather than an aesthetic choice. Best to have all colours ready to use at all times. Just like it made sense for the Mother to gather a heap of black velvet on her throne, with the rest of the room mostly white – an abundance of magic for her to use, and only as much as they wore on their bodies for everyone else.

Magic nobody would be able to use against her, too. Nobody, except for me.

I suppressed a shiver.

On the other side of the pavilion, Creon once again made the glass vanish with a simple touch. His impatient glare over his shoulder suggested he wasn’t in the mood for elaborate explanations right now – but damn the civility, I didn’t want to be locked up in this place ever again.

‘So how does it work?’ I asked. ‘The glass?’

He reached out for the notebook I was holding. I stepped through the window as well and handed him the bundle of parchment and one of the pencils.

Let’s start with the easier parts, he wrote and shoved the notebook back into my hands. The bag with black clothing followed a moment later.

‘What?’

He nodded upwards.

‘Oh. Do you want to fly somewhere to train?’

Another nod, so I stuffed the notebook into the bag with the shirts and swung it over my shoulders. He’d have trouble carrying both me and our luggage, with those wings.

‘Alright. So where do you—’

He hoisted me into his arms before I even finished my question, hands under my knees and armpits, and shot into the sky so fast that I had trouble breathing.

Bastard.

I barely suppressed a squeak as Creon swerved towards the sea and I made the mistake of glancing down. Last night, with the world shrouded in darkness, the experience had been so unreal that it hadn’t even seemed dangerous. Flying in utter nothingness, so far removed from all I knew in life, even falling hadn't seemed a very problematic possibility. In the light of day, however, with a bright and clear view on the world below me, my stomach turned in very unpleasant ways as we soared over the trees, the beach, the sea.

‘You know,’ I managed, clinging to his muscular shoulders despite all common sense and better judgement, ‘this would be much easier to handle if you warned me first next time.’

He didn’t react, didn’t even give me that infuriating bland look. I tried to convince my arms to let go of him. Told myself he had sworn an oath not to harm me and that he’d know better than to drop me into the sapphire blue sea below. But we flew away from the court’s island uncannily quickly, and I knew a little too well how cold the water would be. How little chance I’d have to make it back to the shore if I fell.

My arms remained clenched around his shoulders, pressed tight enough against him to feel his hard muscles rippling and shifting below his shirt with every powerful beat of those large black wings.

The island I had seen on the horizon grew larger before us. Soon I could distinguish the line of white beaches and the rocks behind, alternating with the occasional patch of trees. The place looked peaceful enough, but there was no trace of habitation to be seen – not even a few of those fae-owned farms Creon had mentioned in his breakfast note. When we eventually descended to a small clearing just behind the first row of trees, nothing but the rustling of the waves and the cries of some passing birds disturbed the eerie quiet.

With a few last, quick wingbeats, Creon’s feet hit the ground.

Then he didn’t let go of me.

I looked down at his tanned hands clasped around my knees and below my armpits. Suddenly I felt a little too well how firm his hold of my bony limbs was – and yet how carefully he held me, his fingers never squeezing hard enough to even leave a bruise. So much for the ruthless murderer. But then again, it was about time he put me down.

I looked up to tell him that much and realised I still held my arms locked around his shoulders.

‘Oh.’

He raised that bloody eyebrow.

‘I don’t think I really like flying by day,’ I said, yanking back my arms and jumping from his hold. Somehow the feel of his body – warm and soft and just a tad sweaty – lingered on my skin even with several feet between us. At least he didn’t look my way as he sauntered to the other side of the clearing and threw a last look at the Court through the trees. For once, I was grateful for the lack of manners. He might have seen something suspiciously like a blush on my face if he’d bothered with human futilities like eye contact.

I shook the bag off my back and knelt to retrieve the notebook. ‘So what are we doing here?’

His vague gesture at the Court was oddly informative. I frowned and said, ‘Making sure nobody sees me using magic?’

A nod.

‘Alright. Wise, I suppose.’ Although it would still have been polite to warn me. I plopped down on the sandy forest ground and pulled my skirt over my legs. ‘So where do we start?’

He looked a little annoyed about the fact he’d have to sit down next to me, but did so without complaining – keeping a few inches between our knees. Good. The last I needed was for him to think I’d found it anywhere near pleasant to sit propped up against that murder weapon that was his body.

He took the notebook from me and browsed to the first empty page. Nothing was written in it before our conversation of the last day, I noted. Did he always tear out his used sheets, or hadn't he bothered to strike up a conversation with anyone for years?

How much do you know about your magic? he wrote slowly.

‘Red for destruction,’ I said. ‘Yellow for change. Blue for healing.’ All human children knew that much, at least. ‘Colour grows back in the hours after the magic has been drawn, unless it’s fully exhausted, in which case it stays away. That’s pretty much the core of it, isn’t it?’

Creon remained silent as I finished, giving me that slightly sceptical look that made me want to punch him.

‘Oh. That’s … not the core of it?’

He sighed. It’s a start.

A pretty pathetic start. His expression made no effort to soften that blow. It would have been so easy to be a little kinder – to tell me it was not my fault that I had grown up with only children’s riddles to assist me in my magical education, that for a half fae who’d spent her entire life in human company, I was not doing so badly at all. But apparently white lies were beneath His Noble Silence’s dignity, and it was up to me to ignore his scowls and keep smiling my civil smile as if he’d paid me a decent compliment.

‘Well. Tell me about the rest, then.’

You never realised you could blend?

‘As in – using multiple colours at the same time?’

He nodded.

‘I never tried that.’

Most acts of magic don’t require only healing or only change. It’s usually the combination that makes them work best.

It made so much sense that I felt ridiculous for never having thought of it before. Just what he wanted, probably. ‘Is that what you’re doing with that window?’

Destruction, change, and healing at the same time, in carefully measured proportions.

I bit my bottom lip, considering that. ‘So how does it work? Blending?’

His scribbling became more and more unreadable as he wrote down his longest instruction so far. Imagine the colour you need, with the right amounts of yellow, red, and blue. See it before your mind’s eye – clearly. He underlined that last word. That is the difficult part. Once you’ve managed to see the right colour, you draw like you always draw.

‘Ah.’ I rubbed my face and nodded, not entirely convinced I understood the point. ‘Could you give me a demonstration? A slightly more accessible one than your window trick?’

He reached out and pulled a whitened branch from below a bush. With a quick movement of his hands, he broke it in two – a loud snap, like a breaking bone. I didn’t entirely suppress my shiver.

Say you want to make that branch whole again and also change it into glass, he scribbled, his handwriting close to unreadable now. Dropping the notebook in my lap, he laid his fingertips against his black trousers and took the two halves of the branch in his right hand.

A small spark of magic lit up, visible even in the bright sunlight, and at once, the wood was no longer wood but sparkling crystal, every ridge and splinter etched perfectly into the bluish surface. He opened his hand, and the parts of the branch had grown together again.

‘Not unimpressive,’ I said, because I had to say something and this at least sounded better than the shocked curse I’d wanted to utter.

He grabbed another branch and broke it in two, handing it to me with the assignment clearly written on his face. My turn, now.

I glanced at his trousers. They had been an inky, impenetrable black. Now their colour was rather a deep mulberry red, reminiscent of the background my father would use for his portraits of White City nobility.

The difference between that red and black – a little blue and a little more yellow.

I closed my eyes and I was back in my father’s workshop, watching his nimble hands at work as he mixed his colours on the palette. Three parts blue, five parts yellow. A bright pear green.

My fingers blindly found my skirt. I clenched my fist around the rough wood of the branch and released the colour.

The branch crackled in my palm.

I blinked open my eyes. My dress had gone dark red as well, and between my fingers lay a perfect glass sculpture, even the mossy layer on the bark frozen into smooth little ridges. I carefully lowered my hand, and the glass didn’t break.

‘Like this?’

When I looked aside, Creon sat staring at the branch, his eyes narrowed a fraction as if he expected it to blow apart in shards any moment. Only after a moment of silence did he grab the notebook from my lap.

Not unimpressive.

I let out a breathless laugh. ‘Thanks.’

How?

I had actually brought him off balance? Good. Very good.

‘My father is a painter. I’ve seen some colours in my life.’ I gestured at his knees, the dark red of his trousers. ‘So I used the proportions you used.’

He slowly let go of his breath and nodded. Now break it in two.

No decent compliments, again. Just cold, curt commands. Because that was how his world worked, wasn’t it? He gave his orders, and if his victims disobeyed, blood was spilled. Every fibre of my stubborn, obstinate being itched to make a point of it – say please. But I was going to be civil and cooperative. Making a point of anything wouldn’t improve my magical skills.

‘Just … break it?’ It sounded deceptively simple. ‘No changing it into strawberry pudding or—’

Creon swatted a hand at the glass to interrupt me, and I suppressed a scoff and turned back to my practising. Breaking it in two. How hard could that be? I had mastered my use of red years and years ago; it had been the first colour I’d ever drawn. Left hand to my dress, and—

The glass blew apart in a thousand little fragments.

I shrieked, ducking away to avoid the explosion. Glass dust flew everywhere and stuck to my dress, my arms, the moss and earth around my feet; when I dared to blink open my eyes a moment later, two deep gashes in my right palm showed where the twigs had been.

Bright red blood welled up before my eyes. The pain came a moment later, sudden and sharp and so strong I forgot to breathe for an everlasting instant. Only then did I find my voice, high and shrill.

‘Ow!’

Might have to work on restraint, Creon noted.

‘Oh, go fuck yourself,’ I managed through clenched teeth, clawing my left hand into my dress and tightening my right hand into a fist. Blue. Blue for healing. But before I could gather the concentration to imagine even the most basic of colours, Creon grabbed my wounded hand and carefully unfolded my fingers, baring the ugly cuts to the sunlight.

I wanted to yank my hand away. Wanted to snap at him not to bother, I could take care of myself well enough. But his fingertips trailed over my wounded skin so lightly, a gossamer caress rather than the brutal, violent touch of a warrior, and under their careful trail, the cut grew closed within moments. It left no scar, not even that pink soreness of healing wounds.

My experience with blue magic on living creatures was highly limited, and the one time I’d tried to heal a small cut on my lower arm, that patch of skin had looked like a pale infant’s skin for weeks. This was the work of a master.

‘Thanks,’ I muttered.

He released me without a reaction, not even the smallest nod. Even more so than the sensation of those powerful shoulder muscles as we flew here, that far gentler touch seemed to stick to my senses, continuing its meandering trail just below my skin.

Dirty fae magic at work. It had to be. Helmer’s hands had never left me feeling like this – as if my skin was curling outward to reach for his fingers again.

Creon picked up his writing materials again. There was no You’re welcome. Not even a Sorry for setting you up to get hurt. All he wrote was, Let’s try a different exercise.

In the face of so much deliberate indifference, I couldn’t restrain myself. ‘You mean you don’t even want me to cut myself to pieces five more times?’

Only if you insist, he wrote, and for the first time, his glance at me was not so much a cold, commanding glare but rather a … challenge? As if he, too, had noticed my sudden return to snide replies and was warning me to watch my words. Or daring me. I wasn’t sure which was more likely.

I suppressed the urge to shift a few inches away from him in the sand. From so close, the intensity of his dark gaze was like a brand on my face.

‘What are my alternatives?’ I managed.

Are there any stones around?

Perhaps I jumped up a little too quickly, glad to put some distance between his body and my own. Of course I knew better than to let it mess with my mind, that dangerous fae seduction that lured women to the courts, never to be seen again – but even if I knew better, perhaps it was best not to test my common sense too much.

‘I’ll find a few of them.’

There was no amusement in his nod. Perhaps he didn’t realise how relieved I was to get away from him. Which was probably for the best. The only thing more infuriating than the ease with which he affected me was the idea that he’d know how much he affected me.

I circled the clearing a few times and found a handful of rocks, most of them about the size of chicken eggs. By the time I returned to Creon with my loot, he had written half an essay on the pages in his lap.

I dropped the stones before his feet and waited. Only after a moment did he seem to realise I wasn’t planning to sit down next to him and lean over his shoulder again; with a sigh, he handed me the notebook and raised his eyebrows.

You’re working with very bright colours, his words read, scribbling in curved lines over the pages. White tempers the magic. Change half of a stone into water.

‘Only … half?’ I said, although the words were admittedly rather clear. As expected, a nod was the only reply he deemed worth giving me.

I threw the notebook back into his hands and picked up one of the stones I had collected. It was a deep, greyish orange, golden veins glowing in the depths of it. A shame to ruin it, but then again, I might be hard-pressed to find any normal, boring pebbles in this magical part of the archipelago.

Half the stone. White tempered magic. Which seemed to suggest I needed yellow for change, but a light yellow, something like the colour of fresh butter. I closed my eyes and folded my fingers into the linen of my dress. Soft, gentle yellow, egg shells and pale daffodils …

A spray of water hit me square in the face.

I shrieked and dropped what was left of the orange rock – a pebble barely a tenth of the size of the stone I’d held a moment ago. My hand was drenched, and so were the sleeves and front of my dress, my face, and the strands of hair that hung over my temples. When I cursed and wiped the fluid from my eyes, I tasted bright, clear water on my lips.

Still sitting cross-legged on the ground, Creon had curled his left wing around his body like a living shield. Drops of water slipped over the dark, velvety surface too.

‘It’s just water,’ I said, a little offended. ‘I didn’t change it into oleander sap.’

He stoically wiped a single drop off his cheek as he unrolled his wing and tucked it in behind him once more, then held up the notebook. I nearly cursed again. Fine, perhaps he was wise to protect the parchment against any magical showers – but had he expected the stone to burst like that?

‘What did I do wrong?’

He picked up his pencil; I had to trot back to him to read over his shoulder. Too much red.

‘Right.’ Perhaps the colour in my mind had nudged a little too close to orange, indeed. ‘I’ll try—’

Also, too little red.

‘What?’

You didn’t separate the halves that should and shouldn’t change.

I blinked at the wet pebble lying in the sand. I hadn't turned half of it into water, just some of it, and without further specification, that had been a significant layer from the outside in. Separate the halves first – I’d need red to do so, indeed, and only a tiny bit of it if I wanted not to send a handful of stone splinters into my face. Then the change into water, with a more yellowish yellow. And perhaps a drop of blue, too? If I added some blue, perhaps that would keep the stone together for a moment longer and prevent another explosion.

‘Alright,’ I said. ‘I’ll try again.’

Creon nodded. I picked up the next stone – orange again, but a deeper colour this time, like the last minutes of a bright sunset. My left hand thoughtlessly found my dress, which had turned the colour of plums after my last burst of magic. Red, I repeated to myself. Then yellow, with a hint of blue. Light colours, all of them, like pink spring blossoms and pale sand …

A crack in my palm.

A trickle of water between my fingers.

I opened my eyes and found a dozen thumb-sized stone fragments lying in a clear puddle. My dress had turned a slightly lighter grape-like colour.

‘Well.’ The disappointment was too clearly audible in my voice. I’d been so convinced that I’d gotten it right this time. ‘At least I didn’t commit any near-murders.’

Creon didn’t smile as he met my gaze, didn’t even raise that eyebrow that might at least suggest a hint of amusement. Just a sharp, estimating glare, reflecting the inadequacy of my attempt in the dark depths of his eyes.

Then he shrugged and bent over to note down some new instruction.

He shrugged.

It was that gesture – the indifference of it, the utter lack of sympathy, of reassurance, of acknowledgement that I was doing the very best I could even if it wasn’t good enough – that made the smouldering glow of my annoyance flare into a sudden bonfire. I took two steps towards him, then found myself standing still again, my fist clenching around the remnants of the stone.

‘Are you going to make me trot back and forth to you all day for every tiny adjustment?’

Creon looked up, narrowing his eyes.

I scoffed. ‘If you have nothing more pleasant to say than what colours I should and shouldn’t be using, at least be more efficient about it.’

There was no spark of understanding in his eyes; going by the empty, frozen expression on his hard face, I might as well have started speaking in a foreign tongue.

My annoyance wavered under the weight of new, suddenly urgent questions.

‘Have you never looked for another way to communicate?’

Something sharp slid over his face as he scribbled down a few words. I stepped a little closer, just near enough to read them upside down. It’s temporary.

‘The loss of your voice?’

A nod.

‘How long has it been temporary?’

He stiffened – just long enough for me to know that question had hit home. I let out a joyless laugh and said, ‘Ten years?’

His fingers twitched, then reluctantly turned into a gesture upwards. More than ten years. Zera help me. ‘Twenty? Fifty?’ My voice was rising, and the line of his lips grew thinner and thinner. He gestured upwards again, and a luminous epiphany hit me.

‘Since the Last Battle?’

He let his hand drop to his side and nodded.

‘You’ve been unable to talk for a hundred and thirty years?’ If not for the darkness in his eyes, I may have laughed again. Since before my parents were born. Since before even great-aunt Gisele was born. Did it have anything to do with his reasons for turning against his High Lady? ‘And you never even developed any kind of hand language? Like the deaf blacksmith’s apprentice on Cathra did? I could show you the gestures we used to—’

With a brusque shrug, Creon turned away and tore off the full upper page of his notebook, scrabbling something down on the next one. My vexation, softened for a moment at the thought of a hundred and thirty years in silence, returned in full force.

‘Why won’t you? Because you’re too proud to admit you’ve lost something you didn’t want to lose?’

He stiffened, then jerked up his head. His narrow-eyed stare was a knife stab. I decided to emphatically ignore it. We had somehow soared past the politeness anyway, and I was too agitated to think about how that had happened.

‘Or don’t you ever talk with anyone, anyway?’ In that solitary pavilion, so far away from the rest of the court, it may not even have been far from the truth. The children he tortured to death would hardly be engaging conversation partners. ‘Well, I’m here now, and I need you to talk with me. If this is going to take weeks – months – I’m not going to run after you with pencils and parchment for every single stupid little question. So.’ I sucked in a lungful of air, my breath heaving. ‘This …’ I pressed my first and second finger against my thumb, curling the other two to my hand palm. ‘It means red. Can also be used to mean wrong if you sign it here before your chest, or strawberry if you sign at face level.’

He closed his eyes, fingers clenching into a fist in his lap. Behind his shoulders, his wings shivered in the morning sun.

‘Blue,’ I said, closing all fingers but my pinkie and flicking my wrist around. ‘And I’d recommend you open your eyes, because I’m not going to show you twice. This gesture can also be used to denote the sky.’

He didn’t look up.

I held my stance, fingers curled into my palm, for another five seconds before I gave up and folded my arms over my chest. ‘Creon.’

Something twitched around the corners of his lips.

A trace, a very first trace, of something that wasn’t so smooth and polished about the Silent Death. An imperfection. A loss of control. If I was lucky – a vulnerable spot.

‘The rest of the world doesn’t need to know you’re doing this,’ I said, storing that observation carefully in my mind. ‘You’re hiding my magic. I might as well hide your hand language in return.’

He opened his mouth, as if to speak. That was another gesture I hadn't seen before. Because he pretended he had no desire to speak – it all made sense to me, now. Because he was proud enough to decide he had no use for verbal interaction anyway, now that the option had been taken from him, and admitting that he missed it, admitting that the loss of his voice hurt him, would be the kind of humiliation his fae heart wouldn’t survive.

‘Do it for me,’ I said.

His eyes flew open.

‘You probably handled yourself just fine without your voice. You survived more than a century without it, at least.’ I shrugged. ‘But I’m an impatient little human, and I like gestures better than written words. So, blue.’ Again I folded my fingers against my palm and made that quick turn of the wrist. Moving to the next gesture, I continued, ‘And yellow. Also used for gold, and money in general, and if I recall correctly, sunlight.’ I forced a smile at him. ‘Placement makes all the difference, again.’

In his lap, half hidden behind his battered notebook, his fingers moved slightly – as if they were itching to follow my examples even though he wouldn’t allow them to. So I turned away and said, ‘I’m going to get a few more stones.’

Let him practice the gestures a few times without me seeing it. If that would deliver me the victory, I could do him that little favour.

I returned to the clearing with my arms full of stones a few minutes later and found him seemingly unmoved, his hands impassively in his lap. But he didn’t pick up his notebook again as I dropped the rocks at his feet. He didn’t look away.

‘So what did I do wrong, last time?’ I said.

Slowly, he lifted his hand. Brought the tip of his thumb against the two next fingers, and folded the last two into his palm. Then, in a quick gesture that needed no further explanation for either of us, he pointed his index finger to the ground.

‘Less red.’ I picked up a stone from the ground and closed my fingers around it. ‘Alright. Let me try again.’

Chapter 7

My dress was a pale periwinkle by the time the sun hung directly above us and drenched my back in sweat; I had reduced one of Creon’s shirts to an amusingly sweet pink and another to a stark white that likely wouldn’t recover. Around us, the ground lay covered in fragments of stones, some of them still wet, others long since dried up by the blistering heat. The last two had cracked neatly in half. Getting the right part to turn into water was a task that so far defeated me, though.

In the full heat of the afternoon, with my mouth drying out and the sweat dripping along my spine, my concentration didn’t improve either. When I eventually sank down next to him, soaked after yet another explosion of drops, Creon too seemed to realise that much.

Let’s go home.

I wanted to show him the gesture for home or tell him that his bloody pavilion wasn’t anything close to home for me. But both options didn’t seem the height of diplomacy, and I had probably used up all my ill manners for today.

‘I’ll pack.’

A curt nod. I had stopped expecting more from him.

While I gathered the shirts, he destroyed the stone fragments I’d left lying about. Only as I watched him obliterate the shards and pebbles with a few perfectly measured blasts of colour did I realise how little magic I’d seen him use so far – how little magic I’d seen at all in my life. All I’d ever known were my own attempts, brusque and unsubtle, and the dramatic stories the old women of the villages told around the festival fires. But Creon’s work …

There was nothing explosive about his magic, nothing grand and spectacular. He worked his colours like a carving knife, with cold, ruthless precision, turning bits and pieces of stone to dust without even stirring the sand below. His shoulders barely tensed, his face never showed a hint of effort. Wielding powers that could hurt and maim and kill like anyone else might wipe a fleck of dust from their clothes.

Three hundred and sixty six years of training. And the Mother was far, far older than that.

Perhaps I made an involuntary sound as the thought struck me; he looked up at the exact same moment, his eyes narrowed as if to determine where my sudden change of heart came from. I forced myself to shrug.

‘I still have a long way to go, I suppose.’

A stiff nod. Of course there would be no reassurance, no compliments on the progress I’d made today. If I decapitated the Mother herself tomorrow, he’d probably nod too and suggest I use less yellow next time.

The thought annoyed me enough to make me step forward without flinching as he moved to scoop me into his arms again. If I could sufficiently remind myself of how much I hated him, his fae magic should have a hard time getting hold of me.

I did not clench my arms around his shoulders again. I closed my eyes and ignored the sea so deep below us, focused only on the steady beat of his dark wings and the oddly reassuring strength of his grip, until the already familiar sensation of my guts shoving into my rib cage told me we were descending.

As soon as we landed, Creon put me back on my feet as if I were a package to be delivered and strode towards the rose-covered pavilion before me. No uncanny memory of his touch lingered this time. Good.

A large basket stood waiting on the porch. He picked it up as he nonchalantly made the window vanish again and stepped inside; I followed him, nearly stumbling over my own feet in my efforts to make sense of colours and blends that would be required for that deceptively simple trick. Some red? And blue, to heal the window back in place? But then how was it possible to use both at the same time?

The basket stood on the table when I finally shook the matter from my thoughts. On the other side of the room, Creon was taking off his shirt.

Oh, Zera help me.

I didn’t need another demonstration of corded muscle and gleaming skin, not after all the effort I’d made to keep my head clear this afternoon. So I threw his backpack onto the couch and busied myself with an investigation of the mysterious basket instead. A delivery of food, it turned out as I lifted the reed lid – glass jars and hemp satchels full of dried apricots and olives and goat cheese and barley. By the time Creon found his way to the kitchen too, thankfully wearing a shirt again, a handful of dates had already mysteriously vanished from their package.

For civility’s sake, I made the effort to look a little guilt-ridden. He shrugged and gestured for me to go ahead.

‘Might be a mistake,’ I said, stuffing two more dates into my mouth. ‘I eat a lot.’

He raised an eyebrow as he glanced over his shoulder, running his gaze over my gaunt figure a little too demonstratively. A blush stormed my cheeks. Considering how little I wanted to do with his body, it would really be better if he just didn’t acknowledge I had one at all.

Once again, his disinterest was my salvation. At least he couldn’t see the warmth rising to my head as long as he kept his gaze focused on the food supplies on his shelves. Such an oddly ordinary pantry. Garlic and olive oil. Flour and eggs. I had some trouble imagining Creon, with his majestic wings and his immortal elegance, baking himself a pile of pancakes on a calm summer night.

Perhaps he only had the food delivered because of my presence. Perhaps he normally treated himself to lavish banquets of veal and venison and probably a grilled human child or two at the Mother’s court.

I had just opened the jar of fresh goat cheese in brine when a shadow fell over the window to my left. A tall, winged shadow.

‘Creon?’

He had already turned around, leaning against the sink with still, wary eyes on the moving figure behind the green glass. I braced myself for the loud crack of someone breaking through, but whoever the visitor was had apparently dealt with these windows before. As soon as I saw fingertips against the green, the flower patterns melted away.

The fae male behind was tall and slender, with bluish black hair that seemed even darker against his flawless ivory skin. With his thin mouth and his pointy chin, there seemed to be something sharp about his countenance, as handsome as he undeniably was – something slick, too, about the way he smiled as his eyes slid to me.

I swallowed my date as our gazes met. Perhaps a little too audibly.

The unknown male’s smile broadened as he stepped inside without even acknowledging Creon’s silent presence at the sink. Any moment, I expected a slender silver knife to bury itself into his silk-clad chest – but Creon remained motionless on the edge of my sight, arms folded and face expressionless. Only his eyes remained fixed on his visitor, the slight narrowing around the corners a clear sign that one wrong movement might be a death sentence.

‘Well.’ The slender fae male examined me as he approached the table, that slick, cruel smile stuck on his face. ‘The famous Miss Emelin, I presume?’

Not at all, I wanted to say, the name’s Adabel – just to see how he’d react. But I was a silly, swoony human, obsessed with my fae hosts and fae in general. I didn’t make snarky comments. I didn’t even think of them.

‘I’m quite thrilled my name has reached you already, lord fae,’ I said, in that same meek voice I’d given the Mother yesterday. Without the fear clenching my throat shut, it sounded even more ridiculous to my own ears. ‘Will you do me the honour of telling me yours?’

‘Ophion.’ He grinned at Creon. ‘Is she this polite when she’s kneeling in front of you, too?’

Every vein in my head seemed to burst. Creon’s stoic expression didn’t change – a cold, lethal stare without denial or confirmation.

‘Bit surprised to find you both with all your clothes on, really,’ Ophion added, with what sounded like rather suicidal cheerfulness to my ears. His eyes shot over to me a little too quickly to pretend he was just engaging his gaze while making pleasant conversation and lingered on my wrist a moment too long – on the small gemstone marking our bargain.

On the evidence that I hadn't walked into this place entirely without thought.

My muscles tensed, but he lifted his eyes to my face without commenting on the fact and smoothly said, ‘Enjoyed your first day at the court, Emelin?’

‘We’ve seen the beach,’ I quickly said, because he’d likely noticed my sandy feet, too. My heart pounded in the very tips of my fingers. That damn bargain. Would he ask what I’d bargained for? Would Creon have his lie ready? But my voice continued in that silly, unnatural squeak. ‘I really wanted to see the water here, you see. It’s all far more beautiful than at home. Some of the fish were …’

‘Fish,’ Ophion finished, his smile turning colder, crueller at my rambling. ‘Wonderful.’ With a glance at Creon, he added, ‘Do we see you at the Lycaria tonight?’

A slightly raised eyebrow was Creon’s only answer.

Ophion, unfazed, sniggered. ‘Better plans, probably? Who needs a couple of lanterns when you can have the lips of a pretty girl on your—’

Creon shot forward.

A flicker of movement, too fast for my eyes to follow – a single wingbeat, a silvery flash, and the front of Ophion’s silk shirt lay yanked into Creon’s fist, a knife against the fae’s pale throat. I barely stifled a cry. Ophion’s words evaporated on his lips, his smile frozen into a cruel, mirthless grimace.

‘Creon …’

A small drop of blood welled at the point of the silver blade.

‘Learn to take a joke,’ Ophion hissed, the corners of his lips twitching. Somehow he didn’t seem particularly concerned – only furious. ‘Your little toy won’t—’

Creon hurled him out the window.

Not through the empty window frame where Ophion had melted the green and white glass away as he came in, but through the adjacent frame, through the glass, with enough force to shatter the delicate artwork around our visitor’s wings and shoulders. Ophion let out a blood-curdling cry as he fell back and shards ripped through his clothes and wings, the blood soaking his shirt before he had even landed on the porch. He barely seemed to notice his wounds as he crawled back, panting and cursing. His right hand flew up at Creon, his left clenching into his torn black trousers.

Creon twirled his knife around his finger. Once.

Ophion’s hand fell down.

With Creon’s winged back towards me, I had no way to tell what look lay in his eyes. But on the porch, Ophion shuffled back from the window, farther away from the Silent Death towering over him, squeaking incoherent apologies as he fled. He left a trace of dripping blood behind on the grey stone. One of his damaged wings hung dangerously askew. The other twitched with each movement, as if the joints and tendons were crying out at every turn.

Only after a good ten seconds of watching his inglorious exit did Creon step back to repair both windows with a single offhand shot of blue. The sounds of Ophion’s heavy panting was locked out at the same moment.

I realised I was standing. I hadn't noticed myself jumping up. My left hand had clenched itself into the periwinkle linen of my dress, ready to draw even the last drop of red from the cloth if I had to.

Creon’s gaze dropped to that hand as he turned around, and for a moment, I thought I saw a flash of appreciation in his eyes. Then he nodded – the first reassuring nod I’d received from him. It’s alright, that nod said. He’s not coming anywhere near you.

I uneasily loosened my fingers from my skirt and dropped back down on my stool. My legs were suddenly trembling. My elbows, too. Everything, really.

‘Who in the world …’

Creon leaned over the table to grab his notebook. His eyes darted back to the windows surrounding us every other moment, focused vigilance despite the calm certainty of that nod.

Her, he wrote and hesitated longer than I’d ever seen him hesitate, lover.

‘The Mother’s?’

He nodded, flinging his pencil onto the table as he sauntered back to the window and turned a small fleck of white glass transparent with a miniscule spark of yellow. Apparently Ophion had indeed vanished; under his black shirt, Creon’s shoulders loosened a little as he glanced outside.

‘If you’re the Mother of all fae,’ I said when he turned back to me, ‘surely you can get better than that?’

A grin slid around his lips.

It was gone so quickly that it must have been a mistake, a slip of his facial muscles rather than any kind of intentional amusement – but a grin it was. I was so baffled I accidentally let a laugh escape my lips, too, although it did sound like a laugh on the brink of a nervous breakdown.

‘What was he doing here?’

Creon shook his head as he picked up his pencil again. The spark of amusement had vanished, leaving nothing but the usual distant stoicism behind. No idea. He’s never here.

Never here. Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, ‘So you do actually live here?’

He stared at me.

‘All the time, I mean?’ I added sheepishly. I was not making it any better, but in the wake of the fearful excitement of Ophion’s visit, my lips didn’t seem able to stop moving. ‘Not just when you have visitors or … or … kidnapping victims … or—’

Creon blinked at me, then threw a glance around the room. This single room, with its single bed and not a shred of privacy to be found except in the bathroom.

‘Well,’ I admitted, ‘I suppose it’s not the most suitable kind of accommodation for kidnapping, but …’

The words died away on my lips. I wasn’t sure how to finish my argument without insulting him, which made sense, given that none of my thoughts about him had ever been very complimentary.

He scribbled, Not enough blood?

Another laugh fell from my lips. ‘Suppose so. I missed the torture instruments and the dangling chains at the ceiling, too.’

Will take note.

Was he joking now? He could hardly not be, but there was still not a trace of amusement to be found on his stark face as he sank down two stools away from me and glanced at the window again. In the direction of the Mother’s court, this time. The Mother – whose lover he had wounded a moment ago.

Past the warnings, he’d said, and something unpleasant stirred in my stomach.

‘Won’t you get in trouble?’ I said. ‘For throwing him out?’

Creon shrugged. He’ll heal himself before he lets anyone see him.

‘Oh.’ Another arrogant fae bastard refusing to show any weakness to the world. ‘Well, good, I suppose. What is that Lycaria he was talking about?’

Creon only gestured vaguely in the direction of the palace. Something at the court. Lanterns, Ophion had said. I knew the Faerie word lyca, now that I thought about it. Light.

‘A light festival?’

He nodded.

‘Don’t you normally go?’

A sigh, a nod.

‘But you’re not planning to go this year? Won’t that get you in trouble either?’

Depends on the story.

The story. The explanation we could give the Mother, if she ever were to ask about his absence – worse, if she were to ask each of us about it separately.

I coughed and said, ‘Well, Ophion seems to have drawn his conclusions already. Might as well go with the story that you were too busy with your new human toy, indeed.’

The gleam in his eyes was a carefully measured challenge, as if he wondered whether I’d get the vapours at his next scribble. Could be busy at the festivities.

I quite felt like getting the vapours, but I’d be damned if I let him notice. If I had just earned a little bit of respect from my act for Ophion, I wasn’t going to squander it by making a point about fae morals. At the festivities – for all I knew about fae festivals, they could indeed be fucking each other out in the open.

‘I’ve been here for a day,’ I said, demonstratively unaffected. ‘Even if I’ve always been obsessed with fae and with you in particular, I may be a little overwhelmed by the particulars of your holidays.’

He raised an eyebrow. You probably cried.

‘Oh, hysterically. So you got tired of reassuring me and decided you might as well skip the festivities for once.’

Courteous.

I couldn’t help but grin. ‘Piss off.’

And there it was again, that quick, uneasy grin – just a blink and it was gone, as if it had never happened. With a nod, he stood up, pulverising the parchment on which he’d written, and returned to the kitchen, to the pantry he’d been inspecting before Ophion had interrupted us. Wholly the dark fae assassin again, the winged predator prowling through his own house as if he was searching for prey – and yet it seemed something small had changed. Shifted. I wasn’t yet sure what it was and even less sure if I liked it.

‘Can I help?’ I said as he moved some jars around to make room for the new supplies.

He ignored me. Well. It seemed his amiability was short-lived, then. I decided to be helpful nonetheless, hoisted a couple of bags and jars into my arms and walked up to him. Only after he had piled all the quail eggs, honey, and olives onto the shelves did he even look at me, giving me no more than another curt nod to thank me for the assistance.

Whatever exactly had changed, it hadn't affected his mood in any meaningful way.

I considered offering to help him cut the vegetables, just to see if that would make a difference. But he looked like he knew what he was doing, and in all fairness, he was likely more skilled with knives than I was. So instead I sat down at the table with his notebook and started drawing the gestures Aldous and his family had used to signal the alphabet. Fist clenched, thumb out – A. Fingers stretched up, thumb against palm – B. I put as much detail as possible into every little drawing, adding arrows where necessary to indicate movements. He’d better get this right. I really wasn’t going to run after him with pencils for weeks or months to come.

I was halfway through the list when the scent of frying onion and garlic began to fill the room. Hints of dill and oregano and briny, melting cheese joined the symphony of smells as I continued my drawing; by the time I shoved the notebook aside, my alphabet finished, the loose bits of barley and vegetable had turned into a fragrant stew, simmering on the stove while Creon quickly rinsed his boards and knives. My mouth watered. Even after twice as much breakfast as I normally ate, hours of magic training had apparently left me ravenous.

By the time he spooned two bowls full of barley stew, the world outside was almost entirely dark and the small lights in the walls and ceiling of the pavilion were glowing again. Creon didn’t sit down at the table, though. Instead he removed one of the windows and walked onto the porch with our food and cutlery, by the sound of it settling himself just across from the corner.

Was he inviting me to join him? I didn’t know how else to interpret his disappearance with my meal.

He was leaning back against the glass when I followed him outside, the two bowls standing next to him. By only the faint shine of the lights in the trees and the glow of the pavilion’s interior, it was hard to say what emotion lay on his face – if there was even any emotion at all.

I wanted to ask what in the world we were doing here. But as I sat down next to him, the answer to that unspoken question appeared between the trees in the night sky.

A lantern.

A single one, at first. Then more followed, drifting majestically on the night breeze. Hundreds – thousands, perhaps – of small, flickering flames rising into the heavens, like echoes of the silvery stars above. They swung and swayed on the soft evening breeze, a mesmerizing dance of glittering light. Like a swarm of fireflies in the distance, floating over the sapphire sea, over the forests surrounding us.

Far away, music started playing. Violins, their simple melodies blending into a symphony that was light and haunting at once, an eerily delicate song that sounded more familiar than my own skin, even if I had never heard it before.

I forgot to eat.

I may have forgotten to breathe.

I could only sit there, the warm bowl of stew in my lap and Creon’s winged silhouette next to me, and listen – listen to that melody that seemed to speak of sunsets of aeons ago, of dying stars and dwindling fire. A goodbye to the lanterns as they slowly drifted off. A song full of grief and loss and hope and so many other feelings I hadn’t thought faekind capable off …

It died away, slowly, when the last lantern had passed our forest. To the open sea – into nothing.

For a few minutes, the world was silent as the grave. Even nature seemed to hold its breath for the music to return.

But when sounds eventually broke through the eerie quiet, they were far more mundane, far more comprehensible than the violins of a moment before. Shouts and laughter and a dancing melody – sounds of the festivities as I had imagined them, fae getting drunk and screwing each other out in the open, or whatever it was they did on nights like these. Only then did I remember my food and my rumbling stomach.

I swallowed down a strange sense of loss and took my first bite – sweet and salty and light and nourishing, the tastes of broth and herbs and lemon and cheese melting into something utterly delicious on my tongue. The bastard could cook. If I hadn't been so annoyed about his ignoring me, I might have complimented him.

Although, I realised as I stuck a next spoonful of stew into my mouth, he was writing next to me now.

It took him a while. I was already halfway through the bowl when he finally shoved his notebook towards me.

I thought you might like to see our magic used for more peaceful purposes.

Your magic, I wanted to say, but with the echo of the violins still on my mind, I couldn’t bring myself to speak those words. Our magic. There was an us now. An us to which both the Silent Death and I belonged.

All of a sudden, I knew what had changed with Ophion’s visit.

We had worked together for the first time. Not just Creon’s indifferent commands. Not my small, hard-fought triumphs over him. We had cooperated – and it hadn't even been unpleasant.

None of this was really unpleasant, if I was very honest.

The Silent Death wasn’t an aggressive pinnacle of violence. He didn’t even seem to be particularly cruel. Authoritative, surely, and indifferent and too proud for his own good, but the Silent Death from the stories would have forced me to do his bidding without a bargain to protect me. He would have taken advantage of me in that bed. He would have dragged me to the Lycaria whether I wanted to go or not and amused himself and his brothers in arms with my pleading as he took what he wanted.

Instead he swore to protect me. Got me food from fae farms. Threw a powerful fae male through glass over some tasteless taunting.

It was hard to imagine, really, that this male was indeed the one I’d heard about. The one flaying children alive and burning entire villages to the ground.

The words left my lips before I could fully think about them – before I was sure if this was even a question I wanted to ask. ‘Creon?’

He tilted his head a fraction. As much as an invitation as I was going to get, presumably.

‘You – you did kill all those people, didn’t you?’

A ridiculous question. Less than twenty-four hours in his company and already I was doubting the common sense that had been ingrained in my brain for two decades? And yet I couldn’t help the sting of disappointment when he turned towards me, his scarred eyebrow raised a fraction, and gave me a single, tired nod.

‘You didn’t let all of them secretly escape to the White City, or …’

Creon shook his head. I didn’t finish my sentence, battling the nonsensical, naïve nausea that welled up in me. What had I thought? That he would brightly reveal he’d been organising underground escapes for over a century? I was being exactly that amusing little human he’d expected me to be. A single day of the absolute minimum of kindness and already I was drawing conclusions about the state of his blackened fae heart?

Fine, he might not be as cruel as I’d been led to believe. But that didn’t make him brave. It didn’t make him a champion of humanity. Being the Mother’s killer had been the easiest way for him, and so he had chosen it. Who cared about the hundreds of humans he’d killed to keep himself safe?

I suppressed a groan. The problem was …

If he was truly just keeping himself safe, why was he taking the risk of training me now? Why hadn't he simply sworn fealty to the Mother and kept his word, if human lives meant so little to him?

Why did he want her dead? Why?

Asking him would be of little use. He’d just give me that impassive look and send me off with another training exercise. So I had to find another way to make him talk – but how? Politeness and civility had done little for me, so far. Really, the only moments he had shown any reaction to me at all today …

The moments I forgot to keep my tongue in check. He had reacted to my inadvertent snarky comments and insults – with annoyance as much as with surprise, but at least he had reacted.

Well.

That settled it, then, didn’t it?

Perhaps I should stop treating him like that distant, emotionless creature he was trying to be. Just to see what would happen if I acted like he was, beneath all the fae pride and arrogance, something close to human. Not because I wanted to befriend him – I couldn’t forgive him that easily for all he’d done to my people. But because I might simplify life a lot if I could at least convince him to be a little more vulnerable, at times.

I glanced aside. His warrior’s silhouette was still unmoving next to me, the little light in the trees playing over his hard face.

Vulnerable. I’d never seen anything that less suited the word.

And yet … something had made him betray his High Lady.

We sat in the darkness for what felt like hours, our empty bowls between us. At the court, the sounds of the festivities became wilder, shriller. Festivities where Creon would be missed. No doubt he’d soon have to explain to the Mother why he hadn't shown up at one of the major festivals of the year.

What would he say, exactly? I was a little too busy showing my guest every corner of the pavilion?

The image hit me so suddenly I had no time to push it away – an image of what might as well have been, of what the world would soon believe to be the truth. My own naked body on Creon’s bed. His bronze, powerful form between my thighs, wings spread over us, clothes stripped off to reveal corded muscles and the undoubtedly majestic length of him …

What was I thinking?

Fae magic. I clenched my teeth, repeating those words to myself to push away the image in my mind’s eye, the scorching heat rising to my cheeks – dirty, deceptive fae magic. He was making me think of him, wasn’t he? There was no other reason for me to find myself lusting after my murderous captor within a day of my arrival. Fine, I hadn't seen any man, human or otherwise, up close since my magic escaped me at Miss Matilda’s and my return to Cathra had forced me to say goodbye to Helmer. And Helmer may have been moderately handsome, but he hadn't been anything close to this beautiful creature of night and blood …

My skin remembered how Creon had pulled me against his chest as we flew. Strong, confident hands, hands that would doubtlessly know their way around my body – and again the heat flared through me, burning even hotter now.

Gods be damned. I shifted on the cold stone, drawing in deep breaths. I had to get out of here. I was driving myself insane – no, his fae magic was driving me insane – and at the very least, he shouldn’t notice how much he was affecting me. Time for a very cold bath. If I were to survive another night with his body so close beneath the blankets …

Creon turned next to me, moving for the first time since I’d asked my questions, and fixed his gaze upon my face. Eyes narrowed slightly. Something smouldering in the black depths of them. As if he knew exactly what images were playing in my thoughts at the same time.

Unless you change your mind, of course …

My breath caught in my throat. Was I changing my mind? With those burning dark eyes on my face, I couldn’t recall any of my earlier, more sensible objections. If I was here anyway, if the world believed me his little human toy anyway, then what would be the harm …

My parents. I clutched that thought like it was a lifeboat, holding on for dear life. Once all of this was over, I would make my way to the White City. I would see my family again. Pretending to be Creon’s willing captive in order to kill the Mother – that was a story I could tell. Admitting I had willingly handed myself over to him – oh, no.

I shoved away from him, breaking my gaze. Too abrupt, I knew. But with my heart pounding in my throat and my body burning between my legs, I didn’t care what he might know or suspect. I had to get the hell away from him, first.

‘I’m going to bed.’

That small, knowing smile curved around his lips.

‘With a knife under my pillow,’ I added, snatching my bowl from the ground as I got up. ‘Don’t get ideas.’

A decent threat – but it wasn’t nearly as reassuring as it should have been as I fled inside and sagged down on the nearest stool at the table. If I was very honest, I wasn’t too worried about Creon getting ideas. He had closed a bargain to keep his hands off me, after all.

Rather, the question was whether I could show an equal amount of self-restraint.

Chapter 8

I didn’t see much of the Silent Death in the days that followed.

When I woke up in the mornings, my blankets untouched, he was already gone; only the new notes with training exercises proved he had been around at all. Sometimes he appeared out of nowhere for lunch, interrupting my frustrated attempts to keep my magic in check. Most days, I didn’t see him again until dinner, which he would silently prepare, refusing my help. In the evenings, he vanished again, returning to the pavilion only after I had already fallen asleep.

In a way, it was a blessing. If he wasn’t around, at least I couldn’t accidentally throw myself into his arms when his fae magic became too overwhelming. But on the other hand …

I had resolved to get answers. There was no prying information out of him if he was never around in the first place.

‘Did you do anything interesting today?’ I tried when he returned on the evening of the second day and found me and his home soaked from the many stones I’d turned into water over the course of the afternoon.

Creon gave me a flat look and cleaned the mess with a few broad gestures, prowling over to his kitchen without answering.

‘Were you at the court?’

No answer. I gave up for the evening. One more refusal, I knew, and I would find myself being much worse than snarky – and calling him an unmannered swine probably wouldn’t make him much more informative.

Tomorrow might bring better chances.

He was indeed back the next afternoon, although mostly to tell me exactly what I was doing wrong in my attempts to cut a clear circle from a piece of stone. By the time he had written four full pages about my various failures and mistakes, and still not noted down a single word of encouragement, most of my enthusiasm to continue the conversation had already crumbled like the stones I was trying to carve. Still – I needed the bloody information. So I shoved my fury to the back of my mind as well as I could, moulded my face into something that could pass for inviting, and said, ‘Creon?’

He had already been on his way out again but turned around now, one eyebrow a little higher than the other.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ I said.

He looked at me as if he doubted it.

‘I’ve barely set foot out of this house for three days,’ I said, which was true, although admittedly, I didn’t mind that much. A significant portion of those three days had been spent in the very comfortable bathtub. ‘I was wondering if you could show me around the island a bit?’

Creon’s eyes narrowed another fraction. With a snappish gesture, he pulled his notebook from a pocket and scribbled something down, then shoved it towards me over the table.

Impatient to see the court?

‘Well, no, but the beaches looked pretty lovely, and—’

He beckoned me to hand back his notebook. His next message took a little longer but ended up being just as curt.

Don’t need me to see the beaches. Just don’t pass the gnarled tree to the east. Faewood isn’t safe.

I snorted. ‘And if I want to see Faewood?’

He shrugged, as if to say that was my own problem, and walked out without looking back.

It took me a week to finally have enough – a week of blunt indifference in which I saw his back more often than any other part of him. I woke up on the morning of the seventh day to find the bed empty as usual, the room deserted, and a barely readable note on the table next to my breakfast plate.

Break a stone in four clean pieces. Try not to ruin the room.

Bastard.

I stabbed a first white bun with my butter knife. Try not to ruin the room. He already knew I was trying to contain my magic, and so far, even my most extensive messes hadn't taken him more than a few minutes to clean. Reminding me of my failures again was just obnoxious.

So I didn’t practice.

For the first time that week, I didn’t even go out to look for stones. Instead I put on my most comfortable dress, plopped down on the ridiculously large couch, and spent my morning reading Creon’s books. They didn’t tell me much about his history or his plans to take out the Mother, but at least the maps in his atlas gave me a chance to brush up on my topography of the archipelago a little.

Thank the gods Creon returned for lunch. Demonstratively doing nothing for a full day would have gotten very boring very quickly.

He seemed to realise something was off before he even entered; his shadow paused on the porch for a moment. No broken glass. He still hadn't taught me how to remove the windows more gracefully; if I had gone out, as I did most mornings, at least one of them would have been shattered.

But even if he was prepared for surprises, finding me with a pile of his books on the couch made him falter in his tracks as he stepped inside.

‘Oh, hello,’ I said, with my brightest, most insincere smile. ‘Hope your morning was more productive than mine?’

He raised an eyebrow. It was not a happy eyebrow.

‘You seemed very concerned about the state of your home,’ I said, turning my eyes back to the atlas, just for the sake of making a point. He could feel what it was like, talking to the side of a face. ‘And since I couldn’t quite guarantee I wouldn’t ruin anything, it seemed safer to me just to wait for your ever welcome assistance. Mind getting me a cup of tea, if you’re standing anyway?’

There was no sound of footsteps for a good few minutes, or of anything else. Only after I had browsed through five more pages did the sudden clatter of a kettle nearly convince me to look up.

I resisted the urge. If I had dealt with his indifference for a week, he could deal with mine for a couple more minutes.

A few pages later, the shadow of his tall body fell over me without warning. I almost squeaked – damn the bastard and his inaudible footsteps. But he was carrying two cups of tea and a bowl of dates when I looked up, and that was enough of a triumph to forgive myself for my skittishness.

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘So you can be polite after all.’

His mouth thinned to a flat line, but he handed me my tea and sank down in the velvet cushions without scoffing or snorting. I emphatically folded my legs and waited, resisting the familiar urge to shove closer to his muscular body. The faint hunger slumbering below my skin was not a problem in urgent need of solving. His idea of communication – or the lack of it – was.

It seemed to take another hour before he pulled his slightly dishevelled notebook from the pocket of his coat. Why he was wearing a coat in the heat of this island was anyone’s guess, but that question sat very, very low on my list of priorities.

Did you try?

‘To break that bloody stone?’ My voice soared up. ‘And risk ruining your bloody house?’

His dark wings twitched as he stood up, as if it took an effort not to slap me in the face with them. But he only snatched one of yesterday’s leftover stones off the floor and didn’t even throw it into my face. Instead it landed in the velvet just beside my lap, close enough to make the point that he could have hit me, had he wanted to.

His nod was a clear command. Try.

‘This,’ I said, tapping my right hand against my chest, ‘is how you say please. In the unlikely case you’d ever want to use it.’

Creon gave me a hard stare.

‘And if you want to tell me to fuck off,’ I said, flipping my middle finger up at him, ‘this is a perfectly acceptable gesture for that purpose.’

He sighed and gestured at the stone again. No please but no middle fingers either. Could have been worse.

Four clean pieces, his note of the morning had instructed me. I sighed, laid my hand against the dark, nearly violet blue of the couch, and drew as little red as I could.

The stone exploded – four pieces indeed, slamming through the room in four directions at once. Two shattered the windows; one hit the pantry cabinet and threw several bags of flour onto the floor; one crashed into the bed and left several long, deep gashes in our pillows.

I blinked, my mind catching up with the extent of the damage a little too late.

‘Oh.’

Creon just shrugged as he fell down onto the couch again, not bothering to repair the windows or recover his food. I swallowed and tried not to look too bashful. Ruined the room, indeed – but then again, the bastard could have given a more detailed warning, couldn’t he?

‘Does this happen with all fae children when they start training?’ I said after a stiff moment of silence. ‘Because I’m starting to wonder how many of your teachers die here on a yearly basis.’

He sighed as he drew his pencil again. Your magic is rather strong.

I stared at that sentence. Rather strong. Was that supposed to be a compliment or just an observation? And regardless – why had he waited a week to tell me?

‘Despite me being half fae?’ I said slowly. First things first. Information took priority over my displeasure.

Full fae usually end up somewhere between both parents. Half fae tend to take the full powers of the fae parent.

‘Which suggests my fae parent must be a relatively strong mage?’

He nodded, frowning slightly. I tilted my head at him and said, ‘You look bothered by the thought.’

It’s interesting. Strong mages draw attention. Those who survive the attention tend to be more sensible than to get themselves involved with humans.

I scoffed. ‘Because sensible fae wouldn’t touch the lowly humans with a stick?’

Not what I said.

‘Might be what you meant, though.’ At least it was clear that he’d rarely given much weight to human lives. And I definitely knew how most of his kind thought about us – had seen it written out clearly enough in their disgusted scowls when they showed up on Cathra to demand their yearly tribute. ‘Much of faekind seems to share the idea.’

There’s more I don’t share with most of faekind.

‘Another thing you changed your mind about during the War?’

He nodded.

‘Why?’

His face turned into a stone mask again, eyes taking on a glassy shine. Not even a polite refusal or a subtle change of subject. Just – nothing. As if I, his conversation partner, was nothing indeed.

Bastard. I may have gotten him into this conversation, but he clearly wasn’t going to grant me any further triumphs.

‘Fine,’ I said curtly, collapsing back into the pillows. I’d have to make the best of it. As long as he was here, at least I could keep asking questions. ‘Something else, then. You’re a pretty strong mage, aren’t you?’

Likely the strongest in recorded history. There was no sign of boasting on his face as he scribbled it down. If anything, it was plain exhaustion.

The strongest.

In recorded history.

Which was – three thousand years? Four thousand, perhaps, if fae libraries went back longer than those in the White City? I swallowed, unable to resist the urge to steal another look at his face. Inked scars, chiselled features, ice-cold beauty.

‘So … who are your parents, then?’

He blinked, that confused gesture shattering the shield of indestructible perfection. For the second time since I’d known him, his lips parted slightly, hesitating at the soundless syllables they had been about to form.

‘What?’ I said. ‘Is that a strange question?’

He released a silent, mirthless scoff. I thought it was common knowledge. It was when I was younger.

‘What was …’

His knuckles strained white around his pencil as he wrote, The Mother.

‘The … Wait, what?’

A shrug.

‘The Mother? She’s your mother?’

He pressed his lips into a thin line but nodded.

Oh, Zera help me. I suppressed an urge to shove away from him – away from the blood of that colourless horror, away from the deadly power brimming in him. Born to join her forces, he had written days ago. No treacherous bargains or ungodly deals involved. She had sent her own son into training before he could speak full sentences, destined to become a weapon, an instrument of her tyranny.

And then she’d bound him. Was even she afraid of his power?

‘But you said you’re still a stronger mage than she is?’ My voice sounded breathless no matter how hard I tried to hide my shock. ‘Was your father even more powerful, then?’

Creon threw me a glance. Dark, bottomless eyes, and for a moment, I thought I saw a strange despair flickering in their depths. Just a flash, and then it was gone. Nothing even remotely vulnerable lingered on his face as he scribbled, Different story.

‘Well, I have time.’

I don’t.

Then what had he been doing all these days – did he simply not care to inform me, or did he think I couldn’t keep a secret? The fury broke through the momentary shock again. A weapon, indeed, and who would ever tell his sword where or why he was swinging it?

Struggling to keep my voice down, I said, ‘Look, I suppose I understand why you don’t particularly like to talk about your family …’

His look was full of the sharpest scepticism.

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ I said, exasperated. ‘I’m trying to be nice, alright?’

His scribble was barely readable. Don’t bother.

‘Oh, for the bloody gods’ sake. Fine.’ He could stick the last remainders of my good intentions up his princely arse, then. ‘I don’t give a damn about your family history, if you want to know, but I am risking my life as much as you are, and you’ve been treating me like a stupid child for a good week now. Are you so busy scheming against your dear old mother that you can’t find two minutes to tell me what you’re planning?’

He stiffened at dear old mother. I shrugged, leaned back into the pillows, and stuffed a date into my mouth, chewing vigorously to mask the silence of his unmoving figure next to me.

‘In case it’s ever useful,’ I added as I swallowed the date, ‘this is the gesture for kill.’ A quick flick of my flat hand, as if to behead him. ‘Can also be used as a general threat. Not that I’d think you’d ever have need for threats in my vicinity, of course.’

He gave me a blank look. I raised an eyebrow and stared back at him until he pressed his lips together and averted his face, snatching his notebook from his lap with less restraint than usual.

A hundred and thirty years without any serious conversations. Perhaps I was overwhelming him more quickly than I had expected.

How much do you know about the history of the Wars?

‘As much as is relevant for most humans,’ I said, leaning over carefully to read along with his writing without touching him. Even when he was furious and infuriating and the son of the Mother of all fae herself, that unnerving fae magic still stuck to every inch of him. I wasn’t going to end up leaning against his perfectly sculpted shoulders. His scent already gave me trouble enough. ‘Which is that the fae are bastards who might kill you at any moment, as they’ve been doing for a good couple of centuries at least.’

He threw me a look. I shrugged.

‘There’s not much sense in asking around for exact causes and original conflicts when you’re busy trying to harvest enough grain to survive the tribute, you see.’

I see.

I nodded at the food in his pantry. ‘I doubt it.’

He didn’t react to that point. So you don’t know what she is?

‘Who – the Mother? Unless the answer is a murderous bitch, I don’t suppose so.’

Two murderous bitches, he wrote.

My hand stopped itself halfway to the strand of hair I was about to wipe from my forehead. He’d written the words down with that cold hardness on his face, so fast that it took me a moment to take them in. Two murderous bitches. He wasn’t joking, was he?

‘There was only one woman sitting on that throne.’

One body. He underlined the last word, then dropped his pencil to take a date himself. I stared at that explanation – that sorry excuse of an explanation – and suddenly regretted having eaten at all. My stomach stirred in unpleasant ways at the implications.

‘Are you saying she’s two people in one body?’

He nodded, chewing slowly.

‘Do you mean she’s mad? There was someone in Ildhelm who swore she had two people living in her head.’ I pulled up my knees and tucked them under my skirt. ‘One was a brilliant, timid student, and the other was a rather vulgar …’

Creon waved my words away. She’s not mad.

‘Then … how?’

Magic.

I swallowed. ‘She magically put the minds of two people into one body?’

They’re sisters, he wrote, looking like a martyr for having to spell it out for me. Achlys and Melinoë. They figured out that they could combine their magical powers if they both took up living in the body of one of them.

‘Zera have mercy.’ I rubbed my face. ‘Whose body are they living in now, then? And where did the other body go?’

He grimaced and shrugged.

‘Oh. You weren’t there when they … combined?’

It happened a millennium or so ago.

A millennium. The woman – women? – I’d met on that gruesome throne of bones had been a thousand years old at least. I swallowed again, trying not to look like the disturbed twenty-year-old human girl I absolutely was, and said, ‘So what colour combination would you need to do such a thing?’

It’s not colour magic.

‘There’s … other magic?’

Gods, he wrote.

I stared at that one word, with a sensation of something spidery slowly climbing up along my spine. Gods. Which had to be a joke. Everyone knew gods didn’t mingle with mere fae and humans – or at least, that nobody I knew had ever truly met one, no matter how much they prayed and chanted. But Creon didn’t make a habit of joking insofar as I had seen, and the way he chewed on his date suggested he’d very much like to have been joking here.

‘You are saying gods exist,’ I concluded, slowly and carefully.

He raised an unimpressed eyebrow at me.

‘And those gods put her – put them – into that body.’

One god. Korok.

‘What absolute idiot would do such a thing?’

An idiot madly in love. He drew in a long, slow breath. Or perhaps not necessarily love. Agenor once let slip that the argument was she wouldn’t have to sleep anymore.

‘With one of them awake at any given moment – oh, for fuck’s sake.’ I didn’t want to blush. I was very much hoping that I wasn’t blushing – but with that maddeningly muscular body so close, this was not a subject on which I wanted to dwell for too long. ‘Who is Agenor?’

Ancient and very loyal ally of hers. One of the few who are still alive from that time.

That time – a millennium ago. Even the thought made me nauseous. Agenor probably wouldn’t even be a wizened old male shuffling around with a stick. None of the fae I had met looked older than a human in their thirties.

‘Alright,’ I said, swallowing my disgust down. ‘So some idiot god put two women in one body, and then what?’

He did worse. He taught her the magic of the gods. Creon gave me an estimating glance, as if to determine how much he had to spell out for me. They lived with their human communities on the continent at that time. The gods.

‘Before the plague?’

Yes. Their magic protected the humans. Because the other peoples did not have that protection, the gods gave them some magic too. Colour magic for the fae. Fire magic for the phoenixes. Light for—

‘Wait, wait, wait,’ I interrupted, jolting up. ‘Are you saying phoenixes exist?’

A shadow slid over his face, but he nodded and continued. Light for alves. Blood for vampires. Nature for nymphs. To keep the balance, the agreement was that no one should ever get more power than allotted to them.

‘And then the Mother took that power nonetheless.’

It’s how she binds people. That’s not colour magic, either. Took her mere decennia to conquer all the different fae peoples after she learned that skill.

‘Oh. I didn’t know there were different fae peoples.’ I grimaced. ‘You all look like very similar bastards to me.’

There were three. Korok built her the Courts after her conquest, one for each people.

‘The Crimson Court,’ I said, counting on my fingertips, ‘and the Golden Court, and what is the third one?’

Cobalt.

‘Never heard of it.’

It was destroyed during the War.

‘Alright. The War.’ It all dazzled me, but I wasn’t planning to let him know that much. He’d probably grab any excuse to end the conversation. ‘How did that start, then? Did the humans get fed up with her at some point?’

They did. He hesitated, then scribbled, So they killed her son.

‘Her what?’

Her son. Hers and Korok’s. His human community was unhappy he was rarely with them anymore. Some luminous minds decided the solution would be to take revenge and kill their son.

‘Your brother – half-brother?’

Creon shrugged. How much was it worth, that blood bond, if that unfortunate half god had been killed centuries before the fae male next to me was even born?

‘And that started the war?’

She took that moniker after he died. The Mother. Attacked Korok’s humans, who asked the other gods for help, which started the War of the Gods. Which she won, and ended, by sacrificing Korok to unleash the plague upon the continent.

I stared at him. The plague. The strange blight that rested on the mainland to the west, that scoured the earth and made it impossible to live in those lands for longer than a few days at most. I’d met one man who claimed to have set foot on those shores, and his face had been a frightening patch of burn wounds and leathery scars. Hundreds and hundreds of years it had haunted the archipelago – and all of that had been her work?

So the remaining humans fled to the islands, Creon continued, unfazed, and flipped the page. Allied with the magical communities living there – phoenixes, alves, etc. Which started another war of several centuries, ending with the Last Battle.

‘Which she won. The Mother.’

He nodded.

‘Except that you mysteriously changed your mind about your allegiance just as the side you’d always been loyal to was winning.’ I planted my elbows on my knees and tilted my head at him. ‘An unusual choice, I have to say.’

Quite as I had expected, I received nothing but a flat, empty look in return.

‘And you were born somewhere during that second war,’ I continued, slowly, ‘as the most ridiculously powerful mage the world had seen until that moment.’

Something twitched in his jaw. A reaction. Good.

Achlys and Melinoë amplify each other’s powers, but only by about fifty percent. I was born to a body with those powers combined, though.

‘So you count for two fae?’ I blew out a breath. ‘I see. And your father – he’s a strong mage as well, then?’

A shrug. I assumed that was supposed to be a confirmation.

‘Where is he now?’

Dead. She killed him after I was born.

Because she had needed the unlucky fae male only for his offspring – for his magical prowess, guaranteeing a child strong enough to be half an army by itself. I swallowed and said, ‘But if you’re more powerful than she is at any moment – the Mother, I mean – then how did she even manage to bind you?’

Circumstances.

I snorted and twirled my index finger around in a little circle. ‘Just so you don’t have to waste any more of that perfectly fine pencil on such useless answers, this is the gesture for circumstances. And for a couple of other things, too.’

He waved the point away as if he were trying to kill an annoying fly. Good. Let him be annoyed. It was better than mercilessly stoic.

‘And even without magic – you haven’t seen a chance to stick a knife into her for a hundred and thirty years?’

She never sleeps. And when she’s awake, it’s her magic against my knives.

‘Magic,’ I said absently, making the sparkly gesture that denoted that word. ‘Sleep. Knives.’ Every word accompanied by the hand motions that symbolised it. It didn’t escape me how his eyes followed the movements of my fingers with predatory sharpness – as if he was marking the patterns to find their weak spots. ‘I’m not sure what the gesture for waking is, really. We’ll have to come up with something.’

Creon didn’t move, so I sighed and added, ‘And me?’

He cocked his head, slowly.

‘If she never sleeps, I’ll have to take her on while she’s awake. She’s been training her magic for a thousand years, and apparently she’s practically a goddess.’ I gave a joyless laugh. ‘What do you expect me to do? Walk in and blow her apart like those stones?’

Wouldn’t work.

I gritted my teeth. ‘Was afraid you’d say that. Why?’

Stones are homogenous. Your magic affects them as a whole. Human bodies … He shrugged. You’d hit only the outer layer.

‘I’d only damage her skin?’ Another piece of information I should have received days ago. ‘And then I’d need more magic to hit the flesh and organs and bones below?’

He nodded. But—

‘But by that time she’d already have turned me inside out to skip rope with my guts.’ I bit out a joyless chuckle. ‘Yes.’

Creon blinked. Novel idea.

‘Oh, for hell’s sake.’ My voice rose – the memory of that bone seat too sharp in my mind, the image of my own bones sticking ragged and bloody to that macabre wall. ‘Well, thank you very much for telling me a week too late how useless all this training is. So did you have another plan, or were you planning to wait a century before I might even have the slightest of chances against her?’

His glimpse at the windows was quick, but noticeable. Dangerous secrets, again.

There’s something about her throne.

‘Something,’ I said, the scepticism thick in my voice.

She never allows it out of sight. The last time I saw her away from the room was during the Last Battle, and she kept a considerable force at home to protect it.

That hall – that grim, macabre place. Who in their right mind would choose that place to spend the rest of their life?

‘And you don’t know what the importance of that throne is?’

It may be related to her magic somehow. Be a source of her powers. Korok built it for her.

‘Alright.’ I took in a deep breath. A throne, even if it was built by a god, at least seemed a more promising opponent than that blue-eyed horror of two souls and one body. ‘So your suggestion would be to destroy the throne first.’

He nodded.

‘But we’ll need to get to it, in that case. And if she never leaves the hall, she won’t—’

The Labyrinth, Creon wrote.

‘The what?’

There’s a system of underground tunnels below the court. Forbidden to enter. Some of them run below the hall. Might be possible to dig through the stone and destroy the throne from below.

I stared at him with narrowed eyes. ‘You’ve been thinking this through for decades before I was even born, haven’t you?’

I’ve had time to think.

‘In between the hunting of humans.’ I gave a sharp laugh. ‘So why exactly are you busy every waking minute of the day now, if your plans were already made a century ago?’

The tip of his pencil hesitated a fraction above the parchment, as if he already knew I wouldn’t be happy about the answer. Charting the Labyrinth.

‘You didn’t do that in the past decades?’

He gave me a sharp look and underlined the Forbidden to enter he’d written down before.

‘So?’

I rarely have an excuse to vanish from her sight for a week.

An excuse. It took a moment for that to come through – me.

‘You’ve been using me as an alibi without even telling me? Without even considering taking me along?’

His infuriatingly perfect brows drew together. Why would I take you along if you can’t control your magic yet?

‘Because I’m the one who has to do the bloody work here!’ My voice slammed out of me without regard for sense or subtlety – a full week of fear and frustration breaking from my lips. ‘Because you wouldn’t be anywhere without my magic, because I’m here to save your sorry arse and you’re treating me as if you’re somehow doing me a favour?’

Something twitched at his jaw, but I no longer cared. I was too furious to care. Was this what my life had become, then – from my stifling village into the stifling arms of a fae traitor? Doomed to answer to the whims and wants of others for the rest of my life?

Creon abruptly turned away, flinging his notebook onto the couch as he stood up. Angry. He was angry. An emotion at last, then – but even that triumph failed to register through the haze of my fury.

‘And don’t bloody ignore me!’

He ignored me.

‘What do you want me to do, then?’ I hissed. ‘Grovel at your feet because you kept me alive to use me for your own damn fight? Throw myself into your bed like the witless little human you want me to be?’

A tremor ran through his wings as they flared out – but he didn’t turn his face towards me as he stalked to the other side of the room and began to repair the damage my magic had done to his windows with short, snappish bursts of blue.

Hate welled in my throat, tasting like poison.

‘Does it run in the family?’ I sneered. ‘That tendency to treat the rest of the world as worms in the ground?’

The colours leached from the world around him.

Was that even possible? The books paled behind his still wings. The green window glass turned a pallid, sickly white. The floor around his feet whitened, the light birchwood suddenly the colour of spotless marble.

I sat frozen in the couch cushions, unable to tear my eyes away from his still black shape.

He turned ever so slowly. As if a single unchecked motion may send me, the house, and the forest outside hurling into the sea. His face – oh, gods help me. The perfect lines of his features had contorted into an unrecognisable mask, the inked scars paling on his skin. His eyes were dark enough to swallow a sun.

The pavilion seemed too small around him, suddenly. Around his wings spreading wide, around his power heating to a bursting point in his fingertips.

‘Oh, dear,’ I heard myself say. ‘Did I hit a sore spot, Your Highness?’

His lips moved, tight with fury and self-restraint. Powerless, soundless motions, but I could read the words even from the other side of the room.

Shut. Up.

I should be frightened. I was a witless little girl staring down a volcano about to burst, a mouse confronting a dragon in the full force of its wrath. But I tasted only sweet, heady triumph on my tongue. So here were the emotions, finally. Glorious and uncontrolled. He’d sworn an oath not to hurt me, and I had done no such thing in return.

‘I’m not shutting up at all.’ I rose, carefully, making sure to keep my hands away from any coloured surface. ‘Frankly, you’re silent enough for the both of us.’

He stood motionless, drops of black gathering at the tips of his fingers. The magic aching under his skin to burst free. So much power – but he wouldn’t, couldn’t hurt me.

‘I’m off to the beach,’ I said. ‘I’ve seen enough wings for the day, really.’

And I ran, fury buzzing in my veins and triumph burning in my lungs, as the sound of shattering glass broke the silence behind me.

Chapter 9

In the heat of the midday sun, the beach was so warm it hurt the soles of my bare feet. I couldn’t be bothered to care. Slightly blistered feet were a sorry excuse for a problem compared to the one I’d left behind in that paling pavilion; by the time I’d figured out the matter of Creon, a few bits of blue magic would be enough to soothe the burning pain in my feet.

I walked and walked. After a week in this place, I didn’t even see the unnatural blue of the sea anymore, or the brightly coloured flashes of fish and coral below the surface.

The farther the pavilion lay behind me, the more the triumph was watered down. In its place rose something disconcertingly like doubt.

I had probably crossed a line. There was no way to pretend that those last remarks had been anything but a deliberate attempt to hurt – an instinctive reflex to lash out and make him feel at least some of the rejection, some of the indifference, he had taken such care to show me since the day I arrived in his home. All that effort to be at least somewhat civil, somewhat polite, and I had no doubt I had rendered them all useless with that single stupid outburst.

His coldness so far had been his reaction to my politeness. I didn’t want to know how he’d respond to the deliberate stings I’d just hurled into his face.

Couldn’t I just … quit? Steal a boat from some fae jetty and row all the way to the north, if need be? Back to my family. Back to the smells of Father’s paints and Mother’s flowers. I’d made a bargain, yes, but if I didn’t hold Creon to his part of the deal, I shouldn’t be obliged to take care of my part – and he’d probably be just as happy to be rid of me after this scene …

Would he be?

I kicked a small stone aside and cursed at the pain of the impact. He’d waited a hundred and thirty years to find me. No, not to find me – to find any unbound mage. Even if I annoyed him to death, he probably wouldn’t let me go so easily.

Why?

Why was he so determined to bring the Mother down?

It would all be so much easier to handle if I at least understood what game the Silent Death was playing – what in the world motivated him to take all those risks to get rid of the woman who’d given birth to him, who provided him with a luxurious life and more freedom than anyone else in the archipelago seemed to have. Was it a matter of personal revenge, of some deep hate that had festered for centuries between mother and son for whatever reason? Was Creon trying to put himself on that throne and rule over all of faekind – and humans too? Or had he changed his mind on the superiority of his kind during the War, and was this entire undertaking the result of some stubborn idealism beneath the layers of cold distance?

It was hard to imagine him as an inspired idealist, the frighteningly beautiful male I’d left behind. It was hard to imagine him caring about anything. And yet …

A hundred and thirty years.

To my left, the forest grew darker as I walked on, but on the sand, the sun still shone as bright as anywhere. My head didn’t clear with it.

For a hundred and thirty years, he had still killed and tortured in her name. I knew that was true – he admitted himself that it was true. So whatever spark of rebellion had burnt in him after the War, apparently it hadn't been enough to make him care that much about the pain and death he left behind wherever he went. A very lazy kind of betrayal, really. He had continued to swim along with the stream as long as fighting it would cost him too much; only when I had appeared had he realised I might be a relatively painless way to achieve his goals.

Painless for him. That bargain was the only reason I dared to believe he wouldn’t sacrifice me just as easily for his own ends. And even that … He’d protect me as long as I helped him deal with the Mother, the oath said. Would I still be safe the minute after I finished that mission?

I should have thought about that. If my head hadn't been such a mess on that first night, I could have protected myself so much better.

So what was I to do now?

The air seemed to draw darker around me as I considered my options, as if the shadows of the forest came crawling onto the beach as I walked, filtering the sunlight into something far paler and colder. A shiver ran along my spine, and I barely noticed it. What was I to do?

Turn back to the pavilion as if nothing had happened? Continue to ignore him like he preferred to ignore me, except when we grudgingly worked together to sneak through labyrinths and destroy thrones of unknown magical power? I would go mad if I had to live like that for months. I was going mad already. With not a single soul to open my heart to, how would I keep it from turning to ice in my chest?

I could go back and demand he behave better. He would probably raise that cursed eyebrow of his and shrug me off – if I was lucky.

I could threaten to leave if he didn’t stop treating me like some annoying pet. But he could easily lock me inside his house, and then what was I to do? He knew as well as I did that I would incriminate myself just as much by exposing him to the Mother, and nobody else would have the power to save me from him.

I could …

Something snarled behind me.

I snapped around so quickly I nearly stumbled into the hot sand.

My eyes needed a moment to convince themselves the scene before me was real. That this wasn’t some figment of my nightmares or another fae trick playing with my mind – that the animal prowling from the edge of the trees was as solid and substantive as my own body. The creature was as high as a horse but built like a hunting dog – a particularly scurfy hunting dog. The black fur was smooth and gleaming, as though the monster had just risen from the water, but the bald spots all over its body looked raw and festering, and the skin around its yellow eyes was flaking. Those eyes themselves were clear and vicious, though, and the sharp snout was aimed at me without a hint of hesitation.

The word welled in my mind like a reflex. Hound.

Oh, gods. How far had I walked, exactly?

Past the gnarled tree. So deep in thought I had entirely forgotten to heed Creon’s warning, the boundary that kept me safe around the pavilion. I hadn't imagined the shadows closing in around me or the paling warmth of the sun.

This was Faewood.

And it had noticed me.

The hound had waited until I was past him. Now, stalking closer to me with quiet, growling sounds lacing its pants, it blocked the way back to safe grounds. On the other side of me … more beach, all the way around the island – but even if I’d ever manage to run fast enough to leave the hound behind me, that would only bring me into more densely populated parts of the court. Into the arms of fae who had no reason to be gentle with a newly arrived human in their midst.

I glanced down. I was wearing my pale blue dress with the white flowers. No red to defend myself. The sand could give me a tiny bit of yellow, perhaps, but these beaches were too damn white – too little colour to stop the hound.

Oh, gods.

I shrunk back. Away from the monstrous creature that sauntered up to me, the drool dripping from its narrow jaws a clear message of its intentions. The hound howled again, almost as if it was laughing.

My hair. There was still red in my hair. But it wouldn’t be enough for more than one or perhaps two attacks, and if I miscalculated – if I didn’t hit how and where I wanted to hit – I would only further enrage the monster. And what if there were more of them? I certainly didn’t have the magic to defend myself against an entire pack of these animals.

‘Hey,’ I said, my voice a strained attempt at confidence. Could the hound understand me? It was a fae creature. For all I knew, it communicated with fae and humans all the time. ‘This is probably not your best idea, buddy. Creon wants to keep me alive, you see. If you tear me to shreds, you’ll make him unhappy, and—’

The hound snarled, a sharp, violent sound.

I shrieked, leaped back, and nearly lost my balance again. Struggling to keep standing, I managed, ‘Fine, if you …’

Again the creature growled as it sank to its knees to attack. I clawed my left hand into my hair without another thought – red, as much of it as possible, into the monster’s eyes or its nose or any other vulnerable spot—

A flash of light shot over my shoulder and hit the hound straight between the yellow eyes.

I froze, my fingers still tangled in the hair at my temple. The hound howled again, in obvious pain this time, and shrunk back from me, away from whatever its widening yellow eyes beheld behind my back.

Creon?

But it wasn’t Creon who stood behind me when I dared to turn my back towards those dribbling jaws for the shortest fraction of a second.

A small girl had appeared out of nowhere on the beach – no older than six or seven summers at most. Her round face was a mess of freckles, her hair an explosion of wild red curls. She wore a bright yellow dress and weathered sandals, their leather straps bound around her lower legs all the way up to her knees.

And she looked human. Small, round-eared, and human.

‘Watch out!’ I blurted out, my heart jumping into my throat. Gods help me, what was she doing here? This hound stood five times as tall as she did, and could sever both her legs in a single bite. Any child with the tiniest shred of common sense should have been running and crying for her mother – but this girl …

‘Could say the same to you,’ she said with a slight frown on her young face, swinging a small, freckled hand at the hound. Another reddish flash split the air in two, and the creature whined like a beaten lap dog. ‘Not really a place for humans, this. Oh, get out, you stupid fool …’

That last part was added, with an impressive glare, at the crying fae hound. I snapped back to watch the monster, but it was slowly crawling away from both of us, its nose trembling as if the newcomer’s smell would betray where she had suddenly come from. In the corner of my eye, I could see the girl raise a hand again.

The hound took to its heels, vanishing between the trees in a whining, scrambling blur of gleaming black and festering pink.

With a scoff, the girl repeated, ‘Fool.’

I stood numbly in the sand, staring at her.

She wiped a rogue curl from her freckled forehead, then lowered her hand and threw me a smile brighter than even the stifling sunlight. ‘Not you, of course.’

I damn well felt like a fool, with my mouth on the brink of sagging open and my words drifting through my mind in confused syllables that couldn’t even begin to form questions. She was human, wasn’t she? She had to be human. But she had used magic – used it without drawing colour from any surface around her, as far as I could see. Even half fae shouldn’t be able to do that. Let alone seven-year-old half fae.

‘What?’ I said.

She smiled even brighter. ‘I just happened to be around. Seemed to me you could use a little help.’ She cocked her head to one side, examining me with amber eyes that seemed to see more than any child her age should. ‘Are you alright?’

‘I … Yes, I’m fine. What in the world …’

‘Oh, very long story.’ She waved the question away. ‘The name is Lyn. Yours?’

‘Emelin.’ As soon as I said it, I wished I hadn't. I had no idea what she was – who she was. If she was loyal to the Mother, or indeed to any other fae noble at this court, I may just have put myself in danger. At least she hadn't seen me use any magic, but even then … ‘Where … where did you just come from, exactly?’

Lyn gave a little shrug. ‘The trees.’

‘And what were you doing between the trees?’

‘What were you doing on this beach?’ she said dryly. ‘Myriskeia is not usually considered the ideal place to take a walk.’

‘Myriskeia?’

‘How do they call it in your language – Faewood?’ She pulled a face. ‘Bit of a euphemism. Myriskeia means—’

‘Deathwood,’ I finished blankly.

‘Exactly. As I said, not the best environment for relaxing.’ Again she tilted her head at me, like a clever little bird. ‘So why are you here?’

‘I lost track of my surroundings.’ A little too late, I realised how stupid that sounded, so I added a little more apologetically, ‘I’m new here.’

‘Where did you come from?’

Did it make sense to lie? If she worked for the Mother, she probably already knew the truth, or she would figure out easily enough if I told her anything else.

I forced myself to shrug and said, ‘Cathra.’

The smile sunk from her face as if I’d slapped her across the cheeks. ‘You’re from Cathra?’

‘I ... Yes.’

‘Good gods.’ There was nothing childish about her puzzled frown. If anything, she oddly reminded me of Miss Matilda’s mathematician husband trying to solve a particularly thorny problem. ‘You – oh, hell. Did you mention Creon?’

The way his name came over her lips gave me pause. There was an edge of indisputable abhorrence to the way she spoke those familiar syllables – but something like disbelief too, as if she couldn’t with the best will in the world imagine the Silent Death would ever be involved in something as bloody and violent as the massacre of my island.

I could have denied having spoken his name to that hound. Could have insisted she misheard me. But that undertone made me abandon the option in a heartbeat.

Because she sounded like she knew him.

Which might mean she could tell me more about him.

‘I did mention Creon,’ I said, sending a quick prayer to Zera that I wasn’t making the mistake of the century. ‘Why?’

‘Did he bring you here?’

I nodded. Lyn cursed in a language I didn’t know, with a whole-heartedness that might shock a grown sailor.

‘Not like that!’ I said quickly. Why did a girl so young seem to understand every single horror that could befall a human woman in the hands of a fae murderer? Perhaps she wasn’t so young at all. If a single body could house two individuals, a seven-year-old body could presumably also be home to a mind far older than that. ‘He just … I’m just keeping him company?’

She tilted her head at me, brushing a bright red lock from her eyes as she scrutinised me in silence for several heartbeats. A strange sensation, to have such a piercing glare directed at me from a little girl two full heads shorter than me. I barely suppressed the urge to start fidgeting. Something about her look made me feel like I was the seven-year-old here.

‘Do you need help?’ she said.

I’d heard enough tales about fae trickery and accidental bargains to consider that question with some wariness. Even if she really didn’t look like a fae child … what if she was something far worse?

‘I’ll be fine,’ I said and forced a smile. ‘He’s done nothing to hurt me.’

‘You don’t trust me,’ she concluded dryly. ‘Wise, probably, with the folks walking around in this place – but impractical. Anything I can do to reassure you?’

‘Why would you care?’

She shrugged, but the gleam in her bright eyes told a different story. A look of quiet, honest concern behind the cheerful child’s façade. ‘Why wouldn’t I care?’

‘You don’t know me.’

‘You’re a human walking around at the Crimson Court,’ she said, folding her freckled arms over her chest. ‘People have been known to need some help in that situation.’

‘Look …’ I drew in a breath. My grip on the situation was rapidly dissolving. ‘I’m honestly doing fine, alright? The worst he’s doing is being an arrogant bastard at times, but I can handle some … What?’

A joyless grin had spread over her face. ‘Sorry. That does sound like Creon, yes.’

Oh, damn it. So she knew him, did she? Knew him well enough to call him by his first name, no titles or violent monikers involved?

We were still on the Mother’s island, in the middle of Faewood. The wise thing would be to get out of this conversation before I could tell her anything of importance or accidentally sell her my soul. But she looked so genuinely worried. She had saved me from that hound.

And I could absolutely do with some help.

‘You know him, then?’ I said. ‘Creon?’

Her grin became a bitter grimace. ‘I thought I did.’

Oh, damn the wisdom, then. Those words alone promised too much interesting history, too many past secrets he would never tell me of his own accord. If I ever had to figure out how to deal with him, what drove him, what to say and what not to say to him, I needed every shred of information I could find.

Fae wouldn’t gossip about the Mother’s son to me. This little girl might be my only chance.

‘So,’ I said, making my decision in a single, unusually reckless heartbeat, ‘who are you, if I may ask?’

For a last moment, she examined me in silence, with those bright eyes radiating a cleverness, an insight far beyond her body’s years. Then, abruptly, she turned around and said, ‘Come with me.’

‘Where to?’

‘I want to introduce you to a friend of mine. And to get out of sight of any fae flying by.’

Coming with her, into the forest of Faewood – it sounded even more unwise than asking her for answers. But she was already walking, and I had already decided I would be reckless.

Fine, then. If all else failed, at least I would have magic she didn’t know about. With the colours of the wood around, I could defend myself.

I hurried after her, catching up with her smaller steps before we were halfway to the edge of the forest. She slipped between the trees without a trace of hesitation. Even the shadows of Faewood didn’t seem to reach her bright yellow dress and the curls dancing around her shoulders, and I followed her with only a moment of reluctance. Whatever she was, she’d handled that hound pretty easily. As long as she wasn’t the danger herself, she could probably keep me safe.

The woods grew darker as we walked, until it seemed like we were finding our way between the twisting vines and gnarled trees in the falling twilight. No hounds showed up, as if they, too, had realised that this small girl might not be their easiest prey.

After a little over five minutes of walking, a small building loomed up from the foliage.

Or at least it had been a small building once, looking mostly like the old temples I’d seen in the illustrations in Ildhelm’s history books. Only walls with bits and pieces of roof were still standing, the marble overgrown with ivy and moss. It could offer shelter to three or four people – five, perhaps, if they were all Lyn’s size. But there was no trace of beds or food to be seen. She couldn’t live here, could she?

Next to me, Lyn stood still and planted her hands on her hips. Before I could ask anything, she yelled, ‘Tared?’

Only when an answer sounded from a few hundred feet away did I realise that had to be a name. The reply came in a man’s voice, speaking in a language I didn’t know and didn’t even recognise.

‘I brought us a new friend!’ Lyn yelled back.

For a heartbeat or two, an answer failed to come. Then, suddenly close behind me, the same voice dryly said, ‘Again?’

I shrieked and jolted around.

Between the trees, a tall man had appeared, dressed in a simple green shirt and loose linen trousers. He was very blond, his hair so light that I could barely distinguish his eyebrows in his slender face; his eyes were a light grey, his ears undeniably round. Which should have made him human. But even as he stood still, there was a sense of motion about him, a lightness I had never seen around even the liveliest of humans – like a drop of quicksilver that wouldn’t stay still long enough for the light to catch it.

If these two were human, I was an idiot. And I didn’t think I was an idiot.

‘She was having trouble with the hounds,’ Lyn said before I could open my mouth, and Tared raised an eyebrow as he quickly surveyed my bare feet and my innocent blue dress. The smile he gave me was a little skewed and a little wry, but not unsympathetic at all.

‘Next time at least take a knife if you want to play with monsters.’

Only then did I see the sword he wore on his back – a slender blade as long as his arm, gleaming whitish even in the dusk of these dangerous woods. The leather at the hilt looked worn enough to tell me that this man, slender and light-footed as he seemed, had seen his fair share of monsters in his lifetime.

‘Thanks,’ I said, swallowing. ‘I’ll remember that next time.’

‘Good.’ Another one of those skewed grins. ‘The name is Tared – you probably guessed that. Who do I have the honour of meeting?’

‘Emelin,’ I said. ‘Pleasure.’

‘She’s from Cathra,’ Lyn said behind my back.

Tared stiffened for the blink of an eye, recovering so quickly that his reaction would have been unnoticeable if not for the contrast to that constant sense of movement. ‘Oh, are you?’

‘Creon brought her here.’

This time his pause was far more pronounced. ‘Ah.’ His voice had cooled to a glacial cold that could only hide a far deeper, far uglier feeling than the faint disgust shimmering through his words. ‘Well. That’s a new low.’

‘Not like that,’ I said before Lyn could continue her report of my own words. ‘He’s been … well, not exactly pleasant, but fine enough for—’

‘Fine?’ Tared repeated, narrowing his light eyes. ‘After what he did to – you know what happened to the island, don’t you?’

I nodded, even though I knew we had very different ideas about what exactly had happened to Cathra’s inhabitants. Tared breathed a joyless laugh, loosened the strap of the sheath over his chest, and stepped past me to where Lyn was kneeling between the overgrown temple walls. I hadn't seen any pyres or tinder when we arrived, but a small fire was burning on the mossy earth now.

The quick look she exchanged with Tared didn’t escape me. I have no idea what’s going on either, that look said, and even less idea what to do with it.

‘Tea, Emelin?’ she said, focusing her bright eyes on me again.

‘Oh.’ I wanted to ask where she was planning to find tea, but just as I opened my mouth, Tared bent over and pulled a large leather bag from a thicket. ‘Sure. Thanks.’

She gave me a slight smile as Tared handed her mugs, a tin kettle, and a large jug of water from their bag. Filling the kettle, she said, ‘So, why are you here? On the island, I mean?’

‘Why are you here?’ It came out a little more brusquely than planned, but Tared chuckled as he took the sword off his back and settled next to the fire.

‘At least you’re asking sensible questions.’

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Will you be giving sensible answers, too, or is that too much to ask?’

‘I can try.’ He threw me another one of those skewed grins. ‘We’re mostly here to keep an eye on our fae friends and to see if anyone is in need of help in this place.’

I blinked and slowly repeated, ‘Friends?’

He shrugged. ‘I try not to use the more accurate terminology around children.’

Lyn threw him a murderous glare from behind her messy red curls. He patted her reassuringly on the shoulder, and she flung a flash of magic at him that he managed to avoid by some lightning-fast manoeuvre my eyes were unable to make sense of.

Then, turning back to me as if nothing had happened, he added, ‘We’re not the best of friends with faekind, no.’

I staggered forward and dropped down beside the fire as well. ‘Then what are you, if you’re not fae?’

‘Alf,’ Tared said, gesturing at himself. ‘And phoenix.’

Fire magic for the phoenixes. I stared at Lyn, who’d just installed the kettle on those flames that seemed to have come out of nowhere.

‘But you’re … not a bird.’

Tared burst out laughing.

‘Oh, shush,’ Lyn said, sending another burst of magic his way. He avoided the fire so easily that I began to suspect she had no intention of hitting him in the first place. ‘I’m not a bird, no. Little misunderstanding that seems to have arisen among humans after the War.’

‘But how …’

Fire flared up behind her before I could finish my question – no, not fire. Wings. Made out of licking, dancing flames, they stretched behind her small body like the wings of a giant butterfly, giving off twirls of smoke and sparks at each twitch and flutter.

‘Oh,’ I said, blinking. ‘I see your point.’

She shrugged, and the flames sizzled out again. ‘There aren’t that many phoenixes around anymore, these days. People seem to have remembered only the flying and concluded we must have been birds.’

‘Birds who are born again after they die.’ Suddenly everything made sense. ‘So how old are you exactly?’

She gave me an innocent glance, a small smile around her lips. ‘Nearly seven. Why?’

‘And how often have you been seven already?’

‘I think this is the fourteenth or fifteenth time. Hard to keep count.’ She reached her bare hands into the fire and plucked the kettle from the flames without flinching. As she dropped the herbs into the hot water, she added, ‘This is my seventeenth life. But I died rather young a few times.’

I swallowed. The idea of this chipper little girl taking a sword in the heart was disturbing, even if I knew she was not nearly as vulnerable as she looked. Next to me, Tared was no longer laughing either.

‘And you?’ I said.

‘Still in my first life,’ he said. ‘Which has miraculously lasted some five centuries already.’

‘So you were both at the Last Battle?’

His eyes dulled even further. ‘Ah. Straight into the sore points.’

‘I didn’t mean …’

‘I know.’ He sighed and accepted the full mug Lyn handed him with a quick smile at her. ‘Yes, we were there. Fought on the side of your kind. Didn’t fight hard enough, it seems.’

‘Tared …’ Lyn muttered.

I turned to her. She handed me a cup of tea as well, then pulled her knees to her chest in a gesture that made her look even younger and added, ‘We’ve been trying to save what we could since those days. It’s not much, but it’s …’ She shrugged. ‘Something.’

Something. More resistance than I’d ever seen outside of Cathra in all twenty years of my life. Was it just the two of them, roaming around the Crimson Court and saving guileless humans from fae hounds? Or were there others too, elsewhere, supporting their rebellion?

Before I could ask, Tared leaned forward, light dancing around his slender form. ‘So if that answers your question – how did a girl from Cathra end up on the Mother’s shores when all reports suggest nobody escaped that massacre?’

‘Creon brought me here.’

Again that shadow slid over his face, a stiffness that couldn’t be anything but deep, icy hate. ‘Why?’

‘He …’ Oh, damn it, then. ‘He needs my help with something.’

‘Something you’re willing to help him with after he murdered an entire town?’ That was definitely hate, brimming in the depths below his wry, nonchalant voice. His hands clenched white around his tea mug. ‘I’ve heard about the state he left Cathra in, and—’

‘They’re alive,’ I said.

He became quiet. Very still and quiet.

‘Emelin?’ Lyn said.

‘The people of Cathra. He let them go.’ If this leaked – if the Mother ever found out – he would be in deep, deep trouble. Then again, if anyone would keep the secret, it would be the people still resisting faekind in silence, and I didn’t want the allies who’d fought alongside my forebears to think I would gamble my loyalty away to my family’s murderer so easily. ‘They should be on their way to the White City now. Might have arrived already, actually.’

Both of them were silent now. I sipped my tea and waited, pretending I didn’t notice the glances they exchanged on the other side of the fire. It seemed an entire discussion was contained within those quick looks.

‘Did he tell you they left?’ Lyn eventually said, careful as if she were approaching some skittish animal. ‘Or did you see them?’

‘I saw them leave.’

‘With your own eyes?’

I scoffed. ‘Not with my feet, no.’

Tared gave a quick chuckle at that, but it didn’t come as easily as his earlier amusement. Lyn studied me with yet more cautious concern.

‘You are really very sure he—’

‘Don’t talk to me like I’m the seven-year-old here,’ I said, a little annoyed. ‘I saw them set sail for the north. I know I have no way to be sure they actually arrived, but …’ I hesitated for a moment. I hadn't even expected the next words welling up in me myself. ‘I trust that he’s done what he could to get them there.’

Again that look between them. Then Lyn repeated, ‘You’re saying you … trust him.’

‘With this particular matter.’

‘And with the rest?’

There was a slight crack in her voice I hadn't expected. The gleam in her eyes as she stared at me over her steaming mug had become more than a gleam of concern. There was almost a plea there, now. A hope so painful it nearly looked like despair. Next to her, Tared’s face only looked grimmer.

‘You said you knew him?’ I said slowly.

‘Yes.’ She sighed. ‘During the War.’

‘He says he changed his mind during the War.’

Tared uttered a joyless laugh. ‘He certainly did. A little too often for my taste, though.’

‘Are you saying …’ I needed a moment to make sense of that statement. ‘He did change sides? And then …’

‘And then we lost that battle,’ Tared said sharply, ‘and while we were still combing the gore and the carnage to figure out which of our friends had survived the slaughter and which hadn't, he crawled back to his mommy and swore by all the gods the world had ever known that we’d been keeping him prisoner and he was still her loyal son, ready to fight by her side again as she forced the world to cower at her feet.’

‘I suppose he was frightened,’ Lyn said quietly.

Tared scoffed. ‘Weren’t we all.’

‘Yes, but – oh, I know.’ She averted her face and drew in a deep breath. ‘I’m still making excuses for him. It’s just that I know how much he didn’t want to return.’

‘We didn’t make him return.’

‘No,’ she muttered. ‘But I was so convinced he wouldn’t go back to that life as her puppet, and …’

‘I don’t think he did,’ I said.

She abruptly became quiet.

‘Emelin …’ Tared faltered for a moment, then bit out something that could only be a curse. ‘Look, I’ve seen some of the corpses he’s left behind in the past century. And I’m not easily shocked, but something about humans who’ve been skinned alive and—’

‘Tared,’ Lyn muttered.

He closed his eyes for the shortest moment. ‘What I’m trying to say … for someone who hasn’t truly returned to her side, he seems to have embraced the position with rather unnerving enthusiasm. I frankly don’t see how anyone could stand to go to such lengths against their own wishes.’

Creon’s wishes. Humans who’ve been skinned alive. It came to me far too easily, the image of those ink-scarred hands twisting a silvery knife below their captive’s skin—

‘Because he’s one of the few people in a position to stop her,’ I whispered.

‘What?’

‘Creon.’ Slowly some things fell into place. Could that truly be what he’d done – the desperate, ruthless plan he’d made as his allies were losing their fight? ‘That’s what he said. That he’s one of the few people—’

‘How certain are you that he was speaking the truth, Emelin?’ Tared said. He didn’t sound sceptical. He sounded, most of all, worried.

‘He closed a bargain on it,’ I said.

Tared slowly lowered his tea, his right hand wandering to the sword lying beside him in the earth. ‘He bargained with you?’

‘Not really. That is, I suppose I bargained with him.’

‘You bargained …’ He uttered a joyless laugh. ‘Orin’s eye. Are you mad?’

‘A bit,’ I said, rubbing the small gem at my wrist without thinking. ‘But I wasn’t going to let him use me without a promise of protection, and I got it. Which is why I suppose I’ll be … fine.’

Another silent discussion took place in his single quick glance at Lyn. She was the one who eventually turned to me and said, ‘You said he was being an insufferable bastard to you.’

‘No surprises there,’ Tared muttered.

‘Are you sure you can handle that part? Because I know Creon can be … complicated.’

‘Which means he’s a bastard,’ Tared helpfully clarified, ‘but one for whom we can make excuses.’

Even Lyn didn’t suppress a wry grin. ‘Yes, thank you. Emelin?’

‘He’s getting on my nerves,’ I said and managed a shrug at the memory of the colours paling around him, the black gathering at the tips of his fingers. ‘But it seems I’m getting on his nerves, too, so I suppose that at least makes us even.’

Lyn raised her eyebrows. ‘Within a week?’

‘What?’

‘Impressive.’ She blew some steam off her mug. ‘It took me months before he even acknowledged my existence.’

‘Oh.’ I blinked. Months? ‘Well, it’s been a couple of days and he’s already telling me to shut up, so I suppose I’m doing something right.’

Tared scoffed. ‘What did you say?’

‘That he was being silent enough for the both of us.’

Tared nearly spilled his tea over his shirt as he burst out laughing. Lyn’s smile was more of a grimace, but she sounded amused when she said, ‘As long as you’re very sure he’s not harming you …’

A hundred and thirty years of torturing people to death during his wait for me, and even the people who thought he’d betrayed them acknowledged how little he had wanted to return to his mother’s side? I was more certain than I’d ever been before.

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘So there’s no need to get you out of here?’ Tared said, examining me closely. ‘Assuming she hasn’t bound you to the court …’

I blinked. ‘What?’

‘That suggests she hasn’t. You’d know.’ He grimaced. ‘She binds her human servants to this island. They can’t leave, even if they could find a way to get off the shores. But if she hasn’t bound you yet, we could get you out of here, if you want to.’

Just what I’d dreamed about a moment before – and yet there was not a trace of doubt in my mind now. It didn’t matter how much I was starting to like these two. Quite the opposite: the more I liked them, the more I had to stay. After a hundred and thirty years of quiet rebellion, after all the risks they had doubtlessly taken to be here on this island and look for humans in need – I had to do my part. If a few months of unpleasant company could give them a chance at victory after all that time, that was a sacrifice I owed them.

For a moment, I was tempted to tell them everything – about my fae blood, my unbound magic. But that was guaranteed to be explosive information, and even if I liked them, even if they seemed decent and trustworthy, I didn’t dare to let them in on so much within an hour of meeting them. It made me a valuable weapon. There might be people out there who’d be willing to go to unpleasant lengths to get their hands on me – people who might not swear me an oath of protection for it.

So all I said was, ‘I’m staying here. But I’d like to see you two again.’

‘We’re here regularly,’ Lyn said, rubbing her small hands over her face. ‘Some others too, if you—’

‘No others, please.’ For all I knew, they had friends or allies who’d be able to sense my magic. ‘I might explain more about this later. But not … well …’

‘Not before you know you if can trust us,’ Tared finished. His faint smile contained a hint of approval. ‘Good. Please be equally distrustful of everyone you meet here, will you?’

I managed a laugh. ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’

‘You should.’ He glanced at Lyn. ‘Can I risk bringing her back to the edge of Faewood?’

‘If you’re quick,’ she said, looking unhappy about the suggestion nonetheless. ‘Emelin – thanks for telling us all of this. It may make a difference.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘We’ll be here in seven days, in the morning.’

‘Alright. I’ll be here.’

‘Good. And Emelin …’ She wiped a loose curl off her freckled forehead. ‘Better not tell Creon you’ve seen us around here.’

‘But if he’s on the same side …’

‘I know.’ She closed her eyes for a moment. ‘But he’s not very fond of us in particular, for … reasons. So please just keep it quiet for now, alright?’

Reasons. Nearly as meaningless as Creon’s circumstances. But I hadn't told them everything I knew either, and in any case, it was probably about time I returned to the pavilion after the way I’d stormed out. So I nodded and said, ‘I’ll keep my mouth shut.’

‘Thank you.’ She nodded at Tared, who rose to his feet in a single supple movement and offered me his hand. I grabbed it and let him pull me upright. Then, to my slight confusion, he didn’t let go of my fingers.

‘Back in a moment,’ he said to Lyn, who smiled.

The colours of the world – pale green and shadowy grey – blurred around me like dripping watercolours.

I tried to cry out, tried to pull my hand from Tared’s grip. But he held me tight, and around me the jumble of colours swirled faster and faster in a hundred different palettes – bright daylight and twilight, ivory sand and sharp rocks, a clear blue sky, a grey cover of clouds. Fragments of sounds and smells came to me, a shrill cry, the stench of old fish, the roaring of a stormy sea. Then abruptly, the whirlwind died away; the colours dripped back into their natural order. We stood in the bright sunlight of the beach again, next to the spectacularly gnarled tree that marked the boundary between Faewood and safety.

Lost for words, I stared at Tared as he gave me a pleasant smile and took his hand from mine again.

‘Alf tricks,’ he said dryly. ‘Take care, Emelin.’

The next moment, as if he’d never been there at all, he was gone.

Chapter 10

I found the windows whole again when I trudged back to the pavilion with sandy feet and a brain full of questions. The lovely green and white flowers looked as peaceful and elegant as always, the vines and bright red roses still fully in bloom, no trace left of either my reckless stone explosion or Creon’s burst of fury afterwards.

It did little to soothe my nervousness.

I was going to apologise, I told myself as I approached, feeling like I was sneaking into a sleeping dragon’s lair. I was going to tell him I shouldn’t have dragged his family into the fight, or the loss of his voice. That I would do better from now on. That I had been feeling hurt and frightened, and that I hoped he was willing to do better, too, that he would at least inform me of his plans in the future …

I was so busy repeating my small speech to myself that I noticed the winged silhouettes on the porch far too late.

They could have killed me five times over by the time I finally caught sight of them and froze, barely suppressing the urge to squeak and jump back. Creon, still and unaffected as always, stood leaning against one of the pavilion’s pillars, his wings tucked in, his knives at his belt. Next to him stood a fae female I didn’t know.

In a fraction, I was Creon’s silly little human again.

Mindless smile upon my face. Eyes wide in their most doe-like look of utter obliviousness. I stumbled closer to the two fae, deliberately clumsy, as the thoughts soared through my mind in a blur of alarm – a visitor? For the first time in a week and just after I’d met with two of faekind’s enemies mere miles away from this pavilion? Did they know?

But I was a silly little human and just squealed, ‘Creon! You didn’t say we’d have visitors today!’

He met my gaze for a fraction of a moment – a look in his dark eyes that was, more than anything, a warning. No trace of the rage that had burst from him so violently barely an hour ago. Just cold, hard focus – the look of a male who was, underneath the superficial indifference, fighting for survival with every fibre of his being.

Not good. Not good at all.

The fae female remained silent as I clambered onto the porch, a smirk of cold amusement on her face. Who in the world was she? Even with my heart almost beating through my ribcage, I couldn’t help noticing that she was really quite gorgeous – locks of gold running through her ink-black hair, a rosy glow to her dark skin. Lines of a muscular body below the exquisite folds of her wrap dress. But her wings – her wings looked scarred, as if blades or arrows had torn straight through the gold-flecked black, leaving thick welts behind even after the wounds had healed.

Only halfway between the forest and the fae did I notice the knives hidden in the folds of her dress. The thin sheaths on her boots. The twisting, razor-sharp iron spikes of the ring on her finger.

Perhaps, I considered with another sickening flare of nervousness, she was looking so amused in Creon’s presence because very few things would be a threat to her.

I dropped into my clumsiest excuse for a curtsy as I finally reached her. She didn’t have to know Father had taught me well enough how to approach our powerful clients. ‘My lady?’

Her glance at Creon spoke volumes – this was the best you could get? But the Silent Death didn’t react, didn’t even blink, and she turned back to me with that same, imperturbable smile on her face.

‘You’re Emelin?’

‘That’s me, my lady!’ I fluttered my hands in the direction of my sandy feet. ‘I’m so sorry you have to see me in this state. If I’d known—’

‘The visit was unannounced,’ she interrupted me – waving my apology away, and yet her voice came with a carefully crafted air of resigned disappointment. ‘I’m here to invite you for lunch, on behalf of the Mother.’

My heart stopped dead in my chest.

‘The … the Mother?’

In the corner of my eye, Creon shifted for the first time, producing not even the slightest rustle as he slowly stood up straighter and unfolded his wings. Had he expected this? Was it yet another development he hadn't thought to inform me of?

‘The Mother,’ the fae female confirmed, slower now, as if she was speaking to a particularly dim-witted child. ‘I presume you remember her existence?’

Wish I could forget, some last defiant voice in my mind piped up. I pushed it far, far away and muttered, ‘I didn’t think the Mother would be very interested in just … me, my lady.’

Why was she? Why now? Had she been aware of her enemies’ presence on her island? Noticed them in my company?

‘The Mother cares about every soul residing at her court.’ Again that estimating glance at Creon. ‘In particular those accompanying her son, of course.’

I’m past the warnings. This wasn’t a matter of an involved mother eager to meet her son’s new friends, was it? I tried to meet Creon’s gaze, but he avoided my eyes – stood staring into the forest with what would have been a convincing display of boredom, had I not known how far from bored he’d been an hour ago. And if he was hiding that … What else was going on behind the façade? Fear? Fury?

I had to speak with him. Had to figure out how in the world we were going to survive a cosy lunch with the Mother herself.

‘Oh,’ I said and let out a breathless laugh. ‘Well. I must make myself a little more decent, then. Can I—’

‘No time for that,’ the fae female interrupted, gesturing at my feet. A burst of red split the air, and I shrieked – but no pain followed. Only the sand had mostly vanished when I looked down at my undamaged skin.

She wielded her magic with enough precision to obliterate grains of sand without even hitting the skin below? Zera help me.

‘But …’

Creon stepped forward before I could come up with another excuse to get at least a few seconds alone with him. His hand wrapped around my wrist like a warning. A quiet, menacing command – better stay silent.

My breath caught in my throat.

He hadn't touched me in a week, not since we’d returned from our training on that little island to the south. Seven days of quenching that senseless spark of lust whenever he stood just a little too close, seven days of reminding myself to look the other way whenever he moved just a little too easily, and they still hadn't prepared me for the moment I felt his calloused fingers on my skin again. His touch was a brand. A sinful, demanding siren’s song calling upon something that lay slumbering just below my skin and stirred awake so violently that I almost squeaked.

Oh, gods.

I had to scrape myself together. Fine, I hadn't touched a man in years. Fine, he was beautiful and annoyingly tempting and probably the kind of lover who could make dying seem attractive. He was also a murderer, and I despised him.

And as far as the fae female next to us knew, I’d spent the past seven days in his bed. A façade we needed to keep up.

Which meant I couldn’t jump back. Couldn’t shake him off me and tell him never to touch me again.

I glanced up at him, forcing myself to meet his gaze. The pressure of his fingers on my wrist was almost too much to bear. It radiated up my arm in waves of senseless arousal, calling up images of all we might have been up to for these seven days – a vision of Creon’s naked body in the bed where I slept, sprawled out for me as I—

Oh, stop it.

I hated him, I reminded myself as I brusquely lowered my eyes again, heart thundering in my ears. He had burnt Cathra. Killed and tortured so many humans. Used me like a weapon without a mind of its own. Even if Lyn had called him complicated, that didn’t make him likable, and the cursed fact that he was the most beautiful creature I’d ever beheld … Well, that definitely shouldn’t influence my feelings about him, should it?

All that mattered was that I survived. That I made the impression the Mother expected from me – silly, helpless, harmless. That was why I would throw myself into Creon’s arms the next moment. Not because I wanted it.

Definitely not because I wanted it.

‘Don’t you think she’ll be disappointed when she sees me like this?’ I whispered, loud enough for the other female to hear as well. Let her think it was the nervousness that made me stiffen under my presumed lover’s touch – and not the fact that it was the first time in a week he’d laid hands on me.

He waved that point aside with his free hand, fingers of the other tightening around my wrist. Another warning? I did the only thing I could think of – step closer. Loosen my shoulders. Rest my head against his muscular chest as if I was quite intimately acquainted with that part of his body.

And with all other parts of it too, really.

‘Alright,’ I forced myself to mutter.

‘Can we get on our way, then?’ the fae female said, now audibly impatient.

Creon scooped me into his arms the next moment, and with two powerful wingbeats, we shot into the stark blue of the midday sky.

I suppressed my shriek and the urge to look down. The thought of our destination made me nauseous enough already. Lunch with the Mother – Zera help me. What if the meal was just a guise, a way to lure me into her hall to confront me with Lyn and Tared and their damning testimony? What if we arrived to find that we were the ones on the menu?

But Creon hadn't made any visible attempts to get out of the summons. He wouldn’t fly towards his own death so easily, would he?

His arms around me felt safe, somehow. As if we weren’t living in a ramshackle truce at best and a full-out silent war at worst. As if the scent of his gorgeous body wasn’t whispering at me to let go of every sensible rule, every shred of decency I had held sacred in my life.

I drew in a deep breath, steeling myself. The steady roll of his shoulder muscles against my cheek really didn’t help.

‘Can I talk?’

The motion of his chin against my forehead suggested a nod. I threw a last glace at the fae female, who flew a few dozen feet behind us, the coral red of her dress fluttering gracefully in the afternoon breeze. Out of hearing distance, indeed.

‘I’m sorry I said that,’ I said quickly, lowering my face to hide the movement of my lips from her. ‘About you – about the Mother. I shouldn’t have lashed out like that.’

No reaction – not even the faintest nod. As if I hadn't spoken at all. I swallowed my nausea and forced myself to let it go. We didn’t have much time. If he didn’t want to hear my apologies now, nagging about it for five more minutes would only waste these last valuable moments of privacy.

‘Do you know why she wants to see us?’

He shook his head, keeping his eyes focused on the court looming before us.

‘Are we in danger?’

A nod.

‘Anything I can do to keep us safe?’

Slowly, as if willing his muscles into cooperation, he turned his face towards me.

The motion brought his eyes mere inches away from mine. Brought his lips mere inches from mine. His hands tensed around my knees and ribs, as if they were preparing for a fight. Pressing me tighter against him – tighter against that warrior’s body that made my heart stutter no matter how harshly I reminded it not to.

Warmth bloomed somewhere deep inside me.

‘I have to be convincing,’ I said quietly, unsure if I’d drawn that conclusion from his minimal hints or from my own body’s treacherous reaction.

Another nod. No trace of apology or regret for this deliberate game he was playing with my feelings. Unless you change your mind, he’d written a week ago – oh, no, the bastard didn’t mind at all, did he?

Well. Something steeled itself within me. Then I wasn’t going to care either. All fine if I had to pretend I was some easily impressed damsel without a spine, but I wouldn’t be one to the only person who could know the truth of the matter.

So I drew in a breath and said, ‘Any tickly spots on your wings I should have found over the past week, then?’

He blinked, his uncaring façade giving way for a fraction of a moment.

‘No?’ I settled myself a little tighter against his shoulder and gave him a sickeningly reverent look, just for the sake of the fae female flying behind us. ‘Shame. A fondness for shoulder rubs? A tendency to fall asleep after the deed?’

He glowered at me – still not as thoroughly unaffected as usual, I noted with some satisfaction. Below us, the first walls of the Crimson Court broke through the vibrant green of the forest, the red marble gleaming with even more malicious brightness in the light of the midday sun. Eyes had to be watching us from behind the windows. Seeing me, the small, light blue fleck against the black of Creon’s predator silhouette.

I made myself utter a giggle and lifted my hand to run my fingers along his eyebrow, then along the inked scar crossing it.

‘Don’t give me that look. You’re supposed to be amused by my adorable naivety, not annoyed.’ I ran my fingers down his temple. ‘They’ll wonder why you didn’t drop me into the sea yet if you glare at me like that.’

He sent me a far sharper glare.

I returned an even more ridiculous giggle and added, ‘You started this game.’

As if to counter that argument, he abruptly soared down, sending my guts straight through my midriff again. I cursed and grabbed his shoulders, forgetting for a moment to be sweet, silly Emelin with an obsession for fae. He did look amused now, the bastard.

‘Show-off,’ I muttered as he swept through a high arch of bright red marble, landing gracefully on a floor so smooth I could see myself reflected in the stone. Looking small and sandy and altogether dishevelled, a little beggar at a near goddess’s court.

Creon possessively locked his hand around my wrist as our messenger landed next to us, her black-and-gold locks still flawlessly kept together. Before she could speak, I widened my eyes and breathlessly said, ‘It’s really very beautiful, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ she said, in a tone of amused exasperation, ‘it’s very beautiful, Emelin. You would have seen more of it if you two hadn't been so busy all week. Follow me, please.’

I already knew where we were going – the bone hall where Creon had presented me to the Mother after our arrival at the court. Still I trotted after her with a look of sheepish obliviousness, Creon’s hand tight around my lower arm. The glances of passing fae didn’t escape me, their expressions everything between open amusement and scorn. I kept my eyes firmly on the smooth walls and the towering statues we passed until finally the copper-plated doorway to the hall loomed before us.

At least this time I knew what was coming. With the anticipation clenching my stomach, I wasn’t sure if it was much of an improvement.

The walls of bones were as high and menacing as I remembered them, even by daylight. The hall seemed smaller without the crowd gathered around the Mother’s throne, however, and ten times as silent. It was just us, now – Creon and me, the fae female escorting us in, and at the head of a loaded table in the middle of the room, Ophion and the Mother herself.

For a moment too long, I stared.

Most of her had remained unchanged. Still the same colourless skin – the white of exhausted magic, I realised only now. The same porcelain face. A flimsy, sparkling dress like the one she’d worn that first night. But her eyes …

They had been blue. I was sure they had been – a bright cerulean, icy enough to make me feel cold to the marrow of my bones. Now, however, the eyes that caught my gaze were black enough to look like holes in her unnaturally white face.

Familiar eyes.

Creon’s eyes.

Only then did it fully hit me, as he pulled me into a curtsy and I clumsily obeyed, that she was his mother. His mother. This creature of colourless cruelty, this woman who had killed gods and wiped out an entire continent, had once given birth to the embodiment of raw power still holding my hand …

Given birth to him – and then?

Flashes of memory shot before my mind’s eye as I stared at the white floor and waited for her to speak. Images of my mother feeding me bites of food while she was cooking. Of her quick fingers showing me how to handle needle and thread for the first time. Of the sound of her voice as her songs woke me in the morning …

Something told me Creon had never woken to the sound of his mother’s morning ballads.

‘Emelin,’ that cold, tinkling voice said, and I tore my thoughts away from my useless contemplations. Surrounded by fae who would kill me if they knew of my powers, between the walls she’d built from her enemies’ bones, Creon’s childhood on the training field was the last thing I should worry about.

I looked up and tried not to flinch as I met those bottomless dark eyes. A nervous smile, though – that seemed to be appropriate.

‘Mother.’ I curtsied again, quicker now, like a skittish animal. ‘And lord Ophion.’ A timid nod – as if I hadn't last seen him crawling through his own blood to get away from me. ‘I’m so honoured to be here.’

The Mother gave me a cold, mechanical smile and gestured at the table. Piles of pastries stood waiting for us, bowls of cheese and figs and grilled vegetables, enough sliced meats to feed an orphanage. Food for dozens of guests, but only two more plates had been set.

‘Sit down,’ she said.

Creon still didn’t release me as we crossed the infinite distance to the loaded table, as if he could barely trust me to sit down by myself. One plate on this side, one on the other. He wasn’t planning to fly to the other side, was he?

I was close enough to sit down when his hands suddenly slid around my waist, scooping me up like a child. I shrieked, and it was barely an act.

‘Creon!’

He shrugged, pulling me into his lap as he sat down in his chair. Suddenly his body was all around me – firm thighs below my bony bottom, a broad chest against my back, strong hands on my hips to hold me in place. Oh, gods. I had to push him away. I couldn’t spend an entire meal in his lap without going insane – but as far as the other fae knew, I had barely spent a minute away from him for the past week, and what would they think if I pushed him off me like some easily shocked virgin?

‘Creon!’ I tried again, with less conviction now. He knew exactly what he was doing, the bastard. ‘Creon, this really isn’t very proper … I—’

‘Oh, don’t worry, girl,’ the Mother interrupted. It might have been reassuring, had it not sounded like a blunt command to stop worrying. ‘Propriety is hardly a concern of ours. Thysandra, now that we have an unexpected vacant seat, would you like to join our meal?’

The black-and-gold-haired female smiled as she sank down in the seat opposite mine. ‘I’m honoured, Mother.’

No trace of surprise in her voice. The hairs rose on the back of my neck. She had known this was coming – that second plate had always been intended for her. Had Creon not taken the initiative to pull me into his lap like some mindless doll, the suggestion would have come up sooner or later, anyway.

A test. To see how I would react. To see how comfortable I would be.

Creon’s hand ran along my neck, my shoulder, gently nudging me to settle myself against his chest. Another warning? I pressed away the embarrassment, the fear, the common sense telling me I shouldn’t come any closer to his body if I could at all avoid it.

Be convincing.

I couldn’t let my dislike of him cloud my priorities now. This was a play we both had to perform until the very end. Cooperation or death.

I curled myself against his shoulder, running a thoughtless finger along the collar of his dark shirt. As if I had touched that bronze skin so often it had already become a reflex. When I glanced up, Creon was watching me with an expression of detached amusement on his face. Had I not known he considered himself in danger, had I not seen him glare so sharply at me mere minutes ago, I would have thought him a male entirely at home in his surroundings.

And yet the darkness had gathered at his fingertips with the first comparison drawn between him and the woman sitting at his right. The woman he’d waited thirteen decades to kill.

‘I hope you’re not uncomfortable, Emelin?’ the Mother said.

I abruptly looked up and found her black eyes focused on my face. Next to her, Ophion sat watching me as if he expected me to fly away any moment.

‘Not at all,’ I said coyly, wrapping a hand around Creon’s muscular bicep. What a way to meet the in-laws. ‘I just … I hope you don’t mind …’

‘Not at all.’ She turned away and gestured at the table, bored already. ‘Eat.’

Creon held me close – close enough that I couldn’t possibly reach even the nearest bowl of olives. Instead he reached over the table to pick up a folded pastry from a pile, then leaned back into the low back rest and dangled it before my face like I was some pet to be fed.

I suppressed the urge to sink my teeth into his fingers instead, fluttered my eyelashes, and muttered, ‘Oh, stop teasing me.’

His raised eyebrow told everyone within a five-mile radius that he’d been dangling many things before my face in the past days, pastries the most innocent of them. Bastard.

I took a bite and gave a little squeal of delight that wasn’t entirely an act. Fine meat and herbs and the crispiest, flakiest crust – perhaps I could be persuaded to sit in his lap again if this was the reward.

He gave a soundless chuckle and stuck the rest of the small pastry into his own mouth, then plucked a fig from a nearby bowl and proceeded to feed it to me. His little pet, indeed. Infinitely grateful for every little show of affection, every bit of protection, and all too willing to hand over her body in return.

The three other fae were speaking in their own language as Creon continued to pick my food for me, as if we weren’t even there. But I caught Ophion’s regular glances at us. I could feel the tension in Creon’s muscles even as he ate, teased, and smiled more than I’d seen him smile in a week.

They had discussed this meal amongst each other, the three of them, made some plan neither Creon nor I could see – and only they knew what exactly they might be looking for.

Be convincing.

I swallowed my latest bite and sat up a little straighter in his lap. Moulded my hands to his muscular shoulders as I lifted my head, brought my lips to his pointed ear, and whispered, ‘It’s almost as delicious as you.’

Loud enough for the rest to hear. Ridiculous enough for Creon not to take me seriously – or so I’d thought. But a shiver ran through him as my breath brushed over his ear, and sitting pressed against his chest, I felt his heartbeat falter and then break into a gallop under that accidental caress.

For a moment, I no longer thought or saw or even felt fear.

I was affecting him. Making him shiver. A thrill of power flushed through me, heady and reckless – a sudden, nearly violent sense of triumph. All that effort he made to be unmoving and unaffected, and now a single silly whisper was enough to break the mask?

And of course that was no reason to continue. Of course I wasn’t trying to one-up him in a play for life and death, and I certainly didn’t want to touch him any longer than necessary. But he was the one who’d told me to be convincing, wasn’t he? He was the one who’d pulled me into his lap and started this game.

So I didn’t pull back my head but trailed my lips down his neck instead, a gossamer brush too light to even qualify as a kiss.

His skin was so warm against my lips, so smooth and sweet. A softness that begged to be kissed again – a scent that begged to be tasted. I drew my lips down to the hard line of his collarbone, unable to pull back, and again the faintest tremor shook through his muscular body. His hand tightened on my hip. Warning or encouragement – I was no longer sure.

It no longer mattered.

I forgot to be Emelin of Cathra, boring, unremarkable human. Instead I became something I barely recognised myself, something dangerous and alluring and overwhelmingly powerful. The Silent Death held me and shivered at my touches. I could make him shiver. I wasn’t just some damsel unable to resist his inhuman beauty. This pull between us – he felt it too.

Be convincing.

And what would be more convincing than running my fingers through the silk strands of his hair? More convincing than nuzzling my nose against his throat and pressing a quick kiss to the vulnerable spot where his neck and jaw met?

He stiffened. Sweet, exhilarating power gushed through me, a feeling like just one glass of wine too many.

His fingers curled around my chin. A gesture soft as a lover’s caress, perhaps, but there was nothing loving about the force that made me look up at him and meet his gaze. His expression held the same air of amused indifference – but something flashed in his dark eyes when they met mine. It didn’t look like a compliment.

Adorable, I mouthed.

His hand on my hip shifted a fraction, thumb flicking over my bottom in a silent, but crystal-clear message to knock it off. I jerked up, opened my mouth to tell him to piss off, and recalled just in time that I wasn’t supposed to tell him any such thing here.

‘Oh, Emelin.’ The Mother turned towards me, elegantly holding a small folded pastry between her long, white fingers. As if she’d just been reminded of my presence. ‘We forgot – you don’t know the language, of course.’

Did she really believe I was stupid enough to believe that lie? I was doing better work than I thought, in that case.

‘I’m sorry, Mother,’ I said demurely, trying to keep my feverish blush down and ignore the tingling of my body where Creon’s hand still lay possessively on my hips. ‘I never received an education like that at home.’

‘No, of course you didn’t.’ Her plush lips curled into a smile, and it took me an effort to keep my face straight – calling me stupid to my face. The nerve. ‘You might want to know, Emelin, that Thysandra just returned from a short mission to Cathra.’

The mention of home hit me like a bucket of ice water. Cathra. My family. Oh gods, what would my parents say if they could see me like this, lovingly curled up in a murderer’s lap?

The tingling of my body became a sticky sense of discomfort. The rush of power a flood of shame. What was I thinking? Seducing my partner in crime was in no way part of the plan. I was here to kill the fae female before me. I was here to survive. All I had to worry about—

Why would she even mention Cathra to me now, like this, springing the name of the island upon me like a trap? Had Thysandra found clues of my village’s survival? Or was this just another test, a carefully placed remark to see how I would react to mention of my dead family?

Tightening his arm around me, Creon leaned over and popped an olive into his mouth.

Right. Not the time to hesitate.

‘Really?’ I blinked as if the Mother’s announcement had just landed, and turned to Thysandra, gaping at her as if at some fascinating novelty. ‘Why? There’s not much of interest left, is there? I mean …’ I gave a giggly shrug. ‘Not that there was ever much of interest to be found in the first place, of course.’

The Mother gave a small, light chuckle. Next to her, Ophion sat examining me again, his catlike green eyes slightly narrowed.

Distrust. That was distrust, in his look.

I made a show of settling myself back in Creon’s arms, giving myself a few more moments to think. Was that what was going on here? Ophion likely hadn't told his lover of his defeat at Creon’s hands, but something about the scene – Creon’s quick-temperedness or the bargain mark on my wrist – had raised his suspicions nonetheless. And the Mother had, after a few days of his insistence, decided to host this cosy little get-together to put his theory to test.

That made sense, didn’t it?

Be convincing.

‘It was rather thoroughly burnt down,’ Thysandra said, sipping elegantly at a glass of wine, then smiling at me. ‘Really makes one wonder how you escaped in the first place.’

Oh, gods.

I gave Creon a quick glance. He was looking at Thysandra with what looked on the surface like amusement – a raised eyebrow that seemed to say, good try, darling.

‘Oh!’ I said, with what was becoming my signature breathlessness. ‘Hasn’t Creon told you that story at all?’

‘He hasn’t,’ Thysandra said, raising an eyebrow back at him. Some old animosity there, I concluded. ‘As you may have noticed, he can be rather taciturn at times.’

Ophion laughed out loud. The Mother uttered another chuckle, a sound like porcelain teacups shattering. Creon just gave Thysandra a faint smile, the gesture playing around his lips with all the gorgeous boredom of a male who knows himself invincible.

My cheeks heated. There was something very, very alluring about that smile.

‘Well,’ the Mother said, with another tingling laugh. ‘Then we might as well ask Emelin to tell us the story, hm?’

‘Oh, gods,’ I said, pretending to stifle a fit of giggles. ‘Oh … well … it’s a bit embarrassing, but … Creon?’

He glanced down at me like he might have glanced at his favourite pet kitten and gestured for me to go ahead. It came so easily, that gesture, that I dared to believe he had indeed not told the company his own version of events at all.

All the freedom to tell my own story, then. If only I’d known what story I wanted to tell.

‘Well,’ I said and sat up a little straighter, as if the four sets of eyes on my face filled me with beaming pride rather than mortifying fear. ‘It started when they built that iron ward that – well, you know that, of course.’ Another giggle. ‘I’m sorry, I’m bad at this. Well, they built that ward, and I was so angry over it! Because my father told me I could never leave the island again, you see? That the fae – that you would all come for us if we ever stepped outside that ward.’

It was only slightly exaggerated. The island had prepared to be self-sufficient for a very long time, indeed.

‘We see,’ the Mother said, a faint smile on her chalk-white face. ‘And you wanted to leave the island?’

‘Of course I wanted to leave the island.’ I threw every bit of childish whining into my voice, every bratty thought I’d ever had. Let them think me a spoiled, pampered, short-sighted idiot. ‘It’s such a boring place. I wanted to leave for Ildhelm and get an education and then see the rest of the world, you see?’

Thysandra seemed amused, Ophion annoyed, the Mother stoically interested.

‘Of course, Emelin. Please go on.’

‘Well,’ I said again, drawing in a breath, ‘then I tried to break the ward.’

Creon was smiling faintly, as if recalling an amusing memory.

The Mother titled her colourless head at me, quirking up an eyebrow. ‘You must have known we would not be happy about that ward.’

‘Exactly!’ I said. ‘So I thought we would agree, you see? I thought if my parents weren’t allowing me to leave, faekind definitely would. I always liked fae better than humans anyway.’

She considered that for a moment. ‘And you were not at all frightened?’

‘No,’ I said defiantly. ‘Of course not. Because I was helping you, and you wouldn’t be so unfair as to punish me for my help, would you?’

Her smile sent a shiver along my spine. ‘No, of course we wouldn’t.’

‘Just what I thought.’ I glanced at Creon, who was still watching me with that same look of mild entertainment. His hands lay lightly on my hips, with no sign of warnings. I assumed I could continue.

‘In any case,’ I said, ‘I sneaked away during their party and tried to break the ward at the nearest beach. But it was pretty sturdy and took me longer than I expected, and then suddenly …’ I made a wide gesture. ‘A shadow! A fae! Oh, I thought I would die from excitement!’

‘Only from excitement, of course,’ Thysandra said dryly. The Mother tittered again; even Ophion showed a small grin. So they thought it all hilarious, Creon’s reputation? Thought it would have been pretty amusing if I had indeed died as the first victim to his knives on that smothering sunny beach?

‘So,’ I said, swallowing my fury, ‘I told Creon what I was doing and asked if he could take me away from the island. And then he said—’

The Mother’s eyebrow quirked up again. I hastily corrected myself. ‘Or, well, he wrote in the sand.’

Her eyebrow sank back into its usual position.

‘He told me,’ I continued, stubbornly, ‘that I had to hide outside the village and not show myself while he was at work. And then I hid. And then …’

I paused to snatch Creon’s glass of white wine from the table and take a few sips. He let me, this time – understanding, presumably, that I needed a few moments to get my story figured out. What had she said on that first night? Creon told me they suffered terribly as they died. Parents watching as their children burnt alive.

But also – the Silent Death.

Because he kills without sound …

His victims didn’t scream. One of those terrifying rumours surrounding his name, all the more frightening for the lack of explanation – did he keep them silent? Did he destroy their vocal chords? Did he sew their mouths shut before he went to work? I’d have to ask him later, if I even wanted to know.

For now …

‘Then I waited,’ I said as I lowered the wine, nodding solemnly. ‘There was a lot of fire. But I didn’t hear much else, so it could have been worse. And honestly, they had it coming.’

Was that too much? Thysandra frowned on the other side of the table.

‘Your parents died too, didn’t they?’

My heart seemed to whither in my chest, but I forced myself to scowl like a pouting eight-year-old. ‘I’d been asking them for years to send me to Ildhelm, and they wouldn’t let me go. And either way, I told them not to make that ward. Their own fault.’

‘Yes,’ the Mother said slowly, granting me another small smile. ‘Their own fault.’

‘So.’ I giggled to cover up another sting of anger. ‘That’s the full story. I was …’ I gave Ophion a coy glance, meeting his narrowed green eyes. ‘I was admittedly a little intimidated the first day here. I hadn't known anything in the world could be this beautiful, you see? And there were so many people, and I was a little scared you would hold my family’s crimes against me.’ I gave Creon my most nauseatingly worshipful look. ‘But Creon promised he wouldn’t let anyone harm me! So I’m very happy now, Mother.’

There. Let Ophion think he had been a simple demonstration subject – showing up just at the wrong moment, the first candidate for Creon to prove himself and win my trust.

‘Very moving,’ Thysandra said, pouring half a glass of wine down her throat at once.

The Mother’s answer came in Faerie again.

As if I’d never told my story at all, they continued to converse among the three of them – about stationing of warriors and tribute innings, if I understood the few words I knew correctly. No blasts of red to reduce me to a pile of dust. No guards called in to drag me away. Even Ophion finally ceased his suspicious staring, throwing me no more than the occasional glance as he listened to the rest of Thysandra’s reports.

Had I convinced them?

Had I survived?

I sagged back against Creon’s chest, suddenly desperate for the reassurance of his touch, and too exhausted to resist that craving. His fingers vanished from my hips, then returned at my temple, running through my hair with calm, gentle strokes. As if he was spelling me to sleep. Telling me that I did well. That I could let go now. That it would be alright.

The fae voices mingled to a blur around me as I closed my eyes. I felt only Creon’s warm chest, the steady, reassuring beat of his heart, his soft, slender fingers caressing my cheek and shoulder.

I should get a hold of myself. I couldn’t let myself start believing that he might actually be safe – that I might actually enjoy his touches. Imagine what my parents would say if I returned to Cathra after all this nonsense was over. Playing the fae whore, I could explain. Being one …

‘Are you tired, Emelin?’

Nothing like a murderous High Lady to wake you from a peaceful slumber. I jolted up, blinked at her and muttered, ‘A bit, Mother. I’m sorry, I haven’t …’ My cheeks turned warm. Just in time. ‘I haven’t slept that much, the last few nights.’

She turned away, gesturing at the hall’s exit with a boredom eerily similar to Creon’s most emphatic indifference. ‘You’re excused. Thank you for your company.’

I stared at her.

She sighed. ‘Creon?’

He rose before I made sense of that implied command, and took his leave with no more than three terse nods at the others. Then he was carrying me out of the hall, still cradling me against his chest – holding me as if he might fight off an army of monsters just to keep me safe.

Chapter 11

That unexpected gentleness was a lie, of course.

He allowed me to believe it until we reached the pavilion again, still miraculously alive and unscathed. He held me close as he carried me inside. Installed me in the couch cushions as if I might shatter if he let me hit the floor.

Then he pulled his hands off me and didn’t give me another glance as he checked the room for intruders, poured himself two glasses of water, and made for the open window he’d left behind.

I realised a moment too late what was happening, in my state of drowsy confusion and lingering fear.

He was leaving.

Just as he had done for the entire previous week. After I had begged him to tell me more about his plans. After I had driven him to destroy his home in a burst of fury. After I had apologised and saved both our heads during that nightmare of a lunch at the court.

He was abandoning me again.

‘Creon?’

He threw half a glance over his shoulder, not meeting my eyes.

I jolted upright on the couch and said, louder now, ‘Where are you going?’

A vague swing of his hand in the direction of the beach. Not the Labyrinth, then? Even worse. If his destination was the beach, I didn’t even know why he was so determined to disappear on me.

‘I want to ask you something.’

He shrugged.

He shrugged.

At once, I had trouble remembering why I had apologised again. Complicated, Lyn said. A bastard, Tared said. Perhaps the alf was right after all.

‘Don’t bloody shrug at me,’ I snapped.

Creon didn’t shrug this time, admittedly. He didn’t do anything else, either. Just walked – as if he hadn't just held me so lovingly. As if this entire confrontation had been a bland, unremarkable affair, nothing to waste another word on.

As if I was bland and unremarkable and not worth even the slightest of explanations.

I hurled my magic after him without even thinking.

The flash of red soared over his shoulder and hit a tree farther along the path, tearing the dry branches to shreds with a sound like a groan of pain. An avalanche of wood and leaves came crashing down. More wood and leaves than I had planned for – much more than I had planned for. The path lay covered in rubble within seconds.

Creon had frozen mid-step on his porch, staring at the mess with his back towards me. I clenched my fists in my lap.

‘Turn around.’

He didn’t turn.

‘Creon.’ I hadn't known I possessed this much self-restraint. The urge to fling my next burst of red into his winged back was almost unbearable. ‘I’m not sure in how many more ways you want me to make my bloody point before you listen. I ask you nicely, you ignore me. I get angry, you ignore me. I insult you, you ignore me. Should I just conclude you don’t even remotely care about my wishes and wellbeing?’ I bit out a laugh. ‘In that case, you could at least do me the courtesy of telling me so.’

He still stood unmoving. I cursed, snatched the notebook off the couch that he’d dropped there during our fight that morning, and stalked towards him.

‘Well?’

He turned, finally, his shoulders sagging.

I had expected him to look furious. Or annoyed or indifferent or just … generally menacing. But as I met his eyes, there was nothing in those dark depths but exhaustion.

I slammed the notebook into his hands and snapped, ‘Well?’

He opened the leather cover far too slowly for my taste. What do you want to hear?

‘Have you even listened to me?’ I said sharply. ‘You’re ignoring me, I’m asking you to stop, and you don’t. Why? If you don’t give a damn and just want me to stop nagging, at least show a spine and admit it.’

His wings flared out dangerously as he scribbled his words down in a tight, frustrated hand. You know better.

‘I know better?’ My voice soared. I was beyond even the sharpest of laughs now. ‘I know better? On the basis of which of your actions, if I might ask? Ignoring me for days despite my requests to the contrary? Dragging me out of my home without even telling me where we were going – without even telling me I was going to survive the night? Not even allowing me to say goodbye to my parents before you—’

His face twisted. I’m trying to keep you safe.

‘By keeping me ignorant?’

He closed his eyes.

‘And how were you keeping me safe by keeping me away from my parents?’ I was almost shouting, I vaguely realised. I couldn’t be bothered to lower my voice anymore. ‘Was it really that hard to wake me up before you burnt the entire place down? Would it have made such a terrible difference to your plan if you had given me ten damn minutes to say goodbye to—’

He snapped around and started walking back inside.

‘Creon.’

He didn’t slow down. I sprinted after him, ready to knock a fist into his face if need be – but he reached his desk before I could reach him, and pulled a book from his bookcase with such tired resignation that I abruptly forgot my violent resolutions.

A folded letter appeared from inside the heavy cover. A parchment I would recognise anywhere within a heartbeat – Rhudaki parchment.

Like my father had used.

‘You … What?’

Creon sighed and scribbled, I’m sorry.

‘Sorry for – what? You’ve been keeping a letter from me all this time?’ I no longer knew if I wanted to cry or scream or just lie down on the floor and stay there for the next two years. ‘How could you …’

He gestured at the letter, averting his face. A clear message. Read it.

I tore the parchment open so fast I nearly ripped the entire letter in two.

Emelin, the greeting read.

And then, in my father’s overly complex artist’s hand, with all those curls and twirls no sane person could ever reasonably imitate, it continued—

Do not come after us. Do not write to us. Your kind has come to claim you. We wish to start anew in the White City without fae hunting us down.

We housed you for twenty years. Allow us our peace now.

Valter and Editta

Valter.

Editta.

Not Father. Not Mother. Your kind. I stared at the words until their shape blurred to nothing but lines and curves in my mind, leaving a taste of bitter gall behind on my tongue. It didn’t matter how often my eyes ran over the letters, how desperately I tried to read anything else behind those cold, cool sentences – the words remained unchanged, the message unsoftened.

Do not come after us.

I could feel that sentence. Could feel it somewhere very deep inside me, severing some bond, some string, that I’d thought to be my very last lifeline.

My knees buckled.

A strong hand grabbed my shoulder, kept me from collapsing – and suddenly Creon stood right before me, close enough to hug me. Close enough to take a fist in the throat, too, and it was that thought which abruptly woke me from my numb paralysis.

‘You’ve known this all this time?’ More than a hoarse whisper wouldn’t come over my lips. ‘You’ve had this letter all this time? You …’

He slowly let go of me, as if he didn’t dare to trust I would remain on my feet. The scribbles in his notebook were barely readable.

I hoped they’d change their mind with time.

‘And so you …’

I didn’t finish my sentence. The next sound falling out of my mouth was going to be a sob, and I was not going to cry anywhere for him to see. I turned away, clenching my fist around the parchment of my father’s letter – the letter of the man who didn’t want to be my father.

Who had never wanted to be my father, perhaps.

We housed you for twenty years …

Home. The place I’d thought of as home had been an unwilling refuge; the people I’d thought of as parents had been glad to pull their hands off me as soon as they found a way out from under their burden. If not for the foundling’s curse hanging over their heads, I might have starved to death before my life could even start.

The sob broke out of me anyway, and then a second.

Again Creon’s hand found my upper arm, lighter now – as if to reassure me. Now he was suddenly there, the bastard? A week of ignoring me, a week of shrugging me off, and now that I had no other place left to go, no future to look to, no past to cherish – now he thought he could swoop in and be my shoulder to cry on?

‘Leave. Me. Alone,’ I managed through clenched teeth.

His hand vanished again.

‘You knew.’ It was all my mind could focus on. It was easier to concentrate on his betrayal, his backhanded fae ways, than on the crumpled letter in my fist. ‘You knew. And you never even told me – you thought I’d rather be blissfully ignorant?’ Finally my voice was rising again, and it felt dangerously good to shout. Let him take some of the hurt he had caused, some of the holes he’d cracked open in my heart. ‘And what was your plan if they never changed their minds? Drag me around from useless quest to useless quest until something finally killed me? Lie to me for the rest of my life just so you didn’t have to admit you—’

Again he grabbed my arm, tighter now, and I exploded.

I wasn’t even sure where the colour came from. Hadn't even laid my left hand against his black sleeve on purpose, hadn't drawn on purpose either. But the red broke from me like a bursting volcano, more violent than even the explosion that had torn those trees outside apart; glass shattered, wood cracked, pillows and curtains ripped to shreds around me, as the full force of my magic hit.

I ran.

I didn’t know where I was going, didn’t know what place I had left to go. But I knew I didn’t want to stay in that cursed pavilion with the male who had torn me away from my family, who had lied to me, treated me like a fool, and held me in his arms to add to the injury – as if everything would be alright, when he knew damn well things would never be right again. My feet moved faster than my brain could follow. Through the forest, damn the trees trying to bar my way. Over some rough stone path, wherever it lead. All I cared about was that I was getting away from the fae male behind me – away from him and his damned Mother with her colourless smiles …

Were those footsteps, behind me?

Was he coming after me?

My heart skipped a beat, then pounded on twice as fast as I sprinted on. Just trying to protect you. How protective did he feel after I’d caused the total destruction of his home for the second time today?

I didn’t even want to find out. I didn’t want to see the bastard ever again, with his insufferably handsome face and his insufferably soft hands and his insufferably cold heart.

Where was I going? My limbs made their own decision as I hurtled down a moss-covered slope. Away. I was going away. I was going to get Creon off my trail first. Then find a boat. Or a raft. Hell, a piece of driftwood would do. By the time I was out of here …

I had my magic. I had my wits. I would survive somehow.

My chances could hardly get worse, after all.

A large wooden shed loomed up between the trees, looking oddly normal for a building on a fae island. I’d seen sheds like this one on Ildhelm. Sturdy wooden planks, the occasional rot hole, and not a glimmer of gold in sight.

If I would find any place without fae on the island, this might be it. And I needed a place to hide.

The back door certainly wasn’t built for tall, winged creatures; even I had to bow my head to slip inside. The smell of hay and horse welcomed me, telling me all I needed to know about this place before I even distinguished the shapes of the animals in the deep dusk. Stables. I hadn't even known fae kept horses.

Not that it mattered. Perhaps Creon would have forgotten the horses’ existence as well. If he just overlooked the stables for a couple of hours, that was all I needed.

I crawled through the hay bales, looking for a slightly more comfortable place to sit. A mistake. One of the horses nearest to me started whinnying, and then a second. Oh, Zera have mercy. With this kind of noise, even the deafest fae on the island would know exactly where to look for me.

‘Oy!’ a woman’s voice shouted, close to me. ‘Calm the fuck down, you two!’

A human voice.

She spoke a human language at least, a dialect so closely related to mine that I understood her effortlessly. She couldn’t have lived too far away from Cathra, then.

Shouldn’t that make us allies of a kind?

The horses didn’t seem to think so. Their skittishness spread through the stables like a wildfire, until it seemed every other animal was snorting or bucking against their reins. Heavy boots slammed against the wooden floor as the stablemaster made her way to the back of the shed, cursing out loud to every animal she encountered. I sat petrified in the hay, too frightened to sneak back out and too frightened to speak.

Human. At least she was human too.

She appeared around the nearest horse in an oversized tunic and man’s trousers, her brown hair short and tousled, a rough brush in her hand. As dusky as the shed was, she noticed me the moment she came into view, sitting paralysed on her hay-strewn floor.

For a moment, we both remained frozen, staring at each other.

Then she said, ‘The fuck?’

‘Hey,’ I managed. My voice sounded like someone held my throat squeezed shut. She was human, I told myself. She knew the cruelty of the fae. She would help. ‘Long story. Would you mind if I hid for a few hours in this place if I promise—’

She snorted, stepping back. ‘You’re that fae whore, aren’t you?’

I stared at her.

‘Thought so.’ Her laugh sounded like a grating saw. ‘Is he done with you already? Could have told you from the start it wouldn’t last, you stupid cunt.’

‘I … well …’

‘What did you think? That you could come running to us with your bloody sob story after betraying your entire damn island to him?’ She spat at the floor before my feet. ‘Get out of my stables, before I drag you out. You’re soiling the place.’

‘I – no, please.’ No. No, I could explain this – I had to explain this. ‘It’s not like that, I—’

‘Get out.’

‘But—’

‘Want me to call the fae on you?’ she hissed. ‘Because I’m not going to put myself in danger for some stupid fae whore. Get out, and that’s all the protection you’re getting from me. Now.’

I gave up. The dangerous gleam in her eyes told me that convincing her would take longer than a walk to the nearest fae residence – and that she wouldn’t hesitate to alert her masters.

Not for a stupid fae whore.

Tears stung my eyes all of a sudden, but I refused to cry with her around – refused to let her see me that defeated. Fine, damn it. I would find another place to hide. Would find another place to live. Somewhere, someone wouldn’t mind about me being a fae whore or a mindless little human …

Would they?

I scrambled for the back door, unable to get rid of that thought now that it had formed. Even if I got off this island, where would I go? I was a traitor to the humans. A nobody to the fae. Would anyone still care to take me in?

Lyn and Tared.

I stumbled to a standstill, my back to the shed, the tears still burning behind my eyes.

They had offered to take me with them. And I had stupidly refused, had somehow thought a few snarky remarks would be enough to unravel the tangle of cruelty and rebellion and carelessness that was Creon’s thorny heart … Would they still be in Faewood now? I’d run the wrong way, but if I could somehow pass the pavilion again without being noticed, I might find them. They would help me. With Tared’s alf powers, I didn’t even need a boat or a log of driftwood to get away.

I stumbled back in the direction I’d come. Back through the thick foliage of the islands coastline. Back to Faewood. If only I was in time. If not, I’d have to wait a week for them to return – but even that would be preferable to—

A shadow fell over me, eclipsing the sunlight for a moment.

Oh, Zera help me.

Creon landed in front of me before I could even think of running, close enough for his wings to slam a painful burst of air into my face. Close enough to shatter all hopes of flight. I staggered back, away from him, but didn’t get far; his hand locked around my wrist like a vice, pulling me back towards him with all the arrogant ease of a male who’d always known what was best for me.

‘Let me go,’ I snapped, elbowing him in the chest. His other hand caught my elbow, too, leaving me only my feet to get out of this rat trap. Before I could decide whether a knee in his crotch would improve or worsen my situation, he had already swept me off my feet and planted me down on the mossy forest ground, back against a tree, hands in my lap. The look in his eyes as he released me left no room for doubt – sit.

It was a look that somehow wiped all dreams of disobedience from my mind at once.

Because there was still not a trace of annoyance to be found in his dark eyes, nothing like justified fury at the annoying little brat who kept blowing up his home today. Somehow, despite those muscles that could crush a rock, despite the magic brimming at his fingertips, despite those dangerous ink scars over his face and hands, he looked almost … gentle?

I sat frozen, unsure of what to say. What to think.

Only the rustling sea nearby broke the silence as he fell down beside me, crossing his legs before him in a way that seemed nearly … casual. As if he had abruptly forgotten to be menacing, to prowl and glower and scowl. It made him less of a predator. Less of a monster and more of a person.

A person fiddling with his pencil as he pulled it out. What in the world was happening? Was this some overdue attempt at a charm offensive?

He hesitated a last moment next to me, then scribbled, What can I do?

‘Piss off and take me back home?’ I muttered.

Creon didn’t react, but I could feel the next question in the air. Where, exactly, was home now? Not at Cathra, burnt to the last house. Not at the White City, where my parents never wanted to see me again. Not on this cursed island of blood and bones, where half of the populace thought me a traitor and half thought me an amusing toy – and then I was crying after all, ugly sobs ripping from my throat as finally the last of my heart gave in. Home. Home. It had never been much, never been more than a place I couldn’t wait to leave, and yet it had been safe. Easy. Familiar. And now I had been ripped out with stems and roots, and it turned out I hadn't even left a hole to be filled behind.

I could vanish. I could drown at sea today, and nobody would even miss me.

I curled into a little ball of misery on the moss and cried until even my tears ran out and I was just empty, sore, hopeless. And all that time, Creon sat beside me, unmoving, silent.

It didn’t even make sense to blame him. He hadn't made my parents write that cold, heartless letter. He hadn't dropped me on their doorstep twenty years ago. All he’d done wrong was bring to light what was already broken …

And be a callous bastard about it. That too.

The words were still there in his notebook when I finally looked up, gleaming at me as if they could solve anything. What can I do? Turn back time, that was what he could do. Make me grow up with people who weren’t so frightened of anything fae, frightened enough to disown the girl who loved them as her parents. Now, two decades later …

Nothing. There was nothing.

I grabbed the notebook in a rush of rage and swung it away, that damned, useless question. It tumbled into the foliage with the most unsatisfying little thud and disappeared from view. I stared at the place where it had vanished, feeling equally miserable, and twice as exhausted from that little burst of anger.

Only then did I realise it left Creon without a voice, too.

I cursed and made to get up to retrieve the damn thing. He pulled me down before I was even halfway up, still not looking annoyed in the least.

It was that calm that made me feel abruptly, violently ashamed of myself. How much was I going to punish him for what was only half his fault?

‘I’m sorry,’ I muttered, averting my face. ‘I’ll go get it – I—’

His fingers clamped around my chin. Tugged up my head until I had no choice but to look back at him again – back at that proud murderer’s face that suddenly didn’t look so proud anymore, or so murderous.

He let go of my chin.

And with quick, uneasy finger motions spelled, What can I do?

I stared at him. At the tension around his hard lips, the set lines of his jaws. The way his fingers cramped and relaxed as he lowered them back into his lap, unfamiliar with the motions – and yet, it seemed, familiar enough.

‘You’ve been practicing?’ I said numbly.

He nodded, looking away.

‘Oh.’ All that deliberate disinterest. All that unbendable fae pride. And yet … ‘You could have told me that, too.’

For a moment, I thought he would shrug, but it was another nod that came out eventually.

‘Oh.’

We were both silent for a moment.

He had practiced. Thirteen decades of staunch refusal to find any other way to communicate, any other way to speak, and yet he’d changed his mind within a week of me asking. Did that mean he … cared, indeed?

That he wanted me here?

It wasn’t supposed to make me feel so much better, that thought. Not when it was about him. But I did feel better, the pain in my chest not so much gone as temporarily soothed, and I couldn’t bring myself to give up on that little comfort.

‘Creon?’

He looked up.

‘First thing you can do is answer my questions for once. Honestly. Please.’

He sighed but gestured for me to go on.

I settled my feet a little more firmly on the mossy ground and said, ‘First of all, why have you been avoiding me like the plague for a week, exactly?’

His fingers hesitated only for a moment on the gestures he was about to form. Then the words came – spelled out slowly, carefully, but clear as day. Thought I could spare you the displeasure of my company.

I stared at him. I wasn’t sure what I had expected – my own insufferable bluntness, his refusal to act civilised for more than half an hour a day – but this wasn’t it.

‘I asked you to stay around.’

Unhappily.

‘Yes, but …’

Assumed matter of politeness.

‘You thought I was trying to be polite?’

A wry grin grew around his lips. Very unhappily.

I let out a mirthless laugh. Had it been that obvious, how I reminded myself of my hate for him whenever he came too close, whenever that dangerous attraction threatened to overwhelm me again? If he’d seen it in my eyes, if I’d been scowling and glowering more than I thought—

Well. I could see his point, much as it pained me to admit it.

Also, he continued before I could open my mouth, you confuse me.

‘I … What?’

Most people … He hesitated, fingers frozen between us for a moment too long. Are scared of me.

‘Well.’ I snorted. ‘Wonder how that happened.’

His grin was even more joyless than the last. Or admire me. Sometimes both. But … Again that hesitation. They never tell me to go fuck myself.

Oh.

Born as a prince, trained as a murderer. Strongest mage in faekind’s history. Breathtakingly beautiful, unfathomably powerful. Even among his own kind, he had to be half a god by the most modest of standards – a male to look up to, a male to fear, but never a male you took for a beer after dinner. Never a male you told to go fuck himself, indeed.

I rubbed my eyes and muttered, ‘With a cactus.’

His lips were trembling when I looked up.

Not one of those wry, mirthless grins. Not one of his lazy, confident smiles. This was a laugh, a real laugh, wrestling to escape his composure – and it was the sight of that, the Silent Death on the brink of giving in to his unwilling amusement, that finally broke me.

I sagged back against my tree, giggling like a stupid human pet. His laugh broke through a moment later, taking the last of his menacing mask with it. He laughed silently, even the sound of his joy stolen from him – but I did see his shaking shoulders, the wrinkles around his eyes, and it was enough to crack something in my chest I’d held on to for far too long already. It didn’t feel painful, this crack. It felt warm and vaguely reassuring.

‘I don’t even think I really hate you.’

He abruptly stopped laughing, blinked.

‘Or at least …’ I closed my eyes for a moment, struggling to make sense of the mess of my thoughts. ‘For someone who truly hates you, I have to remind myself of the fact a little too often. It’s just …’

The words drifted off. Finishing that sentence would hurt, I knew. I had to finish it, but it would hurt so, so much.

Creon hadn't moved when I looked up. I steeled myself.

‘You know. How would I explain that to my family?’

He nodded, more slowly now. No other questions – he needed no other questions. I had to hate him. It was my duty as a good daughter of Cathra, a champion of humanity. But humanity had chewed me up and kicked me onto the streets to starve, and what, exactly, was I championing now by insisting on my hate for him?

He was a murderer. I could hardly deny that much. A ruthless, heartless one. But a male who’d kept himself alive at the court of his enemies for over a century, too, who had suffered in the role of his mother’s weapon only so he would one day be able to end her. Why exactly he had turned against her, I still didn’t know. I would find out one day. If he didn’t tell me, Lyn and Tared likely could.

But whatever it was, it had convinced Lyn at least that he may not be all rotten at heart. And that had been before he delivered himself back to a mother he didn’t want to serve, just for the chance to kill her.

Even if I didn’t like him, I could at least respect him for what he was – a force of nature, and one that appeared to be firmly on my side.

‘So,’ I said, pulling my knees to my chest as I turned towards him, ‘let’s entertain the thought that you’re not some cruel wretch hell-bent on following in your mother’s footsteps. Why, exactly, didn’t you tell me about the full extent of your plans as soon I woke up in your house for the first time?’

Told you, he gestured. Trying to protect you.

I scoffed.

Most people want to be safe.

‘Most people can go fuck themselves.’

He closed his eyes, another grin hovering around the corners of his lips. It made him look dangerously beautiful, in an entirely new way. No, not just beautiful – attractive. A sight that made my hands itch to curl around his jaws, made my lips ache to kiss that smile onto his face.

I made myself look away. For the bloody gods’ sake. Even if I knew I didn’t leave him nearly as unaffected as he tried to pretend, this was overdoing it a bit, wasn’t it?

‘Listen,’ I said, sucking in a cool breath. Back to the matter at hand. The matter at hand was at least safe and terribly unsexy. ‘If you keep me safe by keeping me ignorant, you make me feel vulnerable and weak and altogether pathetic. And not particularly safe, either. It’s hard to feel safe when I know there’s danger somewhere, but not where to expect it.’

I dared to glance back at him. He stared into the forest, his eyes swarming with thoughts.

‘I don’t want to be that stupid little human for you,’ I added, unable to keep the edge from my voice completely. ‘Not if I have to be that girl to the rest of the world already.’

Even if it’s dangerous? he gestured slowly, fingers hesitating at every other letter.

‘I’d rather be your equal in danger than your toy in safety.’

He dropped his hand again, closing his eyes. His equal. Had I just spoken those words to him – to the most powerful mage in fae history, the son of the Mother herself? I wasn’t sure he had ever considered anyone his equal in life. He certainly didn’t seem used to it.

But then again, I was the world’s only known unbound mage. Perhaps I could get away with a bold demand or two.

An hour seemed to pass before he sighed and gestured, I’ll try.

‘It’s not hard,’ I said, snorting. ‘All you need to do is keep those pointy ears of yours open and listen when I tell you I want something. And if you can’t go along with my wishes, you tell me why, instead of giving me dramatic faces and flying off with a grand air of mystery about you.’

Creon gave me a dramatic face.

‘You do them well – I’ll be kind and admit that. But save them for others, please.’

He sent me a wry grin. So what do you want?

To my surprise, the answer came to me without the slightest of hesitation. ‘I want to learn Faerie. I’m sick of sitting around people and not understanding what they have to say about me.’

It’s not the easiest language.

I shrugged. ‘I’ll teach you what I know of Cathra’s hand language. We can be inarticulate idiots together.’

Another grin slid over his face. This was becoming easier and easier.

‘I want to learn more about the history of this war, too,’ I added, more confident now. I’d never thought I was very good at wanting things. Perhaps I had needed a good dose of unwilling fae hosts to bring out some hidden talent. ‘I want to understand your past and that of …’ Of Lyn and Tared, I almost said. ‘Of the other magical peoples. If I have to be a child in fae years, at least I can be a well-read child. Can you help me with that?’

He nodded slowly. Can get you books.

‘Good. And I want to come with you when you go off to chart the Labyrinth.’

No.

‘What did I say about disagreements again?’

He looked like he was about to roll his eyes, but held back. If anyone finds you, you’re dead.

‘Yes, that would be tragic,’ I said, scoffing. ‘If they find you there without me and kill you, I’m as good as dead too. Leaving the world during a heroic battle in a forbidden tunnel sounds much better to me than sitting at home until the Mother throws your head at my feet.’

His lips tensed. She doesn’t know you’re involved.

‘Ah, and with her track record of strict justice and general mildness, that will most certainly save my life.’

He looked at me for half a second, then threw a pained glance at his fingers, looked back up at me, and nodded at his hand.

How do I curse?

I burst out laughing. ‘That’s advanced material. Perhaps we should first return—’

Home. The words evaporated on my lips. Return home – I’d almost let those ridiculous syllables escape me. For him to hear. Had I gone mad? Was I so desperate for a place to call home I’d accept a fae pavilion as long as it didn’t seem about to kill me?

‘To the pavilion,’ I finished, a little more sheepishly. ‘Let’s return to the pavilion.’

As you wish.

We walked back in silence, as we had walked and sat and flown in silence so much in the past week on the island. And yet something was different now – shockingly, disconcertingly different.

I wasn’t going to look for Lyn and Tared today.

I had a mission to finish first, after all. And from now on, it would be a mission of my own.

Chapter 12

I woke up against Creon’s warm body, my back snuggled up against his sculpted chest. My bare legs pressed against his equally sculpted thighs. His arm loosely wrapped around my waist.

Through the last lingering drowsiness of my dreams, it took me a moment to fully comprehend the predicament I’d worked myself into.

He was holding me.

On his side of the bed.

Somehow, for some unthinkable reason, I had shifted into his arms over the course of the night.

My thoughts had trouble reaching their conclusions as my body slowly woke up as well, every next observation a little more alarming than the last. I was close to him. Really, very close to him. I could feel his chest rise and fall against my back with every slow breath. Could feel the tickle of air against the back of my head whenever he exhaled. Even through my nightgown, the warmth of his body was a soft balm against my skin. Worse, where our thighs were pressed together, there was not even a meagre layer of fabric to keep at least a semblance of respectability intact.

From so near, he smelled like heaven. Sweet and nutty and dangerously … masculine.

I lay frozen in his arms and considered my options.

I had to move. That was clear. Quickly, too, because if he found me like this – oh, gods, I was unfathomably lucky that he hadn't woken yet. But if I moved too brusquely and woke him in the act of removing myself, that would be even worse. That would suggest I had actively, knowingly snuggled up against him.

He was very warm. Delightfully warm, really. The firmness of his muscles so safe against my thin, vulnerable body, the arm around me so oddly reassuring.

I had to move. What was I waiting for?

But I felt so comfortable. So … homely.

Home.

At once, not even the warmth of Creon’s body was enough to stop the chill rising in me. Home. Yesterday. My parents’ letter. The memories returned to me like a slap in the face – Creon’s hands on my hips. The cruel mockery on the Mother’s face. The girl in the stables. Fae whore.

I shoved away from Creon so abruptly that it was a miracle he didn’t wake up.

Untangling myself from the blankets, I rolled out of bed, mind and limbs suddenly aching for something to do – anything to do. I had to make breakfast. Take a bath. Train my magic. Read a book. Anything to keep my mind away from that nagging sense of loss that lingered somewhere just below my heart, swelling into every single fibre of my body whenever I gave it more than a moment’s thought.

Breakfast. Breakfast first.

I scurried to the kitchen in my nightgown. It reached to nearly my knees anyway; it was barely less decent than any of my usual clothes. The plates were whole again after yesterday’s burst of magic had reduced several of them to shards; the broken pantry shelves had healed, too. We’d needed half an hour and every fleck of blue we could find to repair the pavilion on our return from the woods.

Strong magic, indeed.

Can’t I just walk into the bone hall and send an explosion like this into the Mother’s face? I’d asked, and Creon had looked warily amused and grabbed a fresh sheet of parchment for a more elaborate answer than his signing allowed.

She’s very fast. Underlining the very. She’d see you draw and attack before you could even aim at her. Even if you got one attempt, you’d be no match for her if you failed to hit her just right.

I scoffed despite myself as I picked a pan from the lowest shelf and measured milk for two portions of porridge. A barely adult human against a High Lady who’d received the magic of the gods a millennium ago. No match, indeed.

It would have to be the throne. The Labyrinth.

So much information, so many developments in one day – it made me almost dizzy.

I focused on the porridge. Diced an apple, spooned a generous spoonful of cinnamon into the mixture. Put half of it into my own bowl and left half in the pan. Only then, when I turned to the table to eat my breakfast, did I realise Creon had woken in the meantime.

He was sitting up in bed now, bare-chested and surrounded by the frame of his dark wings. Observing me in silence – for how long already?

My skin prickled. Looking back at him, I was momentarily overcome by an overwhelming desire to forget about the porridge and occupy my mouth with entirely different activities.

‘Morning,’ I said and tried not to sound as if I’d spent half the night in his arms and couldn’t help wondering why I’d ever left that place. ‘Food?’

He gave me half a smile. I took it as a yes.

We ate breakfast in bed. Too cosy, too comfortable, and yet I couldn’t bring myself to put an end to it. Creon taught me Faerie words for apple, breakfast, milk. I taught him the accompanying gestures or came up with gestures whenever I couldn’t remember what Aldous and his family had used.

‘So,’ I said, when he finally put his empty bowl aside. ‘What is the plan for today?’

He stretched his arms over his head, wings spreading wide in the same motion – every muscle shifting and rippling into place below the ink scars on his arms and torso. Was it an invitation? A gracious suggestion that, if I didn’t really feel like reading dusty history books, I was always welcome to devote my time to this exquisite display of male body instead?

I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. Faerie history books did sound rather boring, seen from that perspective.

But he shrugged as he ended his stretching and flicked the blankets off his lower body, revealing legs that could have been a statue’s and, bless Zera’s merciful heart, underwear. His gestures came more comfortably already, and faster now that he knew some entire words and didn’t need to spell everything in full.

What do you want?

You, I nearly blurted out.

Fae whore, the stable girl told me.

‘Let’s start with the books,’ I said.

He’d brought four of them in from the library last night – three history books and one dictionary, all of them heavy enough to break a skull. I sat myself at the table with more bravura than I felt at the sight of the tiny letters, the endless sentences, the dozens and dozens of words I’d never even seen before. An irrational anxiety gripped me. Perhaps I’d set myself a mission even more impossible than the Mother’s death here.

It’s not the easiest text to start with, Creon scribbled to my left.

That settled it.

‘If I wanted easy, you probably wouldn’t be my teacher either.’ I snorted. ‘What do you want me to do, read children’s books for weeks?’

He didn’t seem surprised. If anything, amused. As you wish. Tell me if you need help.

I gave his winged back a glare as he sauntered off to the bathroom. Bastard. Of course I wasn’t going to tell him I needed help, and judging by that smirk on his face, he knew it as well as I did. He could at least have offered his assistance persistently enough that it wouldn’t be such a defeat to accept it.

A laugh fell over my lips. Now I was being unreasonable, wasn’t I?

But Creon had vanished to take a bath anyway, so I might as well see how far I got on my own. Groaning, I opened the first book. The first sentence alone took me ten minutes – something with a story, something with wars, something with the period after the year 3104.

3104 since the Rising – the year of the Last Battle.

So this book described the period between the Last Battle and our current age. Well. That was a lousy conclusion, for ten minutes of work.

I gave up on the dictionary and browsed to the back of the book. An illustrated history, it turned out; the pages of tight scribbles alternated with bright-coloured paintings of battlefields, maps, and even the occasional portrait.

Portraits.

That suggested there should be information about people, didn’t it?

I found an index in the far back of the book. Alphabetical. Wonderful. It didn’t take me long to find him there – Creon Hytherion. Prince, the dictionary told me. They actually called him a prince in this place.

The list of page numbers following his name was longer than any other on that page, so I set to browsing back and forth between the index and the text. Most times his name was just one of the many in some description of a fight or political development; I wasn’t patient enough to spend minutes scouring my dictionary to get more than a rudimentary idea of what was happening. But on page seventy-three—

Oh, Zera help me.

It was a painting, filling the entire page. An idyllic blue sky. Some blossoming spring trees. Between them, a pile of corpses.

Bloodied, naked corpses.

And behind them, glorious and majestic, wings spread in confident fae triumph, Creon.

My stomach turned, nearly throwing up the porridge. Oh, gods. This wouldn’t be an accurate portrayal, I told myself, unable to stop staring at that cruel scene despite the gall rising in my throat. The painter likely hadn't been there. Creon would not have looked so damn pleased with himself in reality, would not have posed with a heap of dead humans like a hunter posing with his most spectacular catch of the day. But even if those parts had been exaggerated by the skilled hands of a patriotic fae painter—

The caption was short, and my trembling hands found the translations within minutes. Village. Riot. Forty-five. Dead.

And again – Creon Hytherion.

Creon.

Who’d just eaten his porridge in bed with me. Who’d slept so peacefully with his arm around me and laughed about indecent cactus jokes.

My Creon.

Where had that thought come from?

I still couldn’t bring myself to look away from the painting before me, such a cruel, stark contrast to this peaceful pavilion. The artist had gone into excruciating detail in his depiction of the slaughtered humans. Flayed limbs and gaping wounds. Mothers clutching their dead children. Artistic interpretation, I repeated to myself, a fae’s idea of a beautiful summer’s day – but I heard Tared’s voice again, I’ve seen some of the corpses he left behind … The artist’s imagination had taken its ideas from somewhere.

I shouldn’t be shocked. I shouldn’t be surprised. I had known from the start who he was – the Silent Death, humanity’s worst nightmare. And yet …

He had seemed so damn human yesterday. Confused and embarrassed and unwillingly amused. Seemed so decent. What had Tared said? For someone who hasn’t truly returned to her side, he seems to have embraced the position with rather unnerving enthusiasm … I found myself unable to disagree with the alf. Was it really possible to call a male capable of this much violence decent, even if the hurt was inflicted for the greater good?

Perhaps one could be on the right side and still be evil. Perhaps I had been a fool to even hope for some good below the murderer’s skin. Perhaps …

I heard the bathroom door open, and turned the page so quickly I nearly strained my wrist.

He appeared at the top of the stairs a moment later in dark trousers and not much else, hair bound up at the back of his head to keep it dry in the bath. His wings and bare torso were still damp, both gleaming sinfully in the soft green and white light that fell from the windows. His hands … My gaze strayed to his hands, those slender, ink-scarred hands, and didn’t manage to focus on anything else anymore.

He’d driven knives into children’s eyes with those same hands. Peeled the skin off innocent humans with them.

And now those strong, nimble fingers gestured, What’s wrong?

‘Nothing.’ Too quick. But what else could I say? You’re a murderer, that’s what’s wrong. I no longer know what to think of you – how to feel about you. I find myself wanting to like you. I find myself wanting much more than just to like you whenever you stroll around me like some sinful dream come to life, and yet I have no idea what to think of the heart beating inside that painfully muscular chest of yours.

Just to be certain, I repeated, ‘Nothing.’

He looked sceptical.

‘Turns out I’m not going to learn Faerie in half an hour,’ I added with a vague gesture at the book. Creon raised an eyebrow.

Disappointing.

‘Bastard.’

He grinned. That strange, genuine grin, the grin of the male who hadn't been treated as an equal for a minute in his life and enjoyed the experience more than expected. Turning for the stove, he gestured, Tea?

‘Yes, please.’ Tea. The fae assassin who had murdered entire villages was pleasantly offering me tea. ‘With honey. I could use some.’

Any questions?

I pressed my lips together. The reflex to tell him no was still there, but I had already concluded I was being ridiculous, and after he’d found me looking all pale and frustrated, I could hardly insist I didn’t need any help. I turned back to the book, looking for something I could conceivably ask a question about. The page I had blindly browsed to contained yet another painting – seven fae, looking ready for battle. One I recognised immediately. Dark skin, gold-flecked hair, two blades in each hand – Thysandra.

Thysandra Daimonicheira, the caption called her.

Cheira. One of the few words I actually knew – murderer. Daimon … I needed the dictionary for that one. Demon, it said.

Fascinating.

‘Creon, what is a demon?’

He jerked around, eyes narrowed, his gestures so brusque they qualified as snapping. What?

I stared at him, blinking. Only a moment later did he seem to realise how intense his reaction had been. His face relaxed a little; his hand sank a few inches.

Apologies, he gestured, his fingers still too strained. When I taught him the sign, I hadn't expected to ever see him use it. I don’t often get questions about demons.

I considered that for a moment. ‘You’re not too fond of them, I take it?’

He hesitated at the stove for a last moment, the water rustling in the kettle behind him. Then, with another jerky movement, he made for the table and sank down on the stool beside me, snatching his notebook from the pile of books and writing supplies.

I suppressed the urge to shove away from him as he turned towards me, tense shoulder muscles shifting as he tucked in his wings. For an inhumanly handsome male without a shirt on his body, he was really quite close.

They’re another magical people, he scribbled down. A matter too sensitive to be expressed in hand language, apparently. Older than the gods.

‘There are things that are older than the gods?’

Unfortunately.

I swallowed. The idea of something that ancient – something gruesome enough to make the Silent Death look skittish about it … I didn’t like it at all.

‘What is the problem with them?’

Their magic plays with emotions, he wrote, lips tight. The worse they make their victims feel, the better they feel themselves. So they go around … His fingers faltered for the blink of an eye. Tormenting others.

Like you do, I nearly said, but one glance at the lines around his lips convinced me to keep my commentary to myself. Whatever exactly it was that demon torture entailed, it was apparently worse than the crimes he committed without flinching. Bad enough that the thought of them alone made him recoil.

Or rather the memory of them, perhaps.

‘Did you ever meet one?’ I asked carefully.

For a moment, I thought he would revert to his old ways and ignore me entirely. Then, so quick I nearly missed it, he nodded.

‘And Thysandra killed one?’

He blinked, then glanced at the book before me and slowly loosened his shoulders. What had he feared – that his personal encounter with one of those monsters had been detailed in my readings?

Didn’t kill her. But came close.

‘But cheira …’

Creon shrugged. Multiple meanings. It’s more like Demonbane.

‘Ah.’ I rubbed my face. ‘I see. So how does one fight a demon?’

You kill yourself before they do it their way.

I blinked. He seemed bitterly earnest.

‘Thysandra doesn’t seem to have killed herself, though.’

No. Shame. He caught my look and added, more slowly now, Thysandra is one of the few fae who ever trained herself to resist demon magic. She volunteered to take on Anaxia during the Last Battle.

‘The Last Battle? You mean there was a demon fighting on the side of … on our side?’

Anaxia is a special case.

‘You knew her too?’

He nodded. Don’t ever mention her to Thysandra, though.

‘Why? Because she can’t stand not having killed her?’

Creon shook his head. She chose not to kill Anaxia.

‘What?’

He sighed, but some of the usual agility was returning to his movements. This particular demon wasn’t the sore point, apparently. And if I was lucky, that meant he would keep talking as long as I didn’t return to the more general subject.

They fought for two days, he wrote. No rest, no food. Nobody dared to come near them. Then she ended up with a knife against Anaxia’s throat and didn’t make the kill.

‘Because of demon magic?’

Oh, no. He seemed amused now – a pale amusement, but much better than the stiff wariness of a few minutes before. Because she fell in love.

I stared at him. His faint amusement became a faint smile.

‘She did what?’

She blames the demon magic, of course, he added dryly.

‘Then how do you know …’

She told me. He shrugged. More or less. Wanted to know if I had a way to contact her.

I folded my arms, unable to suppress a grin. How many sleepless nights had it taken, exactly, for a proud fae female to come crawling to another fae, make that confession, and beg for help? Fell in love. What kind of person fell in love during a battle of life and death in the first place?

‘Did you have a way?’

Creon shook his head.

‘So she’s been pining over some demon she didn’t kill for thirteen decades?’

He threw down his pen, nodded, and got up. Only then did I realise the water had started boiling in the meantime.

‘And you?’ I said.

He didn’t exactly freeze this time. Didn’t jerk around as if someone had shown up behind him with a knife. But his motions as he poured the boiling water into our cups were too measured, too stiff, to pretend he hadn't heard the question.

‘Please don’t start ignoring me again,’ I said.

He didn’t respond, plucking lemon balm leaves from the small bush in the pot at the window. My lips had already parted to add some sharp remark to that request when a new realisation hit me, so suddenly clear that I wasn’t sure how it could be new to me.

He didn’t want to ignore me.

He was trying to be decent to me, for whatever reason. He’d shrugged away my demolition of his home, had tried to protect me from unpleasant truths, and changed his ways when asked to. So if he was doing this nonetheless …

He probably just didn’t know what else to do.

A sting of guilt hit me. ‘Creon?’

His shoulders stiffened, wings shifting with the movement. He didn’t turn.

‘Creon, if there are questions you don’t want me to ask – you can just tell me. I can’t always tell if you’re thinking or just want me to shut up.’

He finished our tea without gesturing or looking at me. But he met my gaze as he handed me my warm mug and reached for his pencil as he sat down.

She had me train with demons when I was younger.

My nausea stirred again. ‘The Mother?’

He nodded.

Oh, gods. I could still see the painting of the dead humans before my mind’s eye, slaughtered and piled up like animals too sick to even make it to the butcher. But now I couldn’t help seeing him, too, small and vulnerable and forced to endure excruciating torture – that fae toddler taught to fight and kill before others of his age had even learned to walk.

‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered.

For a moment, he hesitated, pencil tip hanging suspended just above the parchment. Then, writing faster now, as if a heavy load had fallen off his shoulders, he scribbled, Let’s talk about grammar.

And that ended our discussion of demons for the day.

Grammar, it turned out, was an exhausting topic. Hours of untangling complex verbal formations and ridiculous Faerie word orders left me a yawning mess before we had even cooked dinner; I barely even had the time to think about piles of corpses through the knots the language left in my brain. I spent most of the evening lying flat on the couch and staring at the small lights strewn across the ceiling, unable to stop wrestling words into sentences in my mind.

So, Creon’s note said, landing folded into a kite shape on my stomach. Looking forward to the nominal declinations?

I didn’t even know what a declination was supposed to be; I supposed the answer would be negative. ‘Can’t we take a break tomorrow?’

From behind me came the sound of parchment torn from a notebook. The next note followed a moment later, sailing against my thigh. Considering that he was sitting at the table, a good twenty feet away, he was throwing them with unsettling accuracy. Already discouraged?

‘I take back everything I said,’ I told the ceiling. ‘I actually do hate you. With a passion.’

No answer followed this time, so I sat up with exaggerated groaning and glared at him. He sat with his arms folded on the edge of the table, eyeing me like a cat might eye a mouse that’s just out of his reach – looking amused, and yet it was not only amusement burning in those ink-black eyes.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have used the word passion.

‘Let’s take a look at the Labyrinth tomorrow,’ I said.

He moved to sign an answer, then paused halfway through the first word – realising, presumably, that I wouldn’t be too happy about his intended reply. The revised version came a moment later.

If you’re sure, at least get some sleep.

‘Is it that dangerous?’

Potentially.

Potentially. If someone found us there. If Creon saw himself forced to remove that unlucky witness from the face of the earth, or worse, if someone tried to do the same to us. For a moment, I wanted to give in and just let him go by himself – but no, I’d have to face the danger anyway in the end. Better get used to the place before the fate of the archipelago depended on it.

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll go to sleep.’

I contemplated putting a pillow between his and my half of the bed, just to make sure I couldn’t make last night’s mistake again. I wasn’t sure I would survive another morning waking up in his arms. But if I suddenly resorted to pillows after a week, that might tell him exactly what I didn’t want him to know, and I had been lucky enough already that he’d still been asleep this morning.

So I just settled myself beneath the blankets on the far side of the bed and hoped for the best. ‘Night, Creon.’

His note hit my shoulder a little too hard. Night.

He was up already by the time I woke on the right side of the bed. I sent Zera a quick prayer of gratitude as I clambered from under the blankets.

Creon packed a bag as I made us breakfast, and we were on our way within half an hour after I had woken up. Cooperation, again, so smooth that it almost made me nervous. What did it say about me, that I so easily adjusted to the rhythm of a fae murderer?

But today we had a Labyrinth to survive; there would be better moments to think about that question.

There were many entrances to the system of underground tunnels, Creon explained, but today we were walking to the nearest one. Flying would bring us out of the trees and into the view of the court itself. In these woods, however, nothing but the occasional animal passed us by.

‘We’re not walking into Faewood, are we?’ I asked after about fifteen minutes of walking east, and Creon glanced at me.

The hounds know better than to come near me.

‘How useful, to have the most powerful mage in history with me,’ I said, rolling my eyes.

He gave me a wry grin.

I snorted. ‘Why are they even still here, the hounds? Shouldn’t someone have done something about that danger to the general populace’s safety by now?’

Creon shrugged. They’re useful to her at times.

That didn’t sound promising. ‘The bloody kind of useful?’

He nodded.

‘Well.’

His side glance suggested he’d noticed my nervousness better than I liked. Faewood. Lyn and Tared would only be back in a week, they had said. But they also mentioned others who were around at times as well, and what if we stumbled upon a handful of alves in a moment? Even if we were technically all on the same side …

He’s not very fond of us for … reasons.

That really didn’t sound like it would be the most joyful reunion.

There seemed to be no alves, however, or else they were wise enough to stay away from us. We didn’t run into more than two deer and a rabbit until we reached a rocky wall growing from the lush vegetation, the onset of the mountain on which the court was built. It looked like the most boring of rocks at first sight. A single, well-aimed flash of yellow, however, turned what had seemed to be rock into a rusty old gate, looking about as majestic as the horse shed in which I’d tried to hide two days ago.

She hides the entrances, Creon gestured as he pulled the door open for me. Doesn’t want people to wander in.

I threw a cautious glance at the darkness behind the low gate. It wasn’t very dark, I found to my surprise. Something was glowing in those smooth stone walls – like crystals reflecting the sunlight, except that there was no sun to be reflected. We hadn't brought any torches, now that I thought about it.

‘So why is she so secretive about these tunnels? Just because they run under her throne?’

He shook his head. It’s old magic again.

‘Old magic – you mean, from the time before the gods?’

A nod and a clear gesture to step inside. I swallowed a few objections, still didn’t see any hounds or demons waiting for me, and decided to take the risk. Nothing much happened when I stepped through the low doorway. Only the many-coloured crystals in the walls seemed to shine a little brighter.

They were everywhere, those crystals – some small enough to be mere sparkles against the background of impenetrable black, some as big as my hand. Sapphire and emerald and ruby and amethyst … The longer I looked, the more I found, until even I ran out of colour names and just stared at the wonder of light around us.

‘Is she scared of it?’ I whispered. ‘Because it looks lovely so far.’

A gush of warm air drifted past me. Was there more to be found deeper inside the mountain – volcanic activity of some sort? For a moment, I wondered if this was a good idea at all, but Creon followed me into the tunnel without any apparent concern.

And we all know beautiful things can’t be dangerous.

I scoffed at him – at that damned grin on his face. ‘Arrogant bastard.’

His smile was nothing short of wicked. Zera help me. Perhaps I should have thought twice before telling him to stop keeping his distance.

‘So what exactly is the plan?’ I said as I followed him to the first corner.

Take measurements. Expand our map.

‘Right.’ Our map, not his map – well, that was an improvement, wasn’t it?

We rounded the corner, and I froze on the spot again. The tunnel that opened up before us … It was higher than the first part we’d just left behind and impossibly more colourful. The gems and crystals created flower-like patterns on the black walls, looking like the brightest of my father’s paint palettes.

Creon glanced at me over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised a little.

‘Sorry,’ I muttered, staring at the colours that came together above my head – a deep, night sky blue and a brown so bright it was almost gold. ‘I’ll be more productive in a moment, but this – it’s really beautiful, Creon.’

Again that breeze of pleasantly warm air, as if we were standing on the coastline at night, catching the drifts of warmth from over the sea.

Creon gave the walls a look of unwilling appreciation. Very impractical too, though.

The air around my face cooled down so fast I almost yelped. It seemed I had at least stiffened; Creon’s eyebrow rose another fraction.

‘The – the temperature,’ I said. ‘Don’t you feel the changes?’

He blinked. Never noticed it before. May be some warmer and cooler rooms in this damn thing.

Again that sting of cold air, nearly icy now. Feeling almost like a reaction – one of us spoke and the temperatures changed. Did it have something to do with the person speaking? Warmer for me, colder for Creon? But he’d been here so often without me and never noticed any such changes …

Lovely, I’d said. Beautiful.

Impractical, he’d said. Damn thing.

Ten nights spent in fae territory were not doing my sanity any favours, I concluded, but I nonetheless cleared my throat and said, a little louder, ‘I actually think a beautiful labyrinth like this knows very well what it’s doing with those temperature changes, Creon.’

A whiff of warm air again. Creon stared at me as if I’d gone mad.

‘It really is a wonderful place,’ I said, giving him my most emphatic look. ‘You have to admit that. Did you ever see a tunnel with such wonderful colours?’

Slowly, still looking suspicious as if I’d abruptly declared my everlasting love for faekind, he raised his hand and signed, The colours are admittedly beautiful.

The air warmed further. There was a very satisfied feeling to that sudden warmth, and something oddly bashful too. I hadn't been aware air could feel bashful, but I could have sworn the Labyrinth might be … blushing?

Creon looked, for the first time since I knew him, actively uneasy.

‘How old did you say this place was?’ I said, quieter now.

Old. He glanced around. The Labyrinth was already here when Korok built—

‘Hey!’ a voice outside shouted.

Creon stiffened. So did I. Just around the corner, less than fifty feet away, the same male voice continued – something about gate, something about open. Another voice spoke, too far away to be understood. The first man’s reply was a mystery to me, except for one word I knew very well by now – Oneia.

Mother.

Next to me, Creon was a statue – except his fingers. His fingers were moving. Wants to warn the Mother, he was gesturing. A translation – gods bless his heart, or any alternative organ in case a heart was lacking. Other is afraid to warn her for nothing.

And then, a few quick sentences later, He’s coming to take a look.

‘We should run,’ I breathed.

Creon glanced to our side. At least sixty feet before the next bend in the tunnel. If we wanted to be quiet enough not to alert the fae male outside, we would never make it that far before he came around the corner. Which meant he would find us. Which meant he would tell the Mother about us. Which meant that we were in trouble.

In deep, deep trouble.

Some first, cautious footsteps echoed through the tunnel around the corner. I stared at Creon, and Creon stared at me, thoughts awhirl behind his eyes. I could almost see the options as they passed through his mind. Kill the two intruders? He probably could, but what if there were more of them out there who would sound the alarm? Bluff his way out of this situation? But how would he explain sneaking into a hidden tunnel and breaking one of the Mother’s strictest rules …

I was still staring at him. I knew by the minimal widening of his eyes that he reached his conclusion the moment I did.

‘Hey!’ the fae male hissed, followed by a question that was presumably aimed at whoever he expected to find around the corner. Neither of us answered. Which meant we reasonably should have missed it. Which meant—

Oh, gods.

It was not the plan itself that sparked such bursts of nervousness in my stomach. It was the fact that the plan emerged in my thoughts so easily, and that a significant part of my mind didn’t seem to mind about it at all.

Creon took half a step forward, his wings curling around us both like a protective cocoon. His hand came up again – Emelin.

Had he ever gestured or written my name before? What a ridiculous thing to be aware of. But my stomach fluttered a little nonetheless – nervousness, I told myself. Just nervousness. He was very close, after all, and I was about to do something I’d never have dreamt I would do—

Well, I had admittedly dreamt about it.

That didn’t make it any better.

The fae male’s footsteps were just around the corner. Mere seconds left. Less, perhaps. I sucked in a deep breath, unable to move, unable to tear my gaze away from Creon’s burning, ink-black eyes.

I nodded.

He shot forward.

Before I could blink, his body was everywhere. Arm around my waist, pressing me against the solid muscle of his chest as he shoved me against the crystal-covered tunnel wall. Hand around my jaw, calloused fingers tipping back my head. Wings, black and shimmering, surrounding us so closely that they eclipsed most of the Labyrinth’s colourful gem light.

Lips—

Lips on my lips.

The world around me stilled.

Gone were the ominous footsteps, the threat of the Mother’s rage. Gone were the gems and the colours and the mystery of the Labyrinth’s nature. Gone were even the thorny questions of conscience and morality, of championing humanity and despising faekind.

The Silent Death kissed me.

And Zera help me, I welcomed him.

His lips were firm. Firm and hungry and yet inexplicably gentle as they brushed over mine, feathery light at first, then more insistent. Tasting me – exploring me. Focusing every single thought in that predator’s mind, every single nerve of that warrior’s body, on me.

My knees went weak.

But his arm was there around my waist, pinning me even tighter against the wall of his powerful body. I felt every glorious inch of him, lean muscle and searing warmth and an unexpected hardness bulging at his crotch – and the last traces of my good sense were reduced to ashes in the sting of heat that burnt through me. I flung my hands over his shoulders, buried my fingers into the silken strands of his hair. Opened my mouth to him and moaned as his tongue swept in, probing, teasing, claiming.

A tremor ran through him in reply.

He shivered. The Silent Death shivered. My body was fire in his arms now – scorching, bone-shattering fire. I clawed my hands into his shoulders as he drew me even deeper into the kiss, tongues tangling, lips melting together. His hand abandoned my jaw and found the hem of my dress, and at the invitation of his inquiring fingers I could only raise my leg in an unspoken request. Yes. Please. Finally. Every lingering touch of the past days, every alluring glimpse of him – they came bursting to the surface of my desire as if they had waited for this, waited for him, waited for me to finally take exactly what I wanted.

A taste of the forbidden – and gods, it was addictive.

His breath quickened as he ran his hand up my thigh ever so slowly, fingertips savouring every inch of vulnerable skin. Again I moaned. This time, even his wings quivered around us, and lights and colours danced over his face, his shoulders, the black velvet of his wings—

A loud cough broke through the haze of my arousal.

I jerked back and gasped for air, every inch of my body tight and tingling. A cough. An intruder. Oh, gods, the fae male tiptoeing into the Labyrinth after us – I had entirely forgotten about his existence.

Had forgotten I was just playing a game. Just pretending.

Had Creon …

For a moment, all I saw was his gorgeous face inches away from mine, the gleam in his eyes a merciless hunger. Had he been pretending? The shivers, the hardness pressing into my lower belly – had they all just been part of some dangerous fae game he’d played so many times before?

I stared at him. I didn’t dare to break his gaze, afraid I would look back and find only the cold, unaffected murderer in his eyes again.

He gave me the most minimal nod. It looked like an encouragement.

Right.

We had a problem to solve first.

So I sucked in a cool breath and murmured in my silliest human voice, ‘Creon? Did you hear that, too?’

He flicked back his wings in reply, pulling his hand off my thigh at the same moment. Pinning me against his chest, still, as he turned aside and aimed a withering look at the green-clad fae male who had emerged at the bend of the tunnel, looking worryingly pale even in the faint light of the Labyrinth.

The poor fellow shrunk back two steps under that glare alone.

‘Oh!’ I said, my voice more breathless than intended. ‘Oh, no! Now they’ve seen us anyway, Creon!’

He didn’t react, didn’t even glance at me, as his hand wandered to the first knife at his belt.

The other fae paled even further, his face about as green as his shirt now. ‘I – I didn’t mean …’ His accent was so heavy I barely understood him. Why did he even try to speak my language – did he expect more mercy from me than from Creon? ‘Forgive me, I had no idea …’

The hiss of Creon’s drawn knife echoed through the tunnel. The fae male almost stumbled over his own feet in his hurry to retreat.

‘A – a misunderstanding!’ He was stammering now. ‘I thought … but I see now you are not even really in the Labyrinth … I—’

A flash of silver, and the knife clattered against the gem-covered wall, barely an inch away from the fae’s pointed ear. Creon was already holding his second blade.

The fae male ran.

We heard him shrieking shreds of an explanation to his companions outside, the sound of his voice removing itself at lightning speed. And then the Labyrinth was silent again and utterly devoid of life except for the two of us, standing entangled beneath the gem-covered ceiling.

Creon didn’t look at me as he slipped his knife back into its sheath and pulled his arm from my waist. My skin suddenly felt cold without his touch, cold and lonely and starved.

‘Well,’ I said.

Again we were silent. Between us, the air seemed to be shimmering, vibrating with heat under the weight of our unspoken questions. He was only a few feet away. One step forward and I could wrap my arms around his shoulders again and feel the bliss of his lips on mine again – one step forward and …

Let’s go back home, he gestured.

Something dulled inside me. But I swallowed and said, ‘Yes. Let’s go home.’

He didn’t meet my gaze during the full, excruciating fifteen minutes of our walk back to the pavilion.

Chapter 13

I lay in the overly soft pillows of the bed in which I’d slept beside him and stared at the ceiling with numb, unseeing eyes.

Around me, the pavilion was silent. Far too silent. Against that backdrop of nothing, the sound of Creon’s quickening breath wouldn’t leave my ears, the echoes of my own mindless moans. I still felt his fingers, too, felt his lips on mine. Felt the shivers running through him as if my pleasure meant something to him …

Something stirred inside me again. Far, far too deep inside me.

I’m at the beach, he’d gestured as soon as he’d let me into the pavilion, and vanished. As if my mere presence was too much to bear for him now. A courteous attempt to give me some space to think, presumably, but I didn’t want space to think. I didn’t want to think at all. If I was honest, I just wanted him to come back and kiss me.

That was a bigger problem than the fact that he’d kissed me in the first place.

Kissing – I could handle kissing. I’d done it before. Hell, I’d kissed over as little as a bet when one of my fellow apprentices at Miss Matilda’s believed I wouldn’t dare to. Having someone’s lips on mine for a minute to save both of our lives was not what made me feel like I was no longer in control of my own body.

But I had enjoyed it.

And that … I had no idea what to make of that.

Did it mean I liked him? Did it mean I was his little fae whore after all? Did it mean I was the kind of woman who could shrug off a violent past and a deadly disregard for human lives in exchange for a few hours of rolling around in the hay?

Did he want me to be that woman?

Again the memory of his shivering wings stirred in me. Of his tightening hand on my hip at the Mother’s lunch. Of his teasing remarks and inviting glances? Had he wanted this, and not just to save his own life? Would he kiss me again even if we weren’t about to be discovered in a forbidden Labyrinth?

I let out a groan. I was being nonsensical. Hadn't I just decided I shouldn’t want to kiss him in the first place?

But the want for him wouldn’t go – a blind, burning craving that had settled just below my skin, reliving that stupid, heated kiss again and again as if to drive me insane with it. Zera help me, I’d still have to sleep in one bed with him. Would have to feel that powerful male body barely a foot away from me under the blankets and know that if I just stretched out a hand, just rolled over once, I could have him holding me all over again.

Lying in his blankets, knowing he was out there waiting for me to make up my mind, I couldn’t even imagine seeing him again without turning into a blubbering, blushing mess.

This wouldn’t do. I was going to make a fool of myself.

I sat up, groaning once more. Fine, then. Time for more rigorous measures. Perhaps my burning body would at least be sensitive to a more shocking kind of argument, and right now, I should go to very shocking lengths to set myself straight.

The history book was still lying on the edge of the table where I’d left it last night. I picked it up, pushing past my own hands’ reluctance to open it. Page seventy-three – I found it within seconds.

Creon. The heap of bloodied humans at his feet.

I didn’t allow myself to look away from the gruelling image, forced myself to pay attention to every shocking detail the painter had included, every lash and cut and burn. This was what the Silent Death did. This was what would have become of Cathra, had he not stumbled upon me and my magic before he could set to the usual routine of torturing a full village of people to death. This was how I would have died, if not for the questionable luck of the fae blood running through my veins.

He might have cut out my tongue too, had I been human. Might have set me on fire with my parents watching, and he wouldn’t have lost any sleep over it.

He had done that sort of thing. And the minute the Mother told him to, he would do it again. To keep up his cover, yes, but he would still do it.

The gall rose in my throat. I still didn’t look away from the painted page, didn’t even blink.

This was the only part of the Silent Death that mattered. Not the part of him that cooked me breakfast and promised me protection. Not the part that looked like a god and kissed like one, too. But the part of him that I couldn’t, wouldn’t forgive, even if I knew why he had made the choice to embrace it – because even being capable of making that choice spoke of a heartlessness, a callousness, that I couldn’t ignore.

So many people had been hurt in unspeakable way at his hands. Allowing those same hands to grant me pleasure instead … it would be a betrayal of all those he’d left dead in his wake.

That was all there was to it, wasn’t it?

I shut the book, finally, with the feeling of a decision made.

And yet … Yet it was still there when I left the pavilion, twisting and stirring in some deep, nameless part of me. A longing. A yearning. A permanent mark left on me by lips too soft and fingers too gentle for the male they belonged to.

I’d have to live with it.

I was going to live with it, I swore to myself as I made my way down to the beach. I was going to resist his fae charms. I was going to make the decent choice in what shouldn’t even be a dilemma, and that was the end of the matter.

He could at least have made an effort to look a little less breathtaking, though.

Curse that magnificent spread of his dark wings as he stood in the surf, barefoot, his dark trousers soaked from his ankles to his knees. Curse the way his clothing strained around his hips, begging to be stripped off with the greatest, most meticulous care. Curse the dark locks escaping the messy bun at the back of his head, fluttering at me with such teasing, taunting lightness. At least he’d kept his shirt on this time, but it didn’t make much of a difference – I knew what the body below looked like, and now that I had found out what it felt like …

My mouth turned dry, but I kicked off my shoes and kept walking, repeating my promises to myself. I was a decent person. I made decent choices.

I did not throw myself into the arms of fae murderers. Not even if they were unbearably beautiful and unfairly skilled lovers.

He didn’t turn until I had almost reached him, although he must have noticed me long before that time. The look on his face … I had trouble making sense of it. He seemed relieved and burdened at once.

‘You’re staring at the horizon very poetically,’ I said, joining him in the shallow water, just out of reach of his wings. The sea felt reassuring. Cool enough to keep me sane, warm enough to keep me comfortable. ‘Are you composing lyrical ballads or contemplating the fleeting nature of life?’

The corners of his lips quirked up, and I barely kept in a sigh of relief. Good. At least we could still joke.

Contemplating you.

My breath hitched. Thank the gods I hadn’t let that relieved sigh escape; it would have been entirely premature. Me. How dare he think about me, when I had just decided none of this could mean a damn to him?

‘That would explain the sullen expression on your face.’

He threw me a look, dark eyes anything but sullen, then averted his gaze again. From the side, there was an eagle-like sharpness to his profile, his strong nose, his high cheekbones. The inked cut through his eyebrow looked even more pronounced from this angle, like a threat sneaking up on his eye.

Without taking his eyes off the island in the distance, he gestured, I’m sorry.

He spelled out the letters. Not just the gesture to apologise – as if a single swat of his hand wouldn’t be enough for this occasion.

‘You don’t have anything to apologise for,’ I said. Odd, how easily that came over my lips. A week ago I would have been overjoyed to see him grovel for anything, justified or not. ‘It was the only reasonable way to explain our presence there. I told you that you could.’

He didn’t reply.

Perhaps, I conceded with a painful twinge of awkwardness, the objective, reasonable side of the matter had not been his reason to apologise. Objectively, the plan had been a matter of business. A matter of personal safety. And then I had—

Again my stomach cramped, more violently now. Then I had kissed him like I meant it.

Perhaps that was what he was contemplating – how in the world he was going to tell me, in the kindest possible way, that I was still little more than a child in his eyes and certainly not anyone he’d ever kiss if it wasn’t his only path to survival. I stiffened. If that were the case, I could spare him the hassle.

‘I got a little carried away.’ Even I was impressed at the steady boredom that laced the words. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

He raised his scarred eyebrow. I wasn’t worrying.

‘Then what were you—’

Regretting.

‘That you had to kiss me?’ I said sharply.

For a moment, he stood frozen, a statue of deep, deadly darkness on this idyllic beach. Then, so fast I barely followed the movements of his fingers, he signed, That it had to be forced.

‘You didn’t force—’

I know.

I drew in a breath, my heart hammering against my ribs. He hadn't forced me. He knew I wasn’t accusing him. But he was right, it had been forced – by the universe, by the Mother’s rules, by the unlucky fae male stumbling upon that open door.

As opposed to …

I swallowed, heat rising in me despite the cool water frothing around my bare feet, despite all my carefully contemplated objections of morality. ‘Rather preposterous of you to assume it would have happened at all if it hadn't been forced.’

He threw another sideways glance at me, a spark of challenge in his eyes. As if he hadn’t even heard the thin veneer of restraint over my words. As if he saw straight through my skin, straight into the painful craving that was once again spreading from some smouldering core below my navel into every fibre of my body.

You’d still prefer the cactus? he gestured.

A question of conscience, but I’d have to lie. I couldn’t possibly tell him how negative the answer to that question was – that as a matter of fact, cactuses had never seemed more unattractive to me than in this very moment.

I cleared my throat. ‘Depends. Is it a good-looking cactus?’

Wouldn’t give you anything but the best.

The best. Oh, gods. There had to be another way to interpret the decidedly suggestive twinkle in his eyes – a way that didn’t have anything to do with that ravenous kiss he’d pressed to my lips barely an hour ago. This didn’t make sense. None of it did. And yet … I had felt that shudder trailing through his wings.

I was blushing, wasn’t I?

‘Are you …’ I let out a laugh, lips searching for words, for sense. The world was spinning out of control, and if I wasn’t careful, I might end up liking it. ‘Creon, are you flirting with me?’

He raised an eyebrow. Unlikely. I don’t have a heart, I’ve been told.

Prick. But if he expected me to retreat, he had kidnapped the wrong human. I cocked my head at him and sweetly said, ‘I don’t think a heart is the most relevant body part for those activities you seem to be hinting at.’

Not hinting at anything. The gleam in his eyes was most definitely hinting at something. You seem to have some pretty clear-cut options in mind, though.

‘Like running you through with a sharpened broomstick?’

Am I annoying you?

‘You’re usually annoying me.’ Somehow we had ended up standing almost chest to chest in the shallow azure water, barely half an arm’s length between us. ‘Now a little more than most of the time, perhaps. I thought you made a bargain to keep your hands off me.’

Am I putting my hands on you?

‘You … No.’ Oh, damn him. He didn’t, and he wouldn’t. Not just because of the bargain, but because he had never in his life been that sort of fae male, to lock a human woman into his rooms and have his way with her. But of course, if I wanted him …

That was an entirely different question.

I couldn’t. I couldn’t. But that gleam in his eyes … It was a look of desire. Of hunger. Somehow the Silent Death looked at me, plain and boring and as good as human, and saw someone he wouldn’t mind taking into his arms again. Someone he wouldn’t mind kissing and—

The image flickered before my mind’s eye again – his naked body over mine, wings flaring, muscles straining. Was it the memory of his jagged breath that made the vision look so much more real than ever before? Or was it the knowledge that I just had to speak the words, just had to nod …

And it would be real.

I stepped back, away from him. It was all I could do to control myself as that senseless frenzy flared through me again, as if I’d never made all my decent plans, never etched all my decent resolutions into my fickle brain. He stood unmoving in the surf. Didn’t follow me. Didn’t press. Just watched me, dark eyes calm, quiet, and yet so dangerously inviting.

‘Creon,’ I said again. My voice hoarse. My thoughts unravelling. ‘Creon, I just … I don’t understand anything anymore.’

Something softened in his face. What do you want?

Oh, damn him – was this really the moment to be considerate? When I had enough trouble reminding myself of the monster below his skin already?

‘I – I …’

What could I say? I want you. I want you to read it from my thoughts and sweep me off my feet and kiss me again so I can at least blame you for my temporary loss of sanity – so I can feel you all over me, inside me, too, and still be a decent person. I want you to make up my mind for me. I just don’t want to doubt anymore.

I swallowed and muttered, ‘I don’t want to make things complicated.’

What is the complication?

‘You are.’

He sighed, shoulders tightening a little. Not what he liked to hear? That, I decided, was his own bloody problem. He couldn’t go about murdering humans for decades and then complain if his past bothered me.

‘Just … Let’s get back to work,’ I added weakly, the words spilling over my lips like a plea. ‘Let’s focus on the plans, alright? We need to figure out what is going on with the Labyrinth. I don’t think we should go back until we understand.’ Don’t think we should pass that spot again until I can be sane in your vicinity. ‘Is there any old literature about it we can read?’

He nodded slowly. Only in Faerie.

‘Well, that’s good,’ I said, more to convince the sinking feeling in my stomach than because I really hoped he’d believe me. ‘Then I can practice the language, too.’

He gave me a sceptical glance.

I scowled back. ‘What?’

You don’t like the language.

‘Of course I don’t. What reasonable language needs seventeen verbal tenses and eighty-three cases?’

A grin grew back around his lips. Five. Seven.

‘I counted at least fifteen of both yesterday.’

That only seemed to amuse him more. Just tell me if you want to give up on it.

I scoffed. ‘Never. Especially if you’re looking so smug about it.’

I would never.

‘You’re a filthy liar,’ I told him. ‘And an arrogant prick. Thank the gods you know how to cook, or there would be nothing salvageable about you.’

His smile grew broader. Nothing?

‘Fuck off.’ I couldn’t help but laugh, though. He shook his head, still grinning, and glanced at the forest, in the direction of the pavilion hidden between the trees.

Lunch?

It felt like a peace offering, somehow. Lunch. Back to the usual rhythm of our days. Back to cooking food and reading books and training my magic, as if that kiss never happened, as if my stomach wasn’t jumping at every glimpse I caught of him. Back to safe and reliable and … boring.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Let’s have lunch.’

Boring at least never killed anyone.

We didn’t return to the Labyrinth for four days. Instead we spent our time reading every word written about the place, from the smallest notes in the chronicles of the Mother’s conquest to entire chapters devoted to the tunnels below her palace.

The older the books Creon found in the court’s library, the more archaic the texts he had me decipher, the wilder the stories became. Newer books, the ones written in the past few centuries, mostly regarded the Labyrinth as one of the island’s many innocent curiosities, like Faewood and the unearthly voices one could sometimes hear singing at night. But the older works, written not long after the Mother had settled down in the court built by her divine lover … There were reports of fae found dead close to the network’s exits, in places where they should easily have been able to reach safer ground. Reports of fae who vanished altogether below the earth and were never seen again. Once, a disintegrating parchment scroll recounted, a group of fae children had wandered through one of the Labyrinth’s many doors and disappeared without a trace, only for their skeletons to show up on the other side of the mountain three years later. An enraged mob of fae parents had pleaded with the Mother to do something about the horror below her palace; in response, she had hermetically closed the entrances to all visitors.

‘If it nearly caused her a riot,’ I said, ‘why didn’t she just destroy the place? Fill it with sand or something?’

I assume she tried, Creon scribbled on a scrap bit of paper, which was doing double duty as conversation aid and makeshift bookmark.

‘And couldn’t?’ I grimaced. ‘She wouldn’t want the world to know that, would she?’

He shook his head, looking both amused and slightly concerned. To be honest, I always assumed these wilder stories were her own fabrications to keep people from nosing into something she didn’t understand.

‘And instead she may actually have been trying to protect you?’ I said. ‘How unexpected.’

He only grimaced, a shadow flickering over his face. I bit my tongue. Considering that she’d forced him to train with demons, and that I could only have unpleasant suspicions about the source of those inked scars, perhaps I should have chosen my words a little more carefully.

‘You should be glad I came with you before you got yourself buried alive, really,’ I added, giving him my most infuriating grin. That should at least distract him from whatever memories I’d raked up. ‘Can we conclude you owe me your life now?’

Creon raised an eyebrow at me, the darkness gone. You seem to enjoy the thought.

‘You’ve got to admit it sounds like decent negotiating material.’

Really? What were you planning to make me do?

‘Oh, don’t know,’ I said lightly, ignoring the familiar twinkle in his eyes and the equally familiar sensation of my body setting itself on fire. ‘The dishes, perhaps?’

He uttered a soundless laugh and returned to his reading, smile lingering. I cherished that small victory. In days filled with incomprehensible grammatical monstrosities and barely readable scrolls from times before Creon was even born, I needed every little triumph I could get.

Something was going on with the Labyrinth – that much we dared to conclude after a few days of research. What exactly it was, however – that was a question for which the fae of old never seemed to have reached a satisfactory conclusion.

Not sure if we’ll figure it out this way, he gestured as we ate our breakfast of the fourth day out on the porch, basking in the early golden sunlight. I was leisurely breaking stones to shards in between every bite, drawing various amounts of red from my formerly black dress to see how my targets reacted to the magic. At least a few days of training had taught me to prevent explosions most of the time – but there was still a world of difference between obliterating a stone to nothingness or barely breaking it in two.

‘So what else would you suggest?’ I said, pausing my work to take another bite of porridge.

Creon threw a pebble my way. I hurled an instinctive burst of red at it; it vanished mid-air, leaving nothing but some fluttering dust behind.

He just smiled as he leaned back against the window.

‘Very good, Emelin,’ I suggested helpfully. ‘Making excellent progress. I wouldn’t want to run into you in a dark alley late at night.’

His smile became a grin. Wouldn’t mind your company in dark alleys at all.

‘You’re hopeless,’ I said and hoped my snort didn’t betray my breath hitching. ‘What did you say about the Labyrinth again?’

Don’t know if the books can tell us what we need. We probably need to go back.

Back. Into the place where I’d kissed him. The place, worst of all, where he had realised exactly how much I’d wanted to kiss him.

I’d rather spend the next month shattering every single stone on the island.

‘It still doesn’t sound very safe to me,’ I said, examining my porridge.

As opposed to conspiring against the Mother?

‘I didn’t say I wasn’t coming with you. Just that we need to take—’

He moved so fast beside me that I had no time to be shocked – a twitch of his hand, a blast of red, and suddenly the broken stones littered across the porch had vanished. I abruptly shut my mouth. Removing the evidence of my magic – which seemed to mean …

Only then did I see the winged silhouette that had appeared far behind the line of trees, flying towards us.

Creon stiffened next to me, entirely the dark fae prince again. Cold, hard face, eyes that hadn't been touched by a smile in centuries. Had I not known better, I could have sworn he was aching to kill the unknown fae youth who landed just beside the porch, a heavy basket of fresh food on his one arm and a folded letter in his other hand.

‘Hytherion.’ He bowed as he handed Creon the letter, then put down his basket, gave me a look as if I was something unpleasant sticking to his shoes, and vanished without waiting for a reaction from either of us. Fae who weren’t Ophion or Thysandra, I had realised, really preferred not to linger around the pavilion a minute longer than necessary.

Next to me, Creon’s eyes flew over the calligraphy, his lips pressing to a thinner line with every word.

‘Bad news?’

He handed me the message without a reply.

It really was somewhat of a miracle how easily I made sense of the words already, even if I didn’t know every single one of them. A party of fae had returned from a mission. There was to be a celebration of their achievements tonight. His presence would be highly appreciated.

That, I took it, was an order.

‘I don’t suppose you can stay away, after missing the Lycaria?’

He shook his head, brows drawn together. I glanced at the letter again. It only spoke to him in second person singular, but I didn’t dare to assume I was excluded from the invitation.

‘Do I have to be there?’

I’d get questions if I didn’t bring you.

Questions. Questions were not what we needed, mere days after someone had found us in a forbidden Labyrinth. Even if the fae male in question hadn't told anyone yet, he might just get suspicious and spread the tale anyway if he had reason to doubt my devotion to Creon.

‘Well,’ I said, grunting. A celebration with an entire party of fae – at least it sounded like the Mother’s attention wouldn’t be focused on me for the whole night. I had survived worse. ‘What should I expect?’

Too much wine. Too little clothing.

‘Oh.’ Not exactly what this formal invitation suggested – and then again, considering all I knew about fae morals, it shouldn’t have surprised me. ‘No triumphant display of human captives?’

He shrugged. Not that kind of a mission.

‘You’d heard about it already?’ It was so easy to forget he didn’t always spend his days locked away in the isolated peace of the pavilion – that he would usually attend dinners and meetings and celebrations at court all the time and be better aware of the Mother’s plans and strategies than most of the court.

Tribute negotiations with Rhudak.

Rhudak. The largest island of the archipelago – home to traders and seafarers. I frowned and said, ‘I didn’t know the tributes could be negotiated.’

Creon sighed. They can’t.

‘So why did she even send anyone that way?’

Presumably to see who caused the trouble.

He looked so tired – so resigned. How often had he been forced to watch this happen over the decades? Humans making an attempt at resistance, or even just at negotiation, only to be punished all over again?

How often had he been the one taking care of the punishment?

‘I see,’ I muttered.

Another sigh. I’ll hear about her conclusions later. Let’s survive tonight first.

‘Right.’ Not the moment to worry about the fate that may befall the Rhudaki rulers soon. I had my own skin to save, first. ‘Any preparations we need to make? I need something to wear.’

He frowned at my dress – light blue and white flowers, my favourite.

‘It’s not really a party dress, Creon.’

So?

‘I’ll stand out like an ugly wart in your face.’

He raised an eyebrow. You look human. You’ll stand out whatever you wear.

‘Yes,’ I said, rolling my eyes, ‘but I’ll be there as your human. Are they supposed to believe you wouldn’t put me in a skimpy dress if you had an excuse to?’

He hesitated a bit too long. Long enough for me to conclude he would indeed not particularly mind seeing me in a skimpy dress and wasn’t happy about himself.

You’re not going to find any seamstresses on such short notice.

‘Don’t need one.’ I gave him my brightest smile. My fingers were itching, suddenly – an excuse to finally hold a needle again. ‘Just find me some materials and I’ll be fine. Do you have any idea about the current fashions in this place?’

He stared at me as if I’d asked him about womb diseases.

‘What?’ I said.

Are you planning to make your own?

‘Of course I’m going to make my own. I didn’t do that bloody apprenticeship for nothing.’

That didn’t soothe the confusion on his face in the least. What apprenticeship?

‘On Ildhelm. With Miss Matilda – pretty legendary ladies’ tailor, if you know who to ask.’

He frowned. I thought you were a painter’s apprentice?

‘Just an assistant. My father needed someone to mix his paints.’ Someone he’d rather not have housed at all – I pushed that thought away. ‘He tried to teach me to paint for a couple of years, too, but I couldn’t do perspective to save my life. And I was better at needlework. So Mother convinced him to let me go to Ildhelm when I was eighteen.’

All on my own, to an island where I knew no one – where no one knew me. No stealthy glances, no whispers behind my back. Six months of long working days and nightly chats with the girls who shared my dorm, six months of freedom. Six months of Helmer, too.

Did Creon see it on my face, the sudden wave of nostalgia that hit me? His gestures were cautious, nearly circumspect. But you didn’t stay?

‘Had a bit of a magical … incident after a few months.’

His frown deepened as he tilted his head.

‘We had an important project, and it was taking too much time,’ I said, rubbing my face. ‘I was panicking. Then before I knew, the whole dress was – ashes. They wrote my parents about me burning my work, my parents realised what had happened and made me come home immediately. So I went back to mixing paint.’

The swing of his hand seemed frustrated – almost angry. And they still didn’t find anyone to teach you.

‘They … No. I mean …’ I gave an uneasy laugh. ‘I can see why they didn’t invite some fae teachers to take a look at me.’

There are humans with some knowledge about it. The words came fast now, with curt, snappy gestures. There are the other magical peoples. Takes a bit of work to find them these days, but there are ways. And your father had the network.

‘He – he had, yes.’ I swallowed. ‘But honestly, it’s alright. If I hadn't been on the island when you found me, they would all have been dead.’

If they had asked anyone with some knowledge of the matter, they wouldn’t have made that ward in the first place. He scoffed, getting up. And you wouldn’t have spent your days hidden away and made to feel ashamed of your powers.

I blinked, following him with my eyes as he snatched the newly brought food from the porch and turned to disappear inside. ‘Creon?’

He turned back to me, lips flattened, eyes tight.

‘Are you … angry?’

He blinked, fingers hesitating by his side. Then, slower now, he gestured, Apparently.

‘Because they didn’t teach me?’

Again he paused, averting his gaze in the silence that fell. When he eventually raised his hand again, the signs came so slowly that I barely expected him to finish his sentence.

Because they made you feel small. A pause. And there is nothing small about you.

I stared at him. He still didn’t turn to face me.

‘Creon …’

With a brusque gesture, he turned away, stalking towards the open window. His fingers moved behind his back – I’ll see what I can find for you.

By the time I finished my breakfast and followed him inside, he was already gone.

Chapter 14

A skittish fae girl arrived at the pavilion an hour later to hand me two enormous baskets of fabrics – enough material to create five new ball gowns from scratch. Velvet and lace, taffeta and silk organza … They rustled in my hands as if whispering promises while I unpacked the delivery on the birchwood floor.

On the bottom of the first basket, I found my other materials: a pile of sketches, measuring tape, and enough pins and needles to kill a grown man. On the bottom of the second …

Four ball gowns, carefully wrapped to protect the priceless gems and embroidery.

Thank the gods that Creon hadn't returned yet. He would have enjoyed my gasping way too much.

I took the dresses from the basket with more care than I might have given my firstborn child – each of these alone was worth twice Cathra’s yearly tribute to the Crimson Court. A powder blue creation, the deep neckline lined with rows of silk flowers. A dream of pearly white lace, the swirling skirt covered in frosty silver and glittering sapphires. A crimson velvet gown dripping with dark crystals, like shreds of night bleeding over the fabric. Finally, a dress of deep violet silk organza, the neckline and narrowed waist adorned in gold-embroidered floral patterns.

There was a note at the bottom, in an all too familiar hand. The dresses are last year’s, it read. The sketches are more recent. Got roped into a meeting, will be back as soon as possible. Enjoy yourself.

I swallowed something suspiciously like a catch in my throat. He must have spent a fortune on these things – or perhaps nobody asked Creon Hytherion to pay for anything? But even then … This was far more than I had asked for. Far more than I had even dared to hope for. And not even with the intention to impress me, it seemed.

Enjoy yourself.

‘Thank you,’ I whispered at the note and took a look at the sketches.

Off-the-shoulder necklines were in fashion this year, judging by the designs in at least three different hands; so were see-through fabrics and slits high enough that even Miss Matilda would have been scandalised. Too little clothing, Creon had written. None of the dresses he’d sent me looked particularly revealing, however.

I threw them a suspicious look. Had he picked them as the most innocent options he could find? As if he didn’t trust me in a dress that showed more than my ankles – as if he didn’t dare to trust himself with the sight of more than my ankles.

I considered that point with a sudden sensation of … interest.

Not that I wanted him to lose control of himself, of course. That would be ridiculous. I didn’t even want him to kiss me again; I was a decent daughter of humanity, after all. I was very happy he had kept his hands off me since we had left the Labyrinth, teasing remarks and suggestive jokes notwithstanding. Really very happy that he got up before I woke every morning and that I hadn't found myself snuggled up against him in bed again.

But if he were to get a tiny bit carried away while pretending I was his little human pet, at least it would be better if he got pleasantly carried away, wouldn’t it?

That sounded sensible, I told myself as I inspected the four dresses again. Really very sensible. An excellent reason to modify one of these designs a little. Just a tad more skin – I had to keep the latest fashion in mind, after all.

Eminently sensible. Miss Matilda would have been proud of me.

The sky was already darkening when Creon finally returned from the court, and I was just stitching myself into the glorious creation of dark purple and gold he’d bought me. He slipped into the pavilion without a sound, a tall, winged shadow on the edge of my sight. I didn’t look up from my work. Stabbing myself with a needle and bleeding all over this priceless dress would be a poor way to start the evening.

‘Survived the meetings?’ I said around the pins between my lips.

I heard him take off his coat, then lost track of him from the corner of my eye. He showed up behind me a moment later, meeting my gaze in the mirror that had been a wardrobe door before I had subjected it to several experiments with yellow magic. The shadows on his face were unmistakable – that rendered the answer to my question negative, presumably. But a glimpse of amusement hovered around his lips as he ran his eyes over me in the mirror and gestured, Made some adjustments?

Some adjustments, yes. I had taken off the long bell sleeves of the original design and lowered the neckline to be firmly off the shoulder. The slender organza skirt still reached to the floor, but the silk underneath I had taken up to well above the knee, so that the silhouette of my legs shimmered through the sheer fabric. Not as risqué as I could have made it – but then again, I really didn’t have the hips to pull off a slit to my midriff.

Although, I had learned as I took my own measurements that afternoon, there was a lot more hip to me now than three weeks ago. Three large meals a day were leaving their traces on me.

‘It seemed a little virtuous for fashionable standards,’ I said, setting the last stitches, then spreading my arms in demonstration. ‘How do you like it?’

He considered that for a moment. Might have to kill a few people for looking at you the wrong way tonight.

I snorted a laugh. ‘Is that a compliment?’

Nobody risks my wrath for anyone looking less than gorgeous. A smile curled around his lips. It looked like a challenge – but below that playful cover lay something softer, something far more earnest, something that made my breath hitch for the shortest of moments. I was wondering which dress you’d pick.

‘Was there a hidden meaning I failed to see?’

Creon raised an eyebrow.

‘I didn’t want to wear red,’ I said, turning to glance at myself in the mirror. ‘Didn’t want to look like a part of the Crimson Court in any way. But just in case I find myself an opportunity to blow up that doll face of hers tonight, I wanted to make sure I still had some red on me. So purple it was.’

He nodded slowly.

‘So what was the hidden meaning?’

A shrug. I like purple.

‘You do?’ Somehow I’d never considered him liking any other colour than the usual black.

I do. And that dress looks good on you.

I turned around to send him a glare in person. ‘If you were planning to tell me next that it would also look good off me …’

He flashed me a grin. I would never.

‘You’ve been leering at me since you came in.’

Of course. It would be impolite to ignore your hard work.

‘Are you suggesting,’ I said, struggling to sound properly offended, ‘that I modified my dress only so you could ogle me all night?’

Didn’t you?

I snorted. ‘Outrageous.’

That’s not a no.

My skirts swirled impressively as I stalked towards him and stabbed a finger into his chest. An unwise choice. I might as well have jabbed my finger into a brick wall, and that observation alone sent another flare of heat through me. His smile only broadened as I glared up at him. Oh, damn him – how did he always manage to see straight through me?

‘Have I told you you’re an arrogant prick?’

You have. Somehow the gesture ended with his hand under my chin – running from my throat to my bottom lip in a single, gossamer caress. When he pulled back, his fingertips left aching, empty skin behind. And you don’t seem to mind that much.

His eyes had locked on mine. Seeing every forbidden thought playing through my mind, every vision I should never have imagined. I tried to swallow but found my mouth dry as ash.

Who was I still trying to fool?

I wanted him. He knew I wanted him. He knew I could barely look at him without feeling his lips on mine again – that every innocent touch had my body begging me to give in. I was tormenting myself for an illusion of pride, while in truth my pride had been dead and buried since that kiss in the Labyrinth.

But to make that decision, to truly break with every moral principle I’d once thought to hold dear …

‘Go on, then,’ I whispered, my knees unsteady, ‘if you know what I want so well.’

One corner of his mouth curled up – a dangerous, knowing smile. So that’s the game you’re playing? A silent chuckle. Sorry, Emelin. I won’t be your villain to blame. Join me in mutual depravity, or don’t join me at all.

His fingers paused a hair’s breadth from my cheek, close enough for me to feel their heat on my skin. I barely dared to breathe. Towering over me, the sharp planes of his face lit only by the pavilion’s twinkling night lights, he looked like the epitome of depravity indeed – brutal, beautiful depravity.

I parted my lips. No sound came out.

Let’s make a deal for tonight. Even the movements of his fingers seemed suggestive now, every twist and turn a reminder of how those same fingers had felt against the vulnerable skin of my throat a moment ago. I’m not doing anything to you that you’re not doing to me. You show me your limits. Again that smile. Or the lack of them.

The lack of them. Nothing that I hadn't done to him first – which meant that he wouldn’t kiss me, wouldn’t touch me, not even if I paraded myself naked before him. That I would be my own villain to blame, indeed.

If he kept his word, at least.

He seemed awfully pleased with this dress, though. And he hadn't bargained on it – not really. Which meant that he could still change his mind, if pressed enough.

So I jutted up my chin and said, ‘You seem very sure of your own restraint.’

He raised an eyebrow. So are you, I assume. Or are you doubting your self-control?

I might have been wiser if not for that smug look on his face. If not for the obvious challenge in every sign his fingers formed. Now I snorted without thinking and said, ‘Fine. Deal.’

Creon stepped back at once, as if to demonstrate his resolve to keep his word. Holding out his left arm, he gestured, Are you coming, then?

‘What – right now? Shouldn’t you put on a clean shirt or something?’

He raised an eyebrow. I’ll get blood on it anyway.

Oh, gods. Fae festivities. I was no longer sure whether I should expect an orgy or a battlefield, and I wasn’t particularly looking forward to either option.

But the Mother was waiting. We had our own lives to save.

So I took Creon’s arm, tried not to wobble as his overwhelming fae scent washed over me once again, and said, ‘Well. Let’s join the party.’

The first night I’d set foot in the bone hall, on my arrival at the Crimson Court, the atmosphere among the gathered fae had been that of a late night reception that should have ended hours ago. During our lunch with the Mother a week ago, the room had been empty, chilled, and altogether soulless. This evening, with hundreds of fae gathered between the bone walls again, the air was heady and heavy like an overly sweet red wine, the ambiance of a bloodbath about to happen.

The food at the tables along the wall had barely been touched. The drinks, on the other hand, flowed in abundance. Half the attendants were already drunk as we walked in, Creon’s hand tight around my wrist; the chorus of slurring voices drowned out most of the music, and only occasionally, a violin or flute managed to rise above the noise for a few meagre notes. There was laughter in a far corner of the hall, shrill and wild, edging close to hysteria. Closer to us, surrounded by a circle of whooping, shouting bystanders, two fae females were dancing, their short chemises so flimsy that they might as well have been naked.

Too much wine. Too little clothing.

Somehow I hadn't expected the description to be this accurate.

Creon didn’t falter as he made his way through the centre of the hall, didn’t even glance aside as fae shouted drunken greetings after him or invited him to whatever unholy activities they were planning. His path was a straight line towards the throne at the other side of the room, where the Mother was overseeing the festivities. Ophion had joined her between the pillows and draperies this time, lying with his head in her lap as she absently fed him blood-red grape after blood-red grape. Her eyes never strayed from the room for a moment, though, taking note of every conversation, every threatening fight.

That ice-blue gaze settled upon us when we were halfway through the room, and followed us with colourless interest as Creon dragged me to the foot of her throne, then pulled me into a curtsy. Even there, staring at the marble floor, I could feel the weight of her gaze upon me. If I even tried to draw a fleck of colour here, she’d know.

She’d be faster.

The dark purple of my dress seemed to be mocking me. So close, and yet … I drew in a deep breath, trying to calm myself. Creon’s fingers tightened around my wrist – another warning.

Not here.

Not now.

Finally, the Mother’s voice said, ‘Welcome, Emelin.’

I squeaked something like a thank you, deliberately stumbling over my words. Next to me, Creon’s bow was infinitely graceful, his face inhumanely devoid of any expression at all.

‘Your little dove is looking quite pretty,’ the Mother added, a hint of cold amusement in her voice as she dropped another grape between Ophion’s lips. Her eyes didn’t stray from me, even while she was speaking to her son. ‘Best keep a good eye on her, Creon.’

He only nodded and turned, wrapping a tight hand around my wrist to pull me along. But the path behind us had closed as we stood there, and the crowd seemed to have inexplicably thickened, bodies pressed closer together in the stench of wine and fae magic … Eyes followed me, indeed, leering looks I could feel on my skin like the legs of insects crawling over me.

Quite pretty. I shouldn’t have worn this damn dress. I should just have walked in in my boring day clothes – then I would still have been a ridiculous little human, but at least not a desirable little human …

‘Don’t worry, kitten,’ a drunken voice slurred beside me, and a pale fae male came swaggering towards us, eyes glazed and steps uneven. His gaze caught mine, and I involuntarily shrunk back into Creon’s arms. ‘No need to be bored. Surely he won’t keep you all to himself on a night like—’

I never even saw Creon move.

Just the flash of silver breaking through the wine-drenched air. Just the fae male stumbling back as the knife hit and tore through skin and flesh and lung, burying itself to the hilt into his chest. His slurred sentence drowned in a sudden, choking gasp. His glazed eyes turned empty. With little more than a last, groaned sigh, the fae male collapsed, his snow white wings suddenly covered in dark red blood.

I didn’t even have time to be shocked.

Around us, conversations faltered. The music stilled, the dances slowed. Shrieking laughter died away. The crowd shrunk back from us, back from Creon, until it was just the three of us in a widening circle – him and me and the dead male on the floor, the pool of blood quickly widening around his lifeless body.

I was still clutching Creon’s left arm, I realised a moment too late. And all eyes in the room were now aimed at me.

So I put on my whiniest, brattiest voice and wailed, ‘Creon! You’ll get blood all over my dress like that!’

He threw me a look, eyebrows raised. It looked suspiciously like a look of approval.

‘Well, fine,’ I said and rolled my eyes. ‘I suppose he deserved it. Will you let me choose what you do with the next one, then?’

Creon smiled. I squealed. The stares surrounding us turned a little more concerned.

‘I’ve always wanted to see a real beheading!’ I added, whispering loud enough for the crowd at the walls to hear me in the silence of unexpected death.

Without reaction, Creon bent over, yanked his knife from the dead fae’s chest and wiped it on the snow white wings. His glare at the rows of faces around us didn’t require a word of explanation – any volunteers? that look said.

Onlookers hastily turned away and resumed their conversations. But a wide path remained open before us this time, and nobody approached us again as Creon folded that possessive arm around me and steered me towards the calmer, more shadowy side of the hall. The pale fae’s corpse remained behind on the floor. Nobody seemed quite willing to clean up the mess yet.

Only then, in the quiet shadows of the bone walls, did my heartbeat suddenly accelerate – as if my body realised two minutes too late what had happened and what could have happened, had Creon not been so fast to put an end to the threat.

He noticed. Of course the bastard noticed. His hand in the small of my back tightened for a moment, an unspoken reassurance – we’re alright, that hand said. You’re safe. I’m with you. I nodded, drew in a deep breath, and tried to believe it – but the sound of that knife hitting flesh and bone wouldn’t leave my ears, even through the swelling noise of the festivities, and the hall was too warm and too crowded and too dangerous …

His wings wrapped around me without warning, eclipsing the candlelight and the bone walls, enclosing the both of us in a small, dark cocoon of black velvet and violet silk.

Emelin. There was barely enough room between our bodies for his fingers to move, and yet he managed not to touch me – as he had promised. As I had agreed. Nobody is putting a hand on you.

Nobody. In a hall filled with fae who wouldn’t hesitate to strip me naked and pass me around between their friends, who would throw me to the hounds and laugh as I scrambled for my life … A shiver raced along my spine before I could open my mouth, and Creon’s eyes darkened another impossible shade.

‘You wouldn’t let them,’ I whispered.

You wouldn’t let them either.

I stared at him. The corners of his lips shifted a fraction, into something that was a smile as much as a reassurance.

Me.

Because I was still wearing that deep violet, red and blue at my disposal; because I was still the girl who’d inherited a strong fae parent’s magic; because even if I couldn’t draw a fleck of colour under the eyes of the Mother, I still had my wits and Creon’s menacing glares to wield. I was not silly. I was not powerless. The more they believed I was, the less it was true.

There was nothing small about me.

I wasn’t going to let a hall full of fae bastards convince me of the opposite.

Creon curled back his wings the next moment, tucked them in with the nonchalant, satisfied smirk of the fae prince who’d just needed his pet to himself for a moment. Time for another public display of harmless little Emelin. I steeled myself and wrapped my arms around the Silent Death’s chest like that foolish, fawning girl the world expected to see in my place. Holding him shouldn’t be too dangerous, I told myself. I wouldn’t lose my mind if he did the same to me.

He kept his word. Didn’t even run a hand through my hair, didn’t even lay his hand on my hip. I realised, to my dismay, that the observation annoyed me.

This was going to be a long night. A very long night.

I turned my head to distract myself, still holding him. Most of the hall had lost interest in us; I caught no more than a few quick glances in our direction. Far away, the Mother and Ophion were watching some dispute at the foot of the throne, both looking delighted about the promise of more bloodshed.

Coming up on my toes to bring my lips to his ear, like a giggly girl about to share a secret, I whispered, ‘And what if I blasted a burst of red into her face now?’

Too far. He hid his gestures between our bodies, invisible for onlookers.

‘And if we moved closer while those idiots were busy murdering each other?’

He shook his head, still looking mildly bored and mildly amused. She’ll notice you. Finds you much more interesting.

‘Oh.’ My stomach clenched a little. ‘Unpleasant. Why?’

It’s been a few decades.

‘What has been a – oh, damn it.’ His warning glance reminded me I was not nearly looking foolish enough anymore. Suppressing another curse, I forced the investigative frown off my face again, pouted a bit as if he was denying me some outrageous request, and continued, quieter now, ‘What has been a few decades?’

He shrugged. Anyone.

‘You’re saying you haven’t had any company here since … since when?’

The only reply I received was a slightly raised eyebrow.

‘Since the Last Battle, again?’

A nod.

‘You’ve been living out there on your own for a hundred and thirty years?’ If not for the loud cheering that went up on the other side of the hall in that moment, I would have been speaking too loud. Almost a century and a half … Surely a powerful fae male with a body like this could have found a fling or two to chase away the loneliness? ‘Gods. No wonder you’re so easily tickled by my charming company.’

A mistake. I could read it in the dangerous gleam in his eyes as he slowly, suggestively, trailed his hand around my waist – imitating the way I’d wrapped my arm around his torso a moment ago, but I surely hadn't held him like this. His fingers skimmed over my dress with lazy, yet persistent, intensity, stirring every inch of skin they touched. My body lit up like a bonfire, the lingering arousal of his earlier touches nowhere near quenched by the fear and death of the past hour.

I struggled to contain a gasp, to control my breath. He lowered his face to my ear just as I’d brought my mouth to his a moment ago; the warm breath of his chuckle brushed over my ear, my neck, with more tenderness than even the softest of lips.

Surely, his fingers gestured at his chest, I must be the only one.

Without thinking, I dug my hands into his sides to push him away – to get just an inch of room between us, just a fraction of freedom to cool the heat gathering wherever our bodies touched. Just too late, I realised what I was doing and froze, staring at my fingers moulded so intimately to his muscular torso.

Oh, no.

As if to gently inform me of my second blunder, his hand moved over my back again, settling in my side in turn. A firm touch, just above my hip – but close enough that I could easily imagine that same hand sinking a few inches, over the small of my back, my bottom, all the way down to—

No, no, no.

I sucked in a lungful of cool air and looked back up. His face was mere inches from mine, smiling pleasantly at me.

‘I feel like you’re cheating somehow,’ I muttered with a scowl.

You’re easy to defeat when you want to lose.

‘You,’ I said, trying to ignore the uncomfortable truth of that remark, ‘are very easy to punch in the face, at the moment.’

His grin broke through. Oh, Zera help me. Punching him in the face would only give his hands access to my face as well, and I wasn’t sure if I would be able to handle that much. If he touched my lips, with those soft, tender fingers – if he even just touched my cheek …

A shiver ran through me.

Creon waited, like a hunter who’d set his trap.

I wanted to touch him. The harder I told myself to step back, to get away from him and his dangerous deals, the harder my body resisted my mind’s commands. I didn’t want to step back. I wanted to rub my hands over his shoulders and feel the irresistible contours of his solid muscles below his shirt. I wanted to feel his skin, too, that smooth, warm skin I’d slept against. I wanted to set my nails into his body and hear his breath grow jagged again. There was a hunger in my fingertips, a yearning in my palms, for every touch, every exploration I’d promised myself I would never allow …

I was not going to get through an entire evening fighting with myself.

Compromises, then. Strategic compromises. I closed my eyes and swallowed, trying to ignore the dangerous heat stealing over me. What was the most harmless body part? Not his legs – I knew how I’d reacted last time he’d even put a finger on my thighs. Chest and stomach were out of the question, too, and so was his back …

Wings.

He couldn’t touch my wings in retaliation, could he?

My breath quickened, nervousness and triumph mingling in my guts. Was this a wise idea? I could no longer tell. But somehow the night had turned into a game to win rather than a matter of personal principles, and this at least sounded like it might be a winning move.

I looked up. Creon was still watching me, something burning in his dark eyes that made me forget for a moment about the shouting and laughing behind us, about the bone walls towering over me, about the danger of the Mother on her throne on the other side of the hall.

I stretched out a hand before I could think it through some more.

Under my fingertips, I found the surface of his left wing on my first try – as smooth and velvety soft as it looked, but there was a firmness to the dark fibres too, a tautness like tightened canvas on a frame. For a moment, it was curiosity, more than any devious plan or underhanded strategy, that made me brush my fingers over that strong, vulnerable surface. Then Creon’s hand locked around my wrist, with a rough, alarmed snappiness, and I was abruptly reminded of my original plans and motivations.

He had stiffened up against me, the satisfied smirk vanished like a shadow in sunlight.

‘Don’t like that?’ I said, wiggling my fingers against that smooth membrane as much as his hold allowed me to. His jaw tightened at that touch, teeth locked together – an expression betraying more loss of control than I’d ever seen from him in this hall before. Good. Let him feel what it was like, too, to find yourself locked in a cage of promises and arousal. I stretched out my other hand, too, and he caught my lower arm before it had even moved past his torso. With no fingers left to sign, his lips moved—

Not. Here.

This was getting better and better.

‘You’re holding my wrists, Creon,’ I said sweetly, smiling my innocent smile up at him. ‘May I remind you that I haven’t touched your wrists at all tonight and that our agreement therefore doesn’t allow you to—’

Emelin, his lips said.

I ignored the jumping of my stomach. Ignored the oddly sensual way my name looked on those tight lips, the soundless syllables recognizable even through the tension. ‘Yes?’

The look he returned was a clear warning – but a new kind of warning. Wary, yes. A look that said, Know what you’re starting. But also a look of … respect?

I may not have won the war. I was likely starting a brand new one. But this battle – it was mine.

‘I’m really disappointed in your treatment of our deal, Creon,’ I said primly. ‘Should have known fae couldn’t be trusted to keep their word.’

He bit out a soundless something that looked like a curse and yanked his hands from my wrists.

‘Are you alright?’ I held his gaze as I ran a single fingertip over the onset of his wing again – saw his eyes narrow, saw his jaw draw tight again. ‘You seem a little … affected by something. It’s not unpleasant, is it?’

He shook his head, breath hitching as I added a second finger to my exploration. Warmth unfolded inside me at that sound – at the sight of the Silent Death slowly, irrevocably losing control of himself. His hand clasped around my waist, so tight it was almost painful. I ignored that warning, too.

‘Is this the moment to start asking what you want, Creon?’

His grimace was half agony, half amusement as his strained fingers spelled out a single word: Viper.

‘I’m playing by the rules you made,’ I muttered. ‘How long is it going to take for you to break them first?’

He only shook his head, eyes half-closed as I ran my fingertips up over the smooth membrane again, testing for the most sensitive spots, the sweetest victories. Around us, the celebrations turned louder, wilder. In the shadow of the bone wall, Creon stood motionless, a statue of clenched fists and locked jaw. Still resisting whatever sensations had his wings fluttering like that, whatever pleasure turned his eyes so glassy between his long, dark lashes …

I wanted to touch him. I wanted to taste him so much it hurt.

But I was going to win this war, wants and desires be damned. I was going to drive him mad until he could no longer restrain himself, and then I would have him, hands and lips on every single irresistible inch of his body—

I passed a spot just above the onset of his wings, and he sucked in a sudden breath through his teeth. His chest rose with that terse inhalation, muscles straining against his shirt – and I reacted in a reflex of blinding want, a sudden, desperate need to feel him even closer. My hand lay on his chest before my mind could intervene, clawed into those lean muscles, drinking in the rattle of his heartbeat below.

His eyes flew open.

For a moment, we both stood motionless, staring at those treacherous fingers of mine, grasping his labouring chest with obvious, undeniable intent.

‘Fuck,’ I said.

The grin that curled around his lips – it was feral.

‘Fuck.’ Suddenly my breath was a squeaking, shallow mess of laughter and nerves. Never had I become so abruptly aware of my own chest – of my breasts brushing against the silk of my bodice, my nipples hardening to pebbles under his gaze. ‘Well. Time to go home, isn’t it? It’s been a lovely evening, but—’

His arm locked around my waist again, yanking me tight against him. Tight enough to feel his feverish breath on my forehead. Tight enough to feel – oh, gods – the bulge of his erection against my stomach, harder and much, much more sizeable than it had seemed in the Labyrinth.

His fingers curled around my aching breast before I could even gasp.

I no longer felt anything else. Was no longer aware of anything else. We might have been sitting on the Mother’s throne with all of faekind watching us, and I wouldn’t have noticed. There was just his hand cupping my breast. His fingers kneading my soft flesh with such merciless tenderness. His thumb rubbing slow, lazy circles around my nipple until the pleasure became so urgent it almost turned into pain. I clawed at his wrist in some desperate attempt to stop him and found both my hands pinned against my back the next moment – easily contained by the fingers of his left hand while his right continued its blissful torment.

‘Creon …’

His name dissolved in a gasp as he pinched my pebbling nipple between thumb and forefinger, sending a flare of acute need straight into the warmth pooling between my legs.

‘Creon … Creon, people will see us.’

He threw a quick glance over my shoulder, the wild gleam in his eyes turning only wilder. Only then did I realise that the shouts behind me no longer sounded particularly violent – that as a matter of fact, they did quite sound like several individuals screwing their lungs out. Fae festivities. It turned out my face could grow even warmer.

‘Get us out of here,’ I breathed. ‘Please.’

He released my breast with a last lazy caress. Why?

Why. I was barely breathing now, the rising heat smothering even the air in my lungs. Moaning sounds behind me. Tingling skin all over me. The Silent Death’s arousal pressing into my lower stomach, begging for my hands, my lips—

I no longer thought. I just … wanted.

He let my wrists go without a struggle, as if he already knew what I was about to do. I rose up on my toes. Clenched my hands around his face. Buried my fingers in his silk locks and yanked him towards me, into a kiss I had wanted – needed – since he let go of me in the many-coloured darkness of the Labyrinth.

Damn it all to hell, then.

He met me in a clash of ravenous, desperate passion, the first touch of his lips obliviating every sensible thought, every decent objection I might still have held onto. There was no careful exploration this time, no gentle introduction. He kissed me without mercy, the little human who’d dared to defy him, dared to torment him – kissed me like a starving man whose hunger might be satisfied at last. Lips enveloping mine. Tongue entwining with mine. Breath matching the jagged, moaning gasps that rose from my lungs, a panting rhythm of shared madness. He closed a hand around the back of my neck, drawing me in even closer. Enclosing me in his arms, steering me, controlling me.

Oh, he was far too much in control here. And far too happy with himself.

I slipped a hand below his arm and ran my fingertips along his wing again.

A tremor ran through him, violent and gloriously untamed. With a sharp hiss, he lifted me and swung me around, pressing me against the bone-covered wall with the muscular weight of his body. His frantic fingers were all over me, claiming, conquering. Digging deep into the new softness of my hips. Wandering up over my stomach, our deal forgotten. And up … farther up …

His wings spread wide behind him, a dark shield between me and the world, as he finally lifted his left hand to my breast and tugged down the gold-set neckline.

With a gasp, I slammed my hands against his chest and yanked back my head. ‘Creon!’

His mouth brushed over the sensitive skin just below my ear, and I gasped again, my last ounce of self-restraint crumbling. Bone hall. Mother. Fae. Eyes. Could I? But he took his fingers from my dress again, swirling them up over my chest instead … Past my collarbone. Along my ribs. Down again, in a slow, sensuous slide …

It took my lust-dazed brain a moment to realise he was writing, drawing the letters on my skin with that single savouring fingertip.

Stop.

Me.

The air escaped my lungs in a sigh of surrender. ‘Creon …’

His finger held still. His eyes narrowed, measuring my every blink, my every breath, as he settled his hands against the wall on either side of my shoulders and lowered his forehead to mine. A question in his gaze – a challenge.

Stop me, he’d said.

Or else …

I let my head roll back against the wall of bones. Met his wild, night-black eyes. And lowered my hand from his chest to the buttons of his trousers, wrapping my fingers firmly around the hard bulge below.

Bones pulverised under his fingers on either side of my head.

‘Get us out of here,’ I repeated, my voice a hoarse whisper. Oh, gods, the thick, scorching shape of him as I rubbed my hands along his massive length … My knees almost buckled at the sensation against my palm alone. ‘Because I’m not stopping. And I don’t need your mother’s company for this.’

He gave in.

I lay in his arms the next moment, a little purple toy pressed against his chest as he navigated the throng of dancing, drinking fae. Within moments, we were out of the hall, in the cooler, quieter antechamber with its windows – but Creon didn’t spread his wings to fly out, back to the pavilion. Instead he turned to the left and yanked open the first door we encountered, revealing a dusky room, an abundance of couches covered in velour, and the entangled bodies of three naked fae in the far corner.

Their moans and wriggling stilled at once as the Silent Death burst into their hideaway. By the time he drew his knife, still a little bloody from the last fae to have died at the wrong end of the blade, they were hurtling for the exit, leaving half of their clothes behind in their panic.

‘Creon.’ I couldn’t help the hysterical laughter that burst from me the moment they slammed the door behind them. ‘You could just have looked for another—’

He lowered me to my feet and kissed me, smothering the rest of my sentence under his lips.

‘Oh.’ Every word came out as a moan between his kisses, between the ministrations of his hands on my hips, my breasts. If not for the wall behind my back, I’d have dropped to my knees. ‘Are you a little – oh – impatient about something?’

He tore the violet silk out of his way in response, slipping his hand between my bared legs. A frayed cry escaped me as he flicked a finger through the slick, slippery warmth waiting for him – damning evidence, and I could no longer care. Not as he drove two fingers into me at once, filling me so deep he left no room for thoughts in my mind. Not as he rubbed his thumb over that blissfully sensitive spot between my thighs and watched me arch against him, like a cat watching its prey coming closer, closer, closer.

I had to get closer. I had to feel more of him – get more of him. Pinning me against the wall, he thrust his fingers in and out of me, hard and harder and then mercilessly gentle again, until I was nothing but need around him, burning and on the verge of exploding. My body moved itself now, writhing against his hand on nothing but instinct, twisting for his thumb to touch me just where I needed it … I had no pride left to lose. What was the sense of pride against that agony, that bone-shattering bliss his fingers kept just out of reach?

‘Creon,’ I managed. ‘Creon, please …’

He abruptly pulled back his fingers and held them up between us. The inked skin glistened in the faint gleam of the lights outside – glistened with my wetness as he signed, Who’s impatient now?

I breathed a laugh, knees buckling. ‘Will we just be proving points for the rest of the night?’

Only one point.

‘That I’m a little fae whore after all?’ She had been right, the girl in the stables: I was going to squander every last bit of my morals for a taste of him, and I didn’t even care. But Creon’s lip curled up – a dark, feral sneer.

That you should want more.

‘I want you.’ The words tumbled over my lips, such a dangerous, easy truth. I clawed for his trousers, pulled him closer, tore open the buttons with trembling hands. ‘I want you so much I could die from it, and I … I …’

He watched me, taut as a bowstring about to be released.

‘I can’t stop wanting you,’ I whispered. My fingers found their own way into his trousers, as if to prove my point – unable to stay away from the temptation of his cock straining against the cloth. The first touch alone nearly sent me to my knees. He was so hard, so silky soft, so scorching hot – for me. For me. My voice broke. ‘I try to stop, and then I find myself thinking about kissing you again – find myself thinking about fucking you – as if I haven’t been told to stay away from you all my life …’

The words drifted from my lips as sanity returned to me in a single painful sting.

Away from him. Because he was the Silent Death. Because he was a murderer, a monster leaving only suffering behind. And here I stood, in the heart of faekind itself, wet and willing in his arms—

And I wasn’t going to stop.

I didn’t want to stop.

My body was burning. His cock was a heavy, brutal promise in my hand. I was going to fuck him because I wanted to fuck him. What that made me …

I could have sworn he knew every thought crashing through my mind as we stood there, body to body, testing and waiting. His eyes shone with inhuman darkness in the night, examining something that lay deeper inside me than the very marrow of my bones.

We were no longer proving points.

What an odd moment to finally be honest.

‘Does it make me a monster?’ I managed, the fears falling over my lips at last. ‘Wanting you?’

His smile … it wasn’t a smile. It was an open wound. It was a wistful darkness that spread over his face and transformed it into something hurt and haunted and utterly heart-breaking.

Does it make me innocent, wanting you?

I stared at him, unable to breathe. Seeing him, perhaps, for the very first time – the monster, yes, but the male behind as well, and the heart he’d hidden so, so desperately behind the violent pride and the tempting depravity.

And I understood it, finally. That no matter how much I’d once despised him, no matter how much I expected myself to despise him, I would never hate him even half as much as he hated himself.

Something fractured inside me.

‘Bold of you,’ I whispered, ‘to presume I’m all that innocent.’

He shoved me back into the wall, slamming his lips into mine again.

Fuck first, talk later. I tasted the relief in his kiss. I could have shattered him in that single moment, could have called him a monster again and struck him straight in the heart behind those shields he hadn't let down for a hundred and thirty years at least. Instead …

I wanted him.

Monster or not – I wanted him.

He breathed out hard as I clawed my hands into his shoulders, the closest thing to a groan I’d ever heard from him. My knees turned to pulp. But he caught me before I could collapse, lifted me against the wall, and kissed me harder – tongue and teeth and madness – and I could no longer hold back. Caught between him and cold marble, held up in his arms, I wrapped my thighs around his hips and ground myself against the hard steel of his erection, unable to think of anything but this fierce, frantic need to have him inside me. My reward was another of those strained breaths – the Silent Death, coming undone.

Reaching over his shoulder, I trailed my fingers along the edge of his wing again.

Whatever self-restraint he’d had left – it shattered. With a rough gasp, he angled his hips, settling his broad tip against my core. A mewling sound escaped me. That pressure, that delicious pressure …

‘Please.’

He slid into me, slowly, deliberately.

I thought I might come apart from the need to feel him deeper and deeper and deeper, until he was sheathed so deep inside me that I could barely breathe and still wanted more. Needed more. But I wasn’t going to tell him that I might well perish on the spot if I didn’t get more of his cock immediately, so instead I tightened my thighs around his hips and whispered, ‘Is that all you’ve got?’

He pulled out and slammed back into me in response, hard enough to force a hoarse cry from my lips. And again. And again. I let my head roll back and surrendered to his raw power, to the savage sensation of his cock filling me over and over again – yes. This. His strong hands squeezing my hips. His grunted breaths accompanying my mindless moans. And that gorgeous, delicious girth of him stretching me open, thrust after thrust …

I was going to burst. I was going to shatter from lack of fulfilment if I didn’t soon reach that edge looming before me, closer with every thrust, and yet so far out of reach.

Creon leaned over as he plunged into me, teeth scraping my ear. His hard breath brushed my neck, and I imagined for a moment that I heard my name in that meaningless whisper of air.

It was that thought that undid me.

I blew apart like the stones he had me break, thoughts and moans and sanity shattering in his arms as my release finally tore through me. Lights fired behind my eyes. Every muscle in my body tightened. Creon jerked back as I writhed around him, and for a moment, I thought he’d drop me. Then the wet warmth of his seed hit me, spurting over my ruined dress, my belly, my legs.

I moaned. Even this sticky, white mess – I couldn’t get enough.

‘Creon …’

He tightened his arms around me, pulling me against his chest. His wings curled around me next, wrapping me in a warm, salty darkness smelling of lust and pleasure and boundaries broken.

I didn’t want to think about boundaries now.

I tore at his shirt, smearing seed all over the priceless cloth, and pressed my lips to his bared chest. His breath caught when I flicked my tongue over his smooth skin. A taste of salt and lust, indeed, and of pleasant possibilities.

Tomorrow. I’d think about consequences tomorrow.

Right now, I needed a bath. And I could think of worse company to have it in.

Chapter 15

The sun was shining, and yet the pavilion was darker than it usually was.

I blinked against the daylight as I woke up, or at least against the little of it that reached my eyes. Dark – something dark lay over me, eclipsing most of the soft white and green light that fell through the flowery windows.

A wing.

I blinked again, abruptly awake. Black velvet stretched out over me, dark veins shimmering where the glow of the sun reached through the smooth membrane. Creon’s wing. Over me.

Only then, the observations reaching my conscious thoughts with almost comical delay, did I become aware of the warm, firm chest against my bare back. The legs tangled with mine. The arm that lay protectively around my waist, tanned hand flat against my belly. I blinked, memories returning to me ever so slowly – of a cruel fae celebration, a dusky room, a bath, and …

Oh, gods.

Something was prodding my thigh. Something warm and hard and far too familiar.

I closed my eyes again, allowing the awareness of last night to flood over me. So I had lost the game. Suffered a blistering defeat, more accurately. I vaguely remembered climbing on top of him in a steaming bathtub, rubbing hands of foamy soap over his wings over and over again because I enjoyed the view of his cock twitching in response too much. Whatever exactly had come over me last night … I’d encountered clamping octopus tentacles more inclined to keep their distance.

I had lost. Shamefully, disgracefully lost.

I felt oddly triumphant, though.

Creon was right. I’d wanted to lose that game. And now that I had experienced exactly what losing entailed … I could probably be persuaded to surrender a few more times. That pleasant hardness sticking into my thigh was already making good progress to convince me.

Fae whore. Had it really been just a week ago that I stumbled from those stables, convinced I never wanted to see him again?

A week.

Something else stirred in my brain. It took me a moment to figure out what it was … We’ll be here in seven days, in the morning.

Lyn and Tared. Oh, Zera help me. In between the fae balls and the Labyrinth research, I had entirely forgotten to keep track of the days. What time was it? What I could make out of the sunlight looked uncannily bright for the early morning – I had slept in far too late. How long would they wait for me in Faewood? What conclusions would they draw if I failed to show up entirely?

For all they knew, Creon had drowned me in the sea in the meantime. They didn’t trust him anyway. My apparent disappearance really wouldn’t help to relieve the tensions.

And if I didn’t find them now, how would I know when to meet them instead? How would I find allies? Where would I get answers?

All traces of fuzzy comfort had vanished. I wiggled out from under that muscular arm, nudging the wing aside to free myself. No time to lose, then. At least Creon still hadn't moved behind me. If he was still asleep, perhaps I could sneak away and be back before he even realised I hadn't been in his arms the whole time …

A hand locked around my wrist as I shoved towards the edge of the bed.

I squeaked, jerking back around. Most of him still lay where he had been a moment ago, the lower half of his naked body regrettably hidden under the blankets. But he had lifted his head an inch or two from the pillow, dark eyes bright and alert, and his fingers around my wrist didn’t feel like the fingers of a male just waking up.

‘Oh,’ I said, blinking at him. ‘You weren’t asleep.’

A single corner of his mouth quirked up – a joyless expression that was more a concerned question than a smile. Even without his gestures, I could guess the words. Why are you sneaking away like that?

What could I say? I’m going out for a pleasant chat with some of your old friends, who may also be your old enemies for reasons they wouldn’t tell me yet? Lyn and Tared had asked me not to tell him they were here. Even if I trusted him, ignoring them was a risk. Without fully understanding their reasons, who knew what catastrophic confrontations I might bring about by ignoring their request?

‘I’m just … off for a quick walk,’ I said weakly, tasting the hurt on my tongue. A walk. After this night … after all that had shifted between us.

He didn’t move, examining me with those unnervingly black eyes like a physician searching for injuries. No, not for injuries – for regret. For traces of sanity creeping back into my mind in the clear light of day, for the realisation of what I had done to come to the surface and break me.

Waiting, I realised, for me to hate him again.

And here I was, fleeing his bed and home the moment I woke up.

Oh, Zera help me. I should stay. I wanted to stay. The warmth of his body still lingered on my back, a little too pleasant to ignore. But Lyn and Tared were waiting for me, and I wanted their answers to my questions, wanted them to trust me, wanted to know how many more were on our side against the Mother.

‘I’ll be back,’ I managed, unsure of what I could say to minimize the damage. ‘I’ll be fine. Just need a walk to get my head straight, alright?’

His fingers on my wrists loosened slightly, but not happily.

‘Creon …’

He nodded and released me, but his eyes lingered on my face, full of anxious questions. Full of fear. A hundred and thirty years without a soul to talk to, and now he had finally opened the door a chink for me. How much did it cost him to let me walk?

And yet he’d released me.

A sting of something far more dangerous than pure lust, something frighteningly close to admiration, burnt through me.

‘You’d better make me breakfast, though,’ I said, turning my full body back towards him. ‘I don’t think I’ll be gone that long.’

His smile seemed a little more genuine now. Any specific—

I kissed him before he could finish that question.

He still tasted of me. It called up memories of his lips in entirely different places, and I might have been blushing a little by the time I let go. Creon remained motionless in the blankets as I pulled back, lips parted, eyes dazed.

I wasn’t going to stay away long, I decided at that sight. Having the Silent Death wound around my fingertip offered far too many pleasant possibilities at home.

‘Pancakes would be nice,’ I said, then jumped off the bed, shot into the first set of clothes I could find, and ran out without looking back.

I had barely set ten cautious steps over the border of Faewood when a wild head of red curls between the trees drew my attention. Good. At least they were still here – and at least I wouldn’t have to confront a hound first this time.

Lyn stood leaning against one of the gnarled tree trunks as I made my way through the sand, her freckly face bright, but a trace of that uncannily mature concern in her eyes. Only when I had approached to within a few feet of her did she beam at me and say, ‘Morning, Emelin.’

It was just about noon, judging by the position of the sun. She may have been waiting here for hours.

I grimaced. ‘Sorry I’m late.’

‘That’s alright.’ She said it cheerfully, but again the hint of concern didn’t escape me. Perhaps she wasn’t too displeased because my late appearance was at least better than my utter absence. ‘I had Tared to keep me company. Let’s walk a bit.’

We walked just behind the first line of trees – close enough to still see the bright blue sea, but hidden from passing fae above.

I said, ‘Where did you leave Tared, then?’

‘Oh, farther into the woods,’ she said vaguely. ‘I asked him to take a look at some other potentially interesting spots.’

I threw her a suspicious look.

‘So distrustful,’ she said brightly. ‘Very odd.’

‘Did you want to speak with me alone?’

‘Of course.’ Her grin broadened. ‘Tared starts glowering whenever anyone mentions Creon, and that didn’t seem particularly helpful to encourage an open conversation. He’ll get over it.’

I rubbed my eyes, amused and mildly offended on Creon’s behalf at the same time. ‘So what exactly is the problem between those two?’

Lyn groaned a sigh. ‘Long story.’

‘You mean you’re not going to tell me.’

‘Not today.’ She stopped beside a bush which looked like all the others, and dragged a sturdy linen backpack from the foliage, then gave me an apologetic look. ‘Feel free to ask questions about anything else, though. Something to eat?’

I thought of Creon and pancakes but decided a small snack couldn’t hurt. ‘Do you people just leave bags with food around throughout Faewood?’

‘More or less,’ she said brightly. ‘Beyla left this one here for us yesterday. There should still be some cake in it.’

Eating cake with a seven-year-old immortal in the middle of Faewood, just after I had taken a fae murderer to bed. I might as well accept this morning wasn’t going to make any more sense.

‘Cake sounds great,’ I said.

Lyn handed me a sticky package of fig cakes, then gestured for me to sit. We settled between the vines and thin trees, looking out at the peaceful white beach. After a few weeks in fae territory, I knew better than to assume that beach would remain peaceful if we ventured out into the open for a little too long.

I took a bite of cake and chewed slowly, considering where to start.

Lyn worked her way through her portion at impressive speed, looking utterly blissful with every mouthful she swallowed. ‘So. Questions?’

‘I should have prepared a list,’ I admitted. I might have, if I hadn't been unexpectedly busy sewing dresses and screwing fae. But it seemed better not to tell her that, as long as I wasn’t quite sure what to make of the developments myself. ‘Who is Beyla?’

‘One of our people.’

That sparked some inspiration, at least. ‘Alright. Tell me about your people, then.’

Lyn pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. ‘The Alliance or the phoenixes?’

‘Both, but let’s start with the phoenixes.’

‘Ah.’ She sighed, rubbing her face. ‘We used to live a little to the south of here before the human refugees started pouring in from the continent and everything began to shift. There were never that many of us, though. These days … a few dozen.’

‘So few?’

‘The last centuries haven’t been too peaceful.’

‘No, but …’ I hesitated. ‘You get born again after you die, correct?’

‘Only if someone burns our bodies. If I were buried or dropped to the bottom of the ocean or dissolved in acid, I’d be very much mortal.’

‘Oh,’ I said numbly.

She gave me a pained smile. ‘The fae found out, of course, and took great care to destroy our corpses in all kinds of unpleasant ways. If Tared hadn't dragged my body from their hands a couple of times, I wouldn’t be sitting here.’

Tared, a couple of times … and never anyone else?

I opened my mouth to ask that question, but Lyn added, ‘And after she bound us …’ She hesitated.

I forgot to be curious about her exact relationship with the alf. ‘Yes?’

‘She took something from us, you see. From every individual she bound.’ Lyn threw me an inquiring glance, as if to check whether I’d already heard this part of the story. When I didn’t interrupt, she continued, ‘It’s part of the magic, as far as I know. For most females from magical peoples, the thing she took was their fertility.’

I blinked. ‘You can’t have children?’

‘No. None of us can. So for the past decades, we’ve been …’ She shrugged and again gave me that pained smile – as if to reassure me she would be alright, despite all signs to the contrary. ‘Slowly dwindling.’

‘Oh.’ The cake no longer looked that attractive to me. ‘I’m so sorry.’

This time, her smile was a little more genuine. I took a bite anyway, because it seemed impolite not to eat at all, and mulled over the matter for a minute.

‘Would you heal if she were to die?’

‘Probably,’ Lyn said slowly. ‘Honestly, it’s hard to say. We don’t know that much about the magic she used, and the details aren’t fully clear even to the people who’ve studied it as extensively as possible.’

‘People have studied it?’

She chuckled, as if to trust me with a secret. ‘I have. Our resources are just very limited.’

‘I could ask Creon if there’s anything in the library here,’ I said. ‘We’ve been looking at … things. He might be able to help.’

Lyn threw me a look. ‘Things.’

‘Things,’ I confirmed brightly, and she chuckled again, brushing a rogue red curl from her cheek as she shook her head.

‘Fine. I should be glad you’re not blindly trusting us. How is Creon doing?’

The tone of her voice caught me off guard. It was not a casual question thrown in to fill the silence. Quite the opposite – below the childlike cheerfulness, she sounded genuinely, deeply concerned.

Could I tell her he smiled at me these days? Joked with me? Set his pride aside and learned to communicate without his voice for the first time in a hundred and thirty years?

Without his voice … a realisation hit me.

‘Wait.’ She took something from us. ‘Lyn, is that how he lost his voice? Because she bound him?’

She nodded, looking surprised even with her cheeks full of fig cake. I fell back against the nearest tree and considered that point, trying to add up the timelines I knew.

‘But he said he only lost his voice around the Last Battle. Did she never bind him in the centuries before he changed sides?’

Lyn shook her head, then swallowed her cake. ‘Did he tell you anything about the time before the Battle?’

‘He doesn’t seem to like talking about it,’ I said weakly.

‘He doesn’t.’ Another curl was wiped from her face. ‘From what he told me, she didn’t bind him in his childhood because she was afraid it would limit the development of his magic. And by the time his powers had fully settled, he wouldn’t let her anymore.’

I blinked. ‘He wouldn’t let her.’

‘He’s the stronger mage of them both,’ she said with a joyless smile. ‘And even in the years when he was still fully loyal to her … well, fae pride.’

‘Ah,’ I said sourly. What had he said? People admired him, feared him, or both. Of course a fae prince whose dignity hinged on his powers wouldn’t gladly give them up, even for the High Lady and mother he served. ‘I see. So how did she manage to bind him after the War, then?’

Lyn shrugged. ‘If you ever get him to tell you, be sure to let me know.’

‘Oh.’

‘I was a little too busy dying of fear to keep track of what everyone else was doing,’ she added, with a hint of a wry apology in her voice. ‘They were holding us captive after the battle – Tared, me, a few others who were … at the top of things. Expected her to kill us as soon as she had the time, really.’

At the top of things. Did that mean I was speaking with a seven-year-old who had been a leader of my forebears’ uprising?

A question for later – one of the many, by now.

‘And then she didn’t kill you?’

‘No. Just bound us.’ She grimaced. ‘By the time that unusual show of mercy was over, Creon had already returned to the Court as her loyal murderer. I didn’t even hear he’d lost his voice until months afterwards.’

I tried to imagine that. To hear that the former captive you’d considered an ally, perhaps even a friend, had now bound himself to your presumed mutual enemy with enough enthusiasm to give up part of his magic for it. Magic he’d refused to give up so far. Magic he couldn’t be forced to give up. The hate in Tared’s eyes – perhaps I could understand.

‘Can I ask a stupid question?’

She chuckled. ‘Ah. My favourites.’

I couldn’t help but laugh. ‘I’m not even sure how you would answer it. Just … what does his voice even sound like?’

Lyn was silent for a while – a long, pensive silence, resting her chin on her knees as she stared at the sea before us. Then, quietly, she said, ‘He used to sing.’

My heart gave a painful thump. ‘He did?’

‘Only when he thought I couldn’t hear him.’

‘Oh.’ That did sound more like him. ‘In the months when he wouldn’t talk to you?’

‘Yes.’ Again she hesitated, then sat up straighter. ‘Honestly, most of the time I spent with Creon was having conversations through the closed door of a cell. We captured him, a few centuries into the War – did he tell you that?’

I shook my head.

‘Well.’ She sighed. ‘We did. A few of us just wanted to kill him, but I convinced them to keep him alive. See, I hoped he could give us information about the Mother’s movements, which – well, as I said, he wouldn’t open his mouth at first. But those times when he was singing to himself …’ A stiff shrug. ‘They convinced me to keep trying.’

To keep trying for what? If it was just a matter of military intelligence, I didn’t see how an unexpected love of music would in any way be relevant to that subject. Which seemed to suggest her attempts at interrogation had been – had become – more than that.

Complicated, she’d said at our first meeting. I remembered that desperate gleam in her eyes when I told her Creon might not be the traitor she’d thought him to be.

At some point, she’d started caring.

And perhaps that was the reason I asked more. Had it been Tared in her place, hate blinking in his eyes whenever Creon’s name was even mentioned, I would have felt ashamed to probe into a part of his history he’d never even hinted at to me, the events that made him betray his people and his mother herself. But this wasn’t malicious gossip. This was talk among … friends? This was an attempt to figure out what darkness was living inside him and how to soothe it.

‘And in the end, he talked,’ I said.

Lyn picked up the question without further nudging. ‘He did. That is, first he tried to shock me with some elaborate reports of his activities during the War up to that point.’ She grimaced. ‘That wasn’t too pretty.’

‘Were you shocked?’

‘Not at all. We knew who he was.’

A monster, she might as well have said. I swallowed. ‘Ah.’

‘Then after a while …’ She hesitated. ‘After a while, he began to ask questions. And then later … he gave us some answers.’

I realised I didn’t even know what questions to ask. That part of Creon’s life, the time before the Last Battle, was even more opaque to me than the decades since. Training. Violence. Death. I rubbed my eyes and blurted out, ‘Do you know where those scars come from?’

A ridiculous question. Not the most relevant or the most urgent one at all. But Lyn didn’t even blink.

‘His training as a child. Whenever he made a mistake, she had the resulting wounds inked.’

‘Oh. Gods.’ There he was again, in my mind’s eye – the little winged toddler, covered in blood this time. ‘That’s … bad.’

‘Oh, yes. Took me a while to convince him of it, though.’

‘What?’

‘That marking mistakes on a child’s body forever isn’t a particularly honourable way to train them,’ she said, pulling a face. ‘He didn’t seem to think it was all that shocking.’

‘What?’ I let out a bewildered laugh. ‘That … but they don’t even do that to all fae children. He must have noticed she was treating him worse than the others, yes?’

‘Of course,’ she said, a wry smile breaking through. ‘That was another matter of pride to him.’

‘Being so powerful that he was tortured to hone his powers to perfection?’

‘Exactly.’

Oh, Creon. No wonder there’d been no pride or satisfaction when he first described his powers to me.

‘There are so many of those stories,’ Lyn added, examining me with clear concern. I didn’t dare to ask for more examples. ‘I’m sure he kept the worst parts from me, too. And I know that’s not an excuse – he’s done terrible, terrible things himself, but …’

She was no longer looking cheerful. She was no longer even pretending to be cheerful. We were coming closer to answers now, I sensed – answers that were not just about Creon anymore.

‘See,’ she continued, her voice quiet now, ‘if someone doesn’t know there is a choice in the first place, can you really blame him for what he ends up doing?’

Something told me that was one of the questions that would have Tared scowling vehemently, but I rubbed my eyes and said, ‘Are you saying he truly didn’t see any other options? Before you captured him?’

‘He’d been raised and shaped by that world. By her wishes for him. Nobody ever confronted him with a reality in which he was not the pinnacle of Creation itself. Or with a reality in which lives were worth saving.’

I swallowed. Pancakes. The same fae male she was talking about was probably baking me pancakes for breakfast right now. And here I was, sitting hidden in a murderous Faewood with the person who had somehow changed him from a monster into …

Into whatever he was now.

Does it make me innocent, wanting you?

‘I see,’ I managed. ‘How in hell did you get him out of that?’

‘She left him to die when we captured him,’ Lyn said slowly. ‘Ran off to save her own hide after he pretty near killed himself to protect her. So that was the first crack.’

Oh, Creon.

‘I think all those months he was silent, he was mostly silent because he had no idea what to say,’ she continued, staring at the sea. ‘How to align the world with itself again. So I talked and talked and talked, about life, about my friends and family. And then one day, I came down, and he was sitting at that cell door, looked at me and said, “You protect the people you love.” First thing he ever said. And then it all came crashing down pretty quickly.’

My eyes were burning. I’m trying to keep you safe.

‘And then he went back,’ I whispered.

‘Yes. And I was …’ She was silent for a moment, lips pressed tight. ‘Don’t tell Tared I said this, but I wasn’t even angry. I was just devastated. Because I truly thought he was better than that. And then every time we found the remains of his victims in the past century – all that pain, all that cruelty …’ She shivered. ‘It hurt more than before I knew him. Because this time, it seemed he’d made the deliberate choice to do it.’

I swallowed. ‘He did.’

‘Yes. But perhaps not for the reasons I thought.’

The reasons she’d thought – that he was a coward, or worse, a cold-hearted murderer who truly didn’t care. And then there was that look he’d given me last night, the loathing in his eyes … He’d made the choice to return to his mother’s side, yes. Made the choice and hated himself for it.

All that pain. All that cruelty.

We were still talking about the male who’d make me breakfast when I returned. Who’d probably treat me to another round of mind-blowing pleasure if I wanted and wouldn’t touch me with so much as a finger if I didn’t want him to.

I was slowly getting nauseous. I didn’t want to think about Creon anymore – didn’t want to try to make sense of it, what he was, what I was, what we were to each other.

‘Tell me about the Alliance,’ I said, and Lyn shifted, her face brightening a little.

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Who you are, these days. All alves and phoenixes?’

‘A large part is alves. They’re the most murderous bastards.’ She said it affectionately. ‘But we have a couple of vampires too. Some nymphs. Some people who are in between races. Bits and pieces of the old magical world, really.’

‘And a demon?’ I said, remembering Creon’s story about Thysandra.

Lyn stiffened. ‘Did he tell you about that?’

‘About … what’s her name, Anaxia?’

‘Oh.’ She sank back against the tree again, but her frown didn’t soften. ‘About Naxi. I see.’ Her smile wasn’t particularly reassuring. ‘In what context did she come up?’

‘Thysandra,’ I said slowly, and Lyn stared at me as if I’d told her Thysandra was a demon herself.

‘Oh, gods.’

‘What?’

‘If you ever come with us, for the love of whatever gods you believe in, don’t ever mention Thysandra to Naxi. It takes days to get her to stop crying.’

‘To … What?’

‘Some incidents during the Last Battle,’ Lyn said, pulling a face. ‘Another long story. Naxi is a bit sensitive about—’

‘Oh,’ I said, suddenly understanding. ‘That’s mutual?’

Now she was the one to look baffled. ‘What?’

‘Thysandra …’ I gestured at the court behind us. ‘Creon says she’s been asking him for a way to contact Anaxia.’

Lyn stared at me, bright eyes wide, then abruptly burst out laughing.

‘Oh, gods,’ I said again, unable to suppress my own grin. Her amusement was contagious. ‘Are you saying they fought for two days and have been pining over each other since then? For decades? After trying to kill each other for …’

‘Don’t ask me!’ She sniffed, wiping something from her eye, then burst out laughing again. ‘Oh, poor, sweet Naxi. Thank you so much for telling me this. I’ll have to think about the best way to break this news to—’

‘Why do you talk about her like she’s some fragile child?’ Anyone who could withstand Thysandra for two full days – anyone who made Creon look pale and grim – should be capable of handling some potentially unpleasant truths, shouldn’t they? ‘She’s a demon, yes? Shouldn’t she be … you know, frightening?’

Lyn abruptly stopped laughing. ‘Creon hasn’t told you much about demons, has he?’

‘No, but they sounded unpleasant enough from his description.’

‘Yes, I would imagine they did.’ She groaned. ‘Alright. That’s … something to consider.’

Something to consider – for what? How much she trusted me? How much she trusted him? I frowned. ‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’

‘Not sure,’ she said slowly.

‘That’s a yes.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Another yes.’

She gave me a wry smile. ‘Emelin, don’t get me wrong, I appreciate your company and I understand you won’t just trust me with anything, but it’s hard to decide how much I’m supposed to tell when I have no idea what Creon needs you for. Or what things you’re up to all day. I don’t want to cause trouble by blathering about the wrong secrets.’

Little as I liked it, I could understand that point. I was keeping secrets for the same reason, after all.

Could I tell her more? I wanted to tell her more, but how could I be sure those murderous bastards she called her allies wouldn’t show up to kidnap me in the middle of the night if they knew of my powers? I needed more time to prepare. More time to protect myself. More time, perhaps, to tell Creon what was going on first.

‘So?’ I said.

‘So I’ll have a word with Tared about it.’ She smiled a little more genuinely now. ‘Who tends to be more firmly on the side of honesty and a little less firmly on the side of caution, so there’s a good chance he’ll want to have a word with you as soon as possible.’

I managed a chuckle. ‘Tell Tared I appreciate him.’

‘Oh, he already knows. It’s mutual.’ She grinned her broadest, freckled grin at me. ‘Alves tend to like people who don’t know what diplomacy means.’

I snorted, more pleased than I wanted to admit. ‘Glad to hear I managed to impress someone.’

Lyn laughed out loud as she jumped up. ‘You survived weeks in Creon’s company on your own. Trust me, Tared is not the only one who’s at least a little impressed.’

I wondered how impressed she would be if I told her about the full extent of my survival at Creon’s home. Once again, I decided against it. They wouldn’t take my judgement of his character very seriously if they knew, presumably.

So instead, I got to my feet, following her example, and said, ‘When do I see you again?’

‘We’ll probably be here tomorrow, late afternoon. Does that work?’

‘Tomorrow is fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll be here.’

By now, I might have passed on lunch with the Mother to figure out whatever secret Lyn was keeping from me.

Chapter 16

I ran the full way home, my mind whirring but my feet unwilling to slow down.

My walk hadn't gotten my head straight. Quite the opposite – Lyn’s words had only added new depth to the already messy question of everything Creon was and might have been. Perhaps that should have deterred me from getting even closer, made me wonder what in the world I was getting myself into. But with her story of those past years echoing in my ears …

I just wanted to hug him. Then ask him a thousand questions.

He might even answer me this time. I knew what to ask, at least. Knew some of the painful spots to avoid. It would take a while, perhaps – hell, it might take weeks – but if he had trusted me last night, wouldn’t he eventually trust me again?

If I wanted him to trust me, not just to prove a point, but to help him – wouldn’t that make every difference in the world?

Soon I was sweating in the burning beach sun, feet slipping through the sand, and even that couldn’t make me stop. I just wanted to see him. Wanted to make sure those cruel years of the Last Battle were indeed behind us, that he was no longer that male who had proudly recounted the stories of his crimes, who had lived through torture and considered it a compliment.

Rarely had I been so relieved to see the rose-covered contours of the pavilion loom up from the trees.

And rarely had my heart sunk so abruptly at the sight of Creon on the porch.

Something, I knew at that first glimpse of him, was wrong. Very wrong. No trace of the cocky fae prince showed in his wilted posture; he sagged against one of the pillars of the pavilion, the back of his head against the wood, his eyes closed in an expression that in no way resembled the dazed smile he’d given me before my exit. It was not even a look of exhaustion. That at least would have made sense after our shenanigans of the past night. But the hard mask of his face … it looked, most of all, empty.

No sign of pancakes anywhere. No sign of any breakfast at all, actually.

Had I been away too long? Had he started believing I’d fled him after all and wouldn’t be coming back? But it really hadn't been more than half an hour, and even if that had somehow strained his nerves past their breaking point, he should at least have heard me approaching. He should have looked up. He should have been relieved.

But even as I crossed the last distance to the pavilion, breaking the twigs below my feet with a little more noise than necessary, his slumping figure didn’t move.

‘Creon?’

He opened his eyes, finally, and watched me without greeting me. I climbed up the steps to the porch and stilled, unsure of what to say under the piercing gaze of those bottomless eyes.

‘What is wrong?’

He spelled, Rhudak.

I stared at his hand as it fell down again, and a pit opened in my guts.

Rhudak. Where a fae mission had spent the last weeks figuring out exactly who was to blame for the brazen request for lower tribute rates. Now those first explorers had returned home, and with successful results, if last night’s celebration was anything to go by. What had I expected the Mother to do now – sit back and enjoy the knowledge?

Of course there would be punishments. And who else would she send to take care of those?

‘Is she … Is she sending you there?’

My words came out too hoarse. Too shocked. Too … distant.

He nodded, closing his eyes again.

‘You’re supposed to kill people.’

Another nod.

I staggered a last few steps forward and sank down on the porch beside him, a safe two feet between us. Kill people. He was going to kill them, the rulers who’d seen the injustice their people were suffering, who’d taken that brave, reckless risk to challenge the Crimson Court itself in a desperate attempt to improve life on their island – and now they would die for having been nothing but decent, and it was going to be Creon who—

My brain went blank there.

‘Can’t you let them escape?’ My voice was too shrill. ‘Like you did with … Can’t you send them to the White City in secret?’

She wants it public.

My hands were trembling now. A public execution. To send every single soul on that island the Mother’s crystal-clear message: don’t mess with the fae unless you want to be the next one gutted by these knives. ‘Then do what you did in Cathra – burn some house and hope no one realises they aren’t inside when—’

Too fast, he gestured, cutting me off.

The fig cake came back up my throat, tasting sour and nauseating. ‘She … She wants you to kill them more slowly.’

Another nod. He still didn’t look up.

‘In public. She wants you to torture them to death in public.’ How had I managed to believe it didn’t matter last night, the blood on his hands? Was I really that shallow, to shrug off a history of torturous murders just because I knew he’d prefer not to have committed them? But here the past became the present, a glaring, unjust present, and all of a sudden, it was so inevitably real again. I would sit here in the pavilion, eating fine meals and reading priceless books. And meanwhile, he would be out there, in the far north of the archipelago, torturing humans to death who had done nothing to deserve that fate.

I had touched him.

I could no longer bring myself to even lay a hand on his knee.

‘But there has to be something we can do,’ I whispered. We. There had to be a we now. He had to agree with me, fight with me, figure something out with me. We were the resistance now – weren’t we?

He shook his head, eyes still closed.

‘Please.’ My voice cracked. ‘It’s not fair. You know it isn’t. They didn’t do anything to deserve dying that way – to get hurt that way. Can’t you warn them so they can flee?’

She’ll tell me to take their families instead.

‘Then make all of them flee – make …’ I sucked in a breath. Make the entire island flee? That wouldn’t be possible even if he wanted it to be. And as long as people stayed behind, there would be victims left to kill – victims even more innocent than the ones who had deliberately taken the risk of angering the Mother.

‘Then … then …’

He finally looked up, his eyes so cold that I shivered. Don’t.

‘What do you mean, don’t?’ The words exploded from me like badly aimed bursts of magic. ‘You can’t just accept it. At least try—’

What do you think, his fingers snapped at me, I’ve been doing for a hundred and thirty years?

I sat frozen. Creon looked away, his breath shallow and unsteady.

A hundred and thirty years of missions he didn’t want to accept and verdicts he didn’t want to execute. I had known. He had found me during one such mission. But Cathra had survived, and after weeks of peaceful reading and training and cooking, it had been so easy to start believing that those bloodbaths belonged to some past from which he had finally turned away … He had started talking around me. He had started smiling.

But I couldn’t change this.

Does it make me innocent, wanting you?

No. No, it didn’t.

‘Alright,’ I heard myself say. ‘When do you have to go?’

He still didn’t look my way. The scars on his hands – scars his mother had inked into his skin as a punishment when he was younger than I was now – shifted as he gestured, Now.

‘Alright.’ As if it was the only word I could still remember. ‘How long will you be gone?’

Bit over a day. He hesitated, then added, You should be safe.

I would be, yes. I had his reputation to protect me, and my own magic. The Cathra rulers … they couldn’t count on that luxury to save their lives.

‘I’ll be careful,’ I managed.

He nodded and got up in a single, cat-like motion. Before I could follow his example, he held out a hand – a silent offering of peace.

I should take it.

I tried to take it. I truly did. But I could only stare at those slender tanned fingers, at the scars marked in ink, at the callouses his weapons had marked on his palm over the years. Soon, very soon, these hands would torture the life out of men and women who had fought for nothing but justice and freedom. Publicly. To frighten a full island of humans back where they belonged – in the dirt at the Mother’s feet.

My own hand wouldn’t move from my lap.

For one, two, three heartbeats, we stood there in numbed impasse, staring at each other in mutual anguish. Then he abruptly yanked his hand back and nodded, the shutters falling down behind his eyes again.

And walked.

Off to Rhudak. Off to kill.

He was ten steps away from me before I found my tongue. ‘Creon …’

With a staggering movement, he came to a standstill. It took another endless moment before he slowly turned around, bracing himself.

I felt my lips part without sound, without plan. Good luck, I wanted to say, and then again, I didn’t want to wish any luck upon this endeavour. Please make it fast – but I already knew he couldn’t. We’ll talk later – but perhaps a complicated conversation hanging over him was the last thing he needed today.

‘Please stay safe,’ I said.

The darkness in his eyes didn’t lift, but his fingers said, You too.

I didn’t get up from my spot on the porch while I listened to him prepare – measured footsteps and efficient packing behind those peaceful green and white windows. It took mere minutes before I heard him leave from the other side of the pavilion. Vanishing steps. The beat of wings. Then … silence.

I remained where I was for at least another hour, trying to stop feeling and failing miserably.

Nothing could distract me from the thought of Creon as I rummaged through his home and tried to occupy myself with something else – anything else. Making myself food turned into a hopeless reminder of the breakfast he’d have cooked us if not for the Mother’s interruption. Practicing my Faerie brought me back to that damned portrait in that damned history book, the image of the dead humans all the more sickening now it was no longer a matter of history. Practicing my magic made me realise I’d started to appreciate his comments and improvements – that sending a few stones through the windows was not nearly as much fun without his raised eyebrows and occasional hard-won compliment to keep me focused.

I didn’t even try taking a bath. Not after last night.

The sewing materials were still there, the three priceless dresses Creon hadn’t yet ruined lying discarded over one side of the couch. I tried to make myself sit down and adjust one of them, but every time I even picked up a needle, all I could see and feel and hear was the memory of his hands tearing last night’s dress off me.

I’d let him. I’d welcomed him. I would be lying if I said the memory didn’t still make me feel a little warm and dizzy inside.

Where would he be now? On Rhudak already, preparing his lengthy display of fae cruelty?

No – he couldn’t be on Rhudak yet. The flight from Cathra back to the court had taken him several hours at least, although I didn’t dare to trust my exact estimates of the time. Rhudak was about one and a half times as far; he could hardly be more than halfway there yet.

There was still time, some treacherous voice in my mind suggested. I pushed it away. There was no time. There was not going to be any mercy – not this time.

Would he be there already?

I paced the pavilion for at least an hour, fidgeting with books I had no intention of reading, staring at furniture I’d seen a hundred times before. The sun sank below the highest tips of the trees. It was now several hours past noon.

He may have arrived by this time.

Would he go to work immediately?

He hadn't in Cathra. He’d waited until nightfall, even though he’d found me in that garden in the late afternoon. But perhaps he had needed a few hours to adjust his plans from a general killing spree to a cover-up of mercy and a kidnapping; perhaps he would have been raining down fire and blood on that festival square mere minutes after arriving if he hadn't noticed me and my magic first.

A violent shiver ran through me. That time he’d found me worth the risk of saving an entire island. This time …

No. I shouldn’t be thinking this way. His mission to Rhudak had nothing to do with me; there had never been a chance I would be able to prevent it.

And yet it felt like a failure.

I’d come here to stop this kind of thing. To end the Mother’s reign over the human islands. And now, weeks later, what had I really been doing? Learning a language I didn’t need in order to kill, making excruciatingly slow progress with my magic training, and fucking the fae male I should have avoided like the plague.

Some help I was. And now I was supposed to loiter around in this place of luxury and abundance until Creon returned from torturing his next group of victims to death?

I bit out a curse. How long would it take for him to return? Hours and hours and hours. I couldn’t stand to eat. I couldn’t stand to sit down. Hell, I could barely stand to look at this place, the table where we’d spent so many hours in amiable silence, the kitchen where he’d cooked for me, the bed where I’d so happily slept in his arms last night. If I had to wait here, uselessly and helplessly, until he finally returned to wash the blood off his hands …

The thought alone was unbearable.

So what was I going to do instead?

Taking out the Mother seemed a tad ambitious for an average summer afternoon. Visiting Lyn and Tared was hopeless; they would be back wherever their home was, discussing secrets Lyn hadn't dared to tell me immediately. Sneaking into the Court to find books on magical binding sounded too reckless after the promise I’d made to stay safe.

What else was there to do?

My eyes fell on the pile of books and scrolls on the table. The Labyrinth.

Still reckless, of course. But not as reckless as marching into the Mother’s home on my own, and perhaps even manageable enough to survive. We’d read all there was to read about the place. Sooner or later, we’d have to return anyway, and we weren’t going to be better prepared than we were now. Creon had never had trouble on his own. And at least on the last occasion, the Labyrinth had appeared to like me.

I managed something like a chuckle at that last thought. I was quite clearly going mad – but perhaps that was the only way to survive in this world.

And I would go far madder if I had to wait in silence until deep into the night.

Decision made, the life returned to my limbs. As with the loss of my parents, everything was easier to bear when I could at least do something. I needed pencil and parchment for a map. I needed something black so I could keep the hounds of Faewood at a distance. I needed food and water, just in case I made unexpected progress and spent several hours exploring the gem-covered tunnels below the mountain.

It took me five minutes to get everything together and five more minutes to set my doubts aside. Then I was on my way, with a full backpack over my shoulders and a determined sort of restlessness itching in my limbs.

Creon would definitely be on Rhudak now.

I shut that thought down. Focused only on the ominous forest around me, the movements in the shadows and the mission waiting for me. The hounds didn’t come for me this time. Perhaps my black dress warned them to stay away.

I found the rock that hid the entrance to the Labyrinth within half an hour and managed to open the door with my first attempt at yellow magic. I contemplated closing it behind me, but with the tales of the locked-in fae still bright in my mind, that sounded like an unwise idea. Instead I shrunk the doorway a little, leaving only the lowest two feet open. Enough to climb out. Hopefully enough for fae flying by to not notice that something had changed about the surface of the rock they only saw from above.

With that taken care of, I turned back to the Labyrinth.

It was still as beautiful as it had been the first time, ominous history or not. Older than the Courts, the books had taught me. Old enough that even the gods weren’t quite sure what to make of the place. And somehow powerful enough that the Mother hadn't been able to shut it down even when she’d tried.

I cautiously laid my hand against the smooth tunnel wall and said, ‘Hello, beautiful.’

A gust of warm air hit me in the face.

‘Sorry it’s taken me so long to return,’ I said, ignoring the fact that I stood here flirting with a mountain, and praying that I wasn’t interpreting the signs entirely wrong – that I wasn’t somehow antagonising this place through my transparent attempts at flattery. But the damp tunnel air didn’t cool down. The doorway behind my back remained open. ‘We had a few very busy days. But I’m glad to see this tunnel again. It’s still the most beautiful spot on the island I’ve seen so far.’

Again that warm breeze. It felt … pleased.

‘Can I sit down?’ I said. ‘I’d love to have a chat with you from … well, girl to mountain, as is. You probably have far more interesting things to say than all those stuck-up fae out there.’

And on the floor at my feet …

I stared at the stone as it shifted, slowly, like thick clay pushed into place. The smooth tunnel floor morphed into something like a seat – still smooth, still hard, but shaped like a lounging chair, and when I knelt to touch it, warmed to a pleasant room temperature.

‘Why, thank you!’ I said, suppressing an urge to run and an urge to laugh. The gods have mercy on me. I had been right, indeed – so much more right than I’d even dared to hope. Settling myself in my new chair, I added, ‘That’s much more welcoming than the average fae has been to me so far, too.’

A slow rumble rolled through the stone below my feet. I tensed up, convinced that the way out would fall shut the next moment.

But nothing happened. Just the Labyrinth reacting, then?

‘I’m guessing you don’t like the fae too much,’ I concluded. ‘I can imagine, really. They just burst in here to build that palace above you, didn’t they? So rude. They probably didn’t even ask for your permission.’

A dusty sense of cold swept past me. Had I said something wrong, or was the Labyrinth simply angry at the mere memory of those past transgressions?

A mountain holding on to its anger for hundreds and hundreds of years. I swore there and then to never speak an unkind word about any natural phenomenon again, just in case they were actually sentient.

‘Let’s not talk about fae, then,’ I said, nestling myself more comfortably into my seat. ‘Do you want to talk about colours instead? I love your colours. My father was a painter, you see – still is a painter. He’d love to see this place. Especially the green. He always had a fondness for green, my father.’

For two, three seconds, nothing happened. Then—

Most of the colours around me dimmed, shrouding the tunnel in a sudden darkness. But the greens glowed, like cats’ eyes in the dark – lime and olive and emerald, twinkling around me like a mossy sky of stars.

‘Oh, that is beautiful,’ I whispered, and I was not even exaggerating the adoration in my voice. Around me, the Labyrinth shivered – shivered like Creon’s wings had under my fingers last night.

No. I was not going to think about Creon, cutting the Rhudaki rulers to slow, cruel pieces. I was here to make friends.

The green vanished, but the other colours didn’t return in its place, leaving the tunnel in a grim, grey light. I waited for a moment and then realised I wasn’t the only one.

‘My mother always liked orange and pink,’ I offered. ‘Sunset was her favourite time of the day.’

Different gems lit up now, a bright palette of tangerine and rust and coral and peach. The colours reminded me of my mother so much that it took me a moment to gather my composure again and creak out a, ‘Thank you. That’s … stunning.’

Again the Labyrinth returned to its dusky state of waiting, and I knew it was my turn now.

‘Purple,’ I whispered. ‘Blue and purple.’

As if it heard the hesitation in my voice, the colours came slowly, this time. Gently. The blue sparkles and gems brightened at first, little flecks of azure and cobalt and cerulean blue wherever I looked; then the purple added itself to the symphony of colour, from pale periwinkle to the deep violet of the dress I’d worn last night.

That stunning purple of last night – that purple Creon had wanted me to wear.

Where had those tears on my cheeks come from?

‘I’m sorry,’ I managed as the wall warmed behind my back and I was suddenly sobbing in earnest, exhaustion and confusion washing through me under the soothing show of those twinkling colours. ‘I didn’t want to come here and upset you, I promise. I just don’t know what to think anymore – don’t know what I’m doing anymore …’

What do you want? Creon’s fingers moved before my mind’s eye.

‘I want her dead,’ I whispered.

The colours turned more intense around me.

‘I want her dead. The Mother.’ My voice grew louder, and yet no gust of cold air followed. No trap shoved suddenly into place. She’d built her court on an unwilling mountain – she’d tried to destroy the treasures that lay here beneath the earth. ‘And I suppose I always wanted her gone, in a way, even before I came here, even when she was just the faceless bitch stealing our food and money …’

But that had been such a directionless, obligatory anger. We hated her like we hated the scorching summer sun on the hottest days and the autumn storms that could ruin a fleet. Featureless forces of nature, all of them. And now … Now she was the woman who mocked me and sneered at me. The woman who turned her son into an empty vessel of violence. The woman who had to ruin my world once again with cruelty and blood to spill, just when I had started to believe the shards of my life might be coming together after all.

I wanted her dead. For Creon’s scars and Lyn’s dying people and the traders of Rhudak who’d soon cower in the dirt again.

‘I just don’t know how I’ll ever manage,’ I whispered to the blue and purple hues twinkling down at me. ‘She’s far too powerful and far too ancient, and I don’t even know how I can get to her, let alone—’

The Labyrinth abruptly darkened, leaving nothing but grey dusk behind. I slapped my mouth shut and shot upright. Again I was prepared to see the tunnel exit fall shut before my very eyes – but before I could move, the lights changed again.

This time, it was the floor that started glowing.

Bright, many-coloured veins lit up in the dark stone, running along the length of the tunnel, all the way to the first bend. Purple and blue, most of them, as if the Labyrinth was trying to tell me something – these are for you.

I didn’t dare to breathe.

‘Are you … Are you showing me the way?’

No response.

I jumped from my seat and grabbed my bag, swinging it over my shoulders as I followed the glowing veins in the rock deeper into the mountain. The line continued behind the bend, all the way to the split sixty feet away. There it bent to the left, leaving the right option dark as night.

‘Can I take notes?’ I whispered, and warm air drifted past me. I almost dropped my bag in my hurry to pull the parchment and pencils out.

Off to work, then.

The trail of light led me deeper and deeper into the mountain, guiding me past crossroads and into side paths so narrow I might have mistaken them for cracks in the rock if not for the light that showed me the way. Part of me wanted to let the map be for now, to follow the light trail first and see where it ended. But the idea of wandering deeper and deeper into this maze without knowing the way back if the Labyrinth were to retract its support – I didn’t like that at all.

So I counted my steps, noted the forks in the tunnel, and drew my map. And at every turn, I took a moment to compliment the Labyrinth on the delicate stalactites or the arched ceiling or the elegant bends in this newest part.

It seemed to work. The walls didn’t shift to lock me in.

I drew and drew and drew, until my fingers were sore and my bottle was empty and I was running out of parchment. Then I folded my map with the greatest possible care and said, ‘I’m afraid they’ll start wondering where I have gone if I stay away much longer. But I’ll come back to see you again tomorrow, alright?’

The blue and purple veins in the stone flickered for a moment. I appreciatively patted the wall and made my way back to the exit.

The sky had darkened outside, turning Faewood into an ominous place of shadows and silhouettes. I hesitated for a moment before I ducked through the low doorway, glancing back at the Labyrinth behind me. It had taken on its original appearance again, gems in all colours and sizes gleaming at me from the dark walls.

‘I completely forgot to ask,’ I said. ‘What is your favourite colour?’

A moment of hesitation.

Then the walls lit up in scarlet and crimson, ruby and agate and garnet shining bright wherever I looked. I smiled, rubbing my fingers over the gemstone at my wrist in an unthinking reflex.

‘Red for destruction,’ I whispered. ‘I like you.’

And with a last whisper of warm air, the Labyrinth sent me back into the night.

Chapter 17

I found the pavilion deserted and untouched. Only the basket of food on the porch was evidence that someone had flown by during my absence.

Creon was nowhere to be seen. Where would he be – still taking his sweet time carving new holes into the Rhudaki rulers’ faces?

I couldn’t bring myself to eat, but I put the new bags and jars on the shelves where they belonged to keep myself busy. Then I took my scrabbled map of the Labyrinth and sat down with more parchment and ink to create a more readable version of my hurried notes. It had to be close to midnight already, but the thought of sleeping made me almost as nauseous as the thought of eating.

At least if I kept working, I didn’t have to feel the guilt. Didn’t have to think about the lives I couldn’t save.

I spread them all out on the table – my own sketches of the underground maze, Creon’s unfinished map – and set to work. Narrow, meticulous lines and scribbles, indicating tunnels and distances the way Creon had noted them down in his own drawings so far. I had gone deeper than he ever had, even during his week of explorations – but then again, he had taken the time to explore every single hole and crack, charting them until they came to a dead end and he had to turn back again.

With the abundance of splits and forks I had encountered, it may have taken years to find the centre of the maze that way.

I should have been triumphant about the day’s achievements. But with the fate of the Rhudaki targets a constant itch in the back of my mind, it was hard to feel more than a grim, dull determination. My fingers were stiff. My back was hurting. It was far past midnight by now, but I kept working.

Two thirds of the map had taken shape on the parchment when, hours into the night, the sound of footsteps broke the silence. Not Creon’s usual, inaudible steps. These feet were heavy and uneven as they trudged over the porch, like a wounded animal dragging itself the last feet to its burrow.

I jerked around just as the glass vanished behind me and Creon’s winged shape emerged from the darkness, his face grey as flint in the glow of the pavilion’s lights.

He froze as he caught sight of me, sitting wide awake at his table. Froze, then faltered and grabbed the nearest pillar in a desperate attempt to stay on his feet.

‘Creon?’

He flinched.

‘Creon!’ I jumped from my stool, heart slamming into my throat. There was blood on his hands, thick and dark. An overly sweet stench of death and rot clung to him as I hurried closer, and by the pallid shine of sweat on his forehead, I could have believed it was his own. ‘Creon, what happened? Are you—’

His fingers trembled so violently I could barely make out the gestures. Why are you awake?

‘I couldn’t sleep, and the Labyrinth – oh, gods’ sakes, does it matter? Are you injured?’

He shook his head, hauling himself inside without looking me in the eyes. He barely made it to the couch, crashing down into the cushions like a wounded bird. His wings drooped around his shoulders, shivering with every fierce shudder that wracked him. Not the pleasant kind of shudder. He looked feverish – feverish and nauseous and on the brink of death.

What in the world had happened? Had the Rhudaki traders fought back? At the sight of the pile of misery sprawled over the dark blue velvet, even that thought couldn’t brighten me up.

‘Creon …’

Will be better, his fingers managed, in strained, shaking gestures. Time.

‘But what—’

Go – every gesture seemed to take him the utmost effort – to sleep.

‘Oh, go to hell,’ I said.

His fingers stiffened.

‘I’m not going to take a bloody nap when you’re looking like you could breathe your last breath any moment – no, don’t even try.’ He’d raised his hand but dropped it into the cushions at my interruption. ‘Answer my questions. Are you injured?’

He shook his head, eyes closed.

‘Got unexpected food poisoning?’

Another headshake.

‘Magic?’

This time, he paused for a moment, then gave a nod. A small, almost timid nod, but I had my answer.

Or part of my answer, at least.

‘Did anyone use magic on you?’

Creon shook his head again. His fingers said, It’s fine.

‘Stop that.’ My voice cracked with worry and frustration as I stalked towards him and fell down on my knees beside him. He tensed up again. From so close, the sickly sweat on his forehead had an even more unhealthy sheen. I forced myself to ignore the smell of blood and the traces of violence on his hands and knives. Something was wrong, far more wrong than it had been after Cathra, and I was not going to let him rot here, even if the blood on his blades made me want to flinch.

It’s …

‘If you’re fine, then I’m a giant squid. What happened? Is it some side effect of magic you used?’

His eyes still closed, he nodded.

‘Why in hell would you do this to yourself?’

A tremor ran through him again. No answer followed.

I swallowed a curse and bent over him, brushing sweaty locks of dark hair from his forehead as carefully as I could. A squeaking breath escaped him. The sound wound itself around my heart like a tight, thorny vine.

‘Creon …’ I had to know. ‘Are you … Are you somehow trying to punish yourself? For what you did to them?’

His dry lips parted as he shook his head, struggling to find words. I wrapped my hand around his cheek to hold him steady. His skin was clammy against my palm, as if his body could no longer find the strength to keep him warm after hours of late night flying.

He stiffened under my touch, but his eyes finally, warily, fluttered open. Blood-shot, yellowish eyes gaped back at me, pleading with me from the bottom of hell.

‘Please.’ My voice broke. ‘What happened to you?’

Took … His fingers spelled out the words. Their pain.

‘You did what?’

He rasped in a breath, stirring to sit straighter. I let him, too bewildered to push him back into the cushions. Took their pain. His victims’ pain – the men and women he had tortured to death mere hours ago?

The pain he’d inflicted on them himself?

I stared at him as he hauled himself upright, then sank deep into the velvet, exhausted from that small effort. Took their pain. No, that wasn’t possible, was it? I had never heard of any magic able to do that – but then again, his mother was as good as a goddess. Who was to say her unnatural magics weren’t running through his veins as well?

‘You …’ I shook my head, unsure of the words. ‘You took their pain – made yourself feel their pain – so they didn’t feel it?’

He shivered and nodded.

‘How … How many people?’

Seven, his lips said.

‘You tortured yourself to death seven times today?’

The way his shoulders and wings strained was, presumably, an attempt to shrug. My breathing was coming closer and closer to shrieking. Will be better, he’d said. Time. As if this had happened so many times before. As if he’d gotten used to it, barely holding himself together before the eyes of his audience and returning home as little more than a corpse—

The Silent Death.

Because he kills without sound …

Oh, Zera help me.

‘They don’t scream.’ My voice was barely a whisper. ‘The people you kill. They … They say they never scream. Because there’s no pain?’

His fingers twitched restlessly, meaninglessly in the blue velvet.

‘Creon.’ I clenched my hands into fists in my lap, guilt and shame and revulsion welling with the gall in my throat. What had he said, that first night? I’ve been mitigating damage … ‘Creon, have you been doing this – have you been killing and torturing yourself – all this time? Since the Last Battle?’

A single tear escaped his closed eyelid, rolling down the pale, sweaty lines of his cheek.

‘No.’ I couldn’t breathe fast enough, deep enough, as if someone was squeezing the life from my lungs. Black spots danced before my eyes. ‘You – oh, gods, no. And I blamed you for—’

Didn’t tell you, his fingers interrupted, struggling around the letters.

‘No, but …’ I sucked in a breath. What to say? But it never made sense, how cruel he chose to be if he was once brave enough to betray her. I should have realised, should at least have guessed, there was more going on. ‘Oh, hell. If I’d known …’

Shouldn’t have this magic. Strained, twitchy motions. Don’t want it.

Shouldn’t have it. Did that mean that even the Mother wasn’t aware he was able to do that, soothe his victims with her powers? That he didn’t want her to know, either?

‘Did you inherit it?’

He stiffened but managed an empty, powerless nod.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I whispered. I couldn’t find better words. My heart felt like it was leaking – rage and shame and a painful, twisted admiration so big it threatened to come bursting through my ribs. He had continued to take her missions. For over a century, he had taken it on his shoulders to carry out her executions over and over again, to make himself feel the pain of her wrath over and over again – because no other fae assassin would show the victims the little mercy he could give them in their last moments.

And I had thought him a monster.

I had called him a monster.

He lay wilted in the soft cushions, eyes shut, face grey, breath still uneven. Tremors shook his limbs and wings with irregular intervals, the pain still wracking his body from wounds that would never show on his own skin.

I steeled myself, cautiously lifted my hand to his face, and brushed my knuckles down his cheek. Again he tightened.

Don’t.

‘Does that … Does it hurt?’

He hesitated briefly, then shook his head.

‘Then why …’

You don’t – another pause – want to touch me.

His extended hand that morning, the darkness slipping down over his eyes. Oh, no. ‘Creon …’

He didn’t move.

‘I was very confused this morning,’ I managed, suppressing another sting of regret. ‘About … you know. Everything.’

His fingers twitched. Sorry.

‘If you dare to apologise to me one more time, you will have something to be sorry for, do you hear me?’

He dropped his hand back into the pillows but nodded.

‘Good.’ I shoved myself to the edge of the couch and jumped to my feet. ‘Stay there. Don’t move. I’ll be back in a moment.’

You should go to sleep, he gestured weakly, forcing his eyes open as if the sight of his watery gaze would convince me.

‘Are you actually trying to offend me?’

He blinked. I turned back to him and wrapped my arms around myself, searching for words, for truths. Offended – I was truly offended. It took me a moment to figure out why.

‘You’ve been protecting me here for weeks,’ I managed. ‘You … Honestly, you’ve done more for me than anyone ever has in my life. So don’t you dare tell me I should run away from you now that you need help for once. Don’t tell me I should be a scared child hiding under the blankets. That’s not …’

He stared at me, eyes blank and confused.

‘That’s not how you treat an equal,’ I whispered. ‘So stay there. Let me take care of you.’

His throat bobbed. But he nodded.

I hurried to the kitchen, filled a kettle, and put it on the stove, throwing a new log onto the smouldering fire. Leaving the water there to boil, I ran down to the bathroom, filled a bowl with warm water and soap, grabbed a few towels, and carried the whole bundle back up. Creon still hadn't shifted as much as a finger. Only his eyes followed me on my rounds.

I put the bowl on the floor at his feet and soaked a handful of towel in the warm water. Then, kneeling before him, I took his left hand in mine and began to rub the blood off his scarred fingers with firm, gentle strokes.

He let me, head rolled back in the cushions, eyes closed again. His breath at least came a little more regularly now.

I scrubbed his hand until even the edges of his nails and the creases and callouses of his palm no longer showed a trace of violence. Then I moved to his right hand, which was even bloodier, and continued the work. I had to roll his sleeve all the way to his elbow to get even the last splatters of blood off. Whatever he had done to them …

Whatever he had done to himself …

Those seven humans were still dead. I knew they were, and they shouldn’t have been. But now that I knew what he had done for them, what he’d sacrificed for them, I truly could no longer find it in me to blame him for even the tiniest fraction of their horrific end.

I just wanted him to stop shivering. Just wanted him to be arrogant and witty and infuriating again.

I rinsed my towel and rose to settle myself beside him on the couch. He tensed as I bent over to loosen his shirt.

‘Let me,’ I said softly, and he sank back into the dark velvet.

I unbuttoned the front of his shirt, and then the artfully hidden slits on the back that allowed his wings through. He trembled as I tugged the silk off him. The bloodied, scarred plane of his chest emerged from below the dark cloth, followed by the slightly cleaner ridges of his abdomen. All those scars, those cruel black cuts all over his body – mistakes, Lyn had said, and I had to bite my tongue not to curse as I began to dab the soapy water over his chest as well.

The warm water seemed to calm him a little. When his chest and arms were finally clean, I walked over to the bed, pulled the softest blanket with me, and returned to drape it carefully over Creon’s bare torso. Only when I had him tucked in like a toddler did I return to the stove, where the water was now boiling.

I made a pot of tea with extra honey, found some of yesterday’s leftover honey cakes in a tin, and took all of it with me to the couch. Creon had opened his eyes again, blinking at me with such heart-breaking confusion that I wanted to cry.

‘I hope something warm will help,’ I said awkwardly.

He swallowed visibly and nodded. So I poured us both a cup of tea, refreshed my soapy water, found a clean towel, and took to rinsing the sweat off his pale face. Then his shoulders. Then his back between his wings. I hesitated there, as he lay sagged against me with his face into my shoulder and his wings draped powerlessly over the couch behind him.

‘Creon?’

He turned his head a fraction.

‘I want to get the sweat and rain and dirt off your wings. Is it unpleasant if I touch them?’

A small headshake.

‘Even if you’re hurt?’

The pain isn’t real. If fingers could stammer, it was what his were doing. It has no source you can make worse. Touches – he hesitated – mute it.

I carefully brushed the damp towel over his smudged wings. His sigh … It sounded suspiciously like a sigh of relief.

That settled it, then.

I continued, stroke by stroke, until every inch of the dark velvet was spotless and damp. Then I put the towel aside, settled him back into the cushions, and curled up against his chest. His irregular heartbeat still pounded behind his ribs. The shivering had waned slightly while I washed his wings, but it returned now, the weight of my body not enough to keep the phantom pain at bay.

Pain of seven people. Seven slow, torturous deaths.

‘Tea?’ I whispered.

He hesitated, then nodded, struggling to sit straighter. I pushed him back, pulled the blanket back up around him, and clambered off his lap to pick up his cup from the floor. The tea had cooled down enough for him to drink it, but when he raised a hand to take the mug himself, he was still shaking so violently that I feared he might drop it.

‘Let me do that for you.’

He closed his eyes but nodded again.

I put the mug to his lips and helped him to take a few small sips until he lowered his head back into the pillows. Bending over to put the tea back on the floor, I muttered, ‘And food?’

His fingers spelled, Later.

He knew best, presumably. So I settled myself back in his lap and returned my attention to his slumped wings, running a hand along a velvet edge, savouring the soft surface under my fingertips. His hard body abruptly relaxed below mine at the touch, but his hand came up to catch my wrist, holding me still.

‘Want me to stop?’

He released me with strained, hesitant fingers. I didn’t move, waiting for him to shape the words.

Don’t want you – he hesitated for a full five heartbeats – to touch me out of duty.

My heart broke all over again. Oh, gods. Duty? How had I ever believed him capable of merciless, emotionless cruelty?

‘You’re not a matter of duty to me.’

His calloused fingers curled around my wrist again. I scrambled up straighter in his lap, straddling his muscular thighs, and cupped my free hand around his face. His eyelids fluttered but remained shut.

‘Creon, look at me.’

The yellow cast of his eyes had at least lessened a little. But that gleam in them, that desperate plea – it was still there.

‘You said you were confused about me,’ I said. ‘Remember that?’

The corners of his lips shifted into the palest of smiles.

‘Can you even vaguely imagine how terribly confusing you’ve been to me from the first day I came here? Being all considerate and honourable while volunteering to slaughter humans you claimed to know where innocent? You …’ I managed a laugh, brushing a thumb over his cheek. ‘You’ve been the opposite of duty to me for weeks on end now, Creon. Every rational thought has been telling me it was my duty to stay the hell away from you. I just can’t.’

He sat motionless, drinking in every word, every touch.

‘You tell me I should get better at wanting things,’ I whispered. ‘And you may be right. So allow me to want you, then. Even if you feel like a mess. Even if you feel like no one in their sane mind could possibly want you now.’

Another shudder ran through him as he closed his eyes again. I bent over and pressed my lips to his forehead, then to his scarred eyebrow. Mistakes. How often had someone told that young fae boy he was wanted, loved, needed?

‘Will you let me?’ I muttered against his skin.

He shivered. But the hand around my wrist finally let go.

Time slowed down as I sat there in his lap and trailed my hands over his body, tracing the lines of his wings and his muscles over and over again, adjusting whenever his shivers worsened or waned. After a while I got him to eat half a honey cake; the second half followed an hour later. I fed him tea until he found the strength to hold his cup himself. I found more blankets when he began to grow cold. And I held him, just held him and didn’t let go, as the hours crawled by and slowly, very slowly, the trembling died away.

Hours.

He'd planned to lay here for hours, feeling like a corpse, barely able to sit or walk, while I was sleeping the sleep of the innocent and believing him to be an uncaring monster. Waiting for the phantom pain to alleviate, like he’d done so, so many times before …

Was it regret or admiration that swelled through me? With his arms around me, some of his old strength finally returning to his embrace, it felt like the same thing.

Sunrise couldn’t be far away when he finally moved and signed, We should go to sleep.

We, this time. Not just me. I lifted my head to meet his gaze and muttered, ‘Can you stand and walk? Or …’

His nod was more resolute than before, the gesture no longer such a powerless effort. I managed a smile, hesitated, then came up to press a swift kiss to his forehead.

It was barely more than a brush of my lips, the softest, quietest reassurance. But he stiffened beneath me, breath catching at that feathery touch, and as I pulled away, an entirely different shudder ran through him.

One I knew much, much better.

Oh.

‘Creon’, I breathed.

He watched me – just watched me, eyes dark and bottomless. Waiting and … wanting?

I brushed a finger over his cheek, my mouth suddenly dry, and again his breath faltered.

Too tired to keep up pretences. Too vulnerable to keep a distance.

‘Do touches still help?’

His smile was joyless and overjoyed at once. Yours do.

My heart skipped a beat as I bent over, kissed his temple, then the tip of his pointed ear. Slowly, tenderly, I trailed my mouth down the muscled contour of his neck, all the way to where I’d tucked his blankets over his shoulder. There I paused, my lips hovering just above his bronze skin, and whispered, ‘Like this?’

He breathed out a little too hard as he nodded.

‘And this?’ I leaned in closer and brushed my lips over his wing, to be rewarded with a sharp inhalation. ‘Does that mute the pain, too?’

No nod, this time, but his hand found the back of my neck and ran down along my spine with soft, insistent lightness. I kissed his wing a second time, then dragged the tip of my tongue along the sturdy frame in a sudden burst of curiosity. He twitched underneath me, his breath hitching.

I giggled. ‘So sensitive.’

The rhythm of his breath suggested a chuckle. I kissed his wing again and teased along the dark membrane with my tongue until he squirmed beneath me. I laughed, resting my forehead against his shoulder, my hand on his chest. His heartbeat came strong and regular against my palm, and he shifted easily in the pillows even with my weight in his lap.

That seemed like a good sign. I decided to risk a little more distraction.

‘So what does it feel like?’ I said, tickling his other wing just for the pleasure of feeling him twitch. ‘When someone touches your wings?’

He cupped his hand around my chin, tugged up my head to meet his gaze, and released me. I expected his fingers to form letters, words – but instead he lifted his hand to my face and trailed a single, tender fingertip across my bottom lip.

A gossamer touch, but I felt it all the way through my body, tightening somewhere just below my navel. Creon’s eyes turned uncannily sharp again as he watched me from inches away, dragging his finger over the sensitive curve of my lip with lazy, seductive restraint. An aching anticipation built under those lingering caresses. My mouth felt like more than just a mouth, suddenly. It felt like hunger and need and fever.

‘That’s what it’s like?’ My voice had gone hoarse. The first trace of genuine amusement rose on his face – a faint smile, but so familiar I could have cried.

So sensitive, his lips said as he brushed his fingertips along my lips.

I let out a laugh. Teasing. He was teasing again. Even if the exhaustion and pain still weighed heavy on his shoulders … there was a spark in his eyes that hadn't been there a moment ago.

‘Are you returning to life just to make that point?’

His face broke open in a grin as he slipped a first digit between my lips.

I forgot to breathe. Every fibre of my body abruptly focused on the invasion of that slender finger gently sliding into my mouth, probing, exploring. Creon held my gaze with ravenous sharpness as he drove his finger deeper between my lips, filling the wet warmth of my mouth with the taste of soap and skin. His finger was … hard. Hard and unyielding and demanding in a way that made my belly tremble with sudden heat.

I met him with the tip of my tongue, swirling around his fingertip in luscious strokes. His eyes drew tighter as he watched me, his finger a motionless, irresistible weight. That look on his face … I felt it radiating all the way down my body, warming the spot between my legs where that same finger had subjected me to blissful torment last night.

We were past the comforting now, weren’t we?

Past the confusion and the common sense. Somehow we had soared straight back into that dangerous game of lust and whatever it was that made my heart squirm so painfully in my chest at the sight of him. The line had been crossed last night, and there was no uncrossing it.

Not as long as I didn’t want to turn back, at least.

Sleep, he’d suggested. But I could sleep for the rest of my life, and how many times would I find myself on a couch with a half-naked, gorgeous fae prince again?

I held his gaze and sucked on his finger, hard.

His lashes fluttered shut ever so slightly, but his lips curled into a predator’s smile as he pulled back and signed, Hungry already?

The smirk on his face was almost back at the usual levels of cockiness. I scoffed. The musky taste of him lingered on my tongue, unbearably tempting.

‘If you weren’t wounded and altogether pitiable tonight, I’d have bitten you.’

He no longer looked particularly pitiable. Where?

‘Suggestions?’ I muttered, and he cocked his head at me as if to estimate his chances. It took an effort – a considerable effort – not to glance down at the bulge straining against his trousers.

I’m sure you have your ideas, he gestured, his smile a little too knowing.

‘Me?’ I said, eyes wide. ‘An innocent little human?’

Half human. He cupped his free hand around my cheek, running his thumb over my bottom lip again. And less than half innocent.

I suppressed a shiver as his fingertips trailed over my face, my neck. ‘I’m at least three quarters innocent, you ill-mannered brute.’

He raised an eyebrow. Must have been looking at the wrong parts.

‘That seems – oh.’ His nails raked along my neck, a measured, deliberate caress, and a bolt of arousal seared through me. ‘Must you?’

Not this part, he dryly concluded.

Oh, Zera help me. I cleared my throat and managed, ‘Perhaps three quarters was slightly overestimated, but—’

He dropped his left hand to my right and skimmed his fingers over my palm, up over my wrist, in languid circles over my lower arm. Again I couldn’t help but shiver.

A dangerous smile. Not this part either.

‘Don’t you dare—’

Both his hands lay on my bare thighs before I could protest, sliding up my dress as they skimmed their way over my hungry skin.

Self-control. I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting my quickening breath. I was not going to moan. I was not going to shiver. I was not going to give in to the feverish anticipation building just below my skin, every nerve screaming for those exploring fingers to come closer …

His nails dug into the sensitive flesh on the inside of my thigh, and lightning burst through me. A gasp escaped my treacherous lips as every muscle in my body tightened.

‘Alright.’ I hoped my breathless laugh at least sounded like a laugh and not a moan. ‘Let’s agree on half innocent. That might be—’

His fingers slid up another inch, and my breath hitched again. A fraction higher, and the question of my innocence would be definitively decided to my disadvantage.

‘Shouldn’t you be sick and suffering?’ I ground out, sliding away from him, but staying in his lap. The firm bulges of his thighs below my nearly-bared bottom didn’t soothe that burning ache between my legs at all. His breath betrayed his laughter. ‘You were just getting so delightfully manageable, and this—’

His finger slipped below my underwear, and the last air eddied from my lungs as he tore the delicate fabric aside and brushed a single long stroke along my drenched flesh.

‘And that,’ I breathed, clawing my fingers into the couch, ‘that is just a stupid place to go looking for innocence, Creon.’

A wicked grin spread over his face as he pulled back his hand. With a single powerful motion, he lifted me from his lap, turned, and dropped me into the cushions like a rag doll – skirt up to my hips, underwear torn off, hair a mess of unruly curls. I didn’t care. Not when I blinked up and found him standing before me, eyes blazing, shoulders straining. Not when he ran his eyes over me one last time, lingering at the spot where my thighs met, and slowly sank to his knees before me.

Oh.

Oh.

I was trembling, unable to hold myself together as a heady, almost delirious anticipation washed over me. His hands moulded to my thighs again, separating them as his gaze remained fixed on the secrets between. His eyes … They had gone dark and feral, watching me.

‘Creon …’

He met my gaze. No more games, that look said. No more joking around. You’re going to come screaming and begging first, and then we can talk.

‘I want you,’ I whispered.

He unleashed himself upon me.

Head between my legs. Nails into my thighs. His tongue twisted over that sensitive spot between my lips, and I lost all sense of time and place as I arched back into the cushions, the world blurring around me. All I saw was the shape of him between my knees, the rippling muscles of his bared shoulders, the dark silk of his hair, the triumphant arches of his wings rising behind him. The tremor that shook him as he licked me again and I let out a hollow moan of pleasure.

In reply, he lowered his head and slipped his tongue into me. Sheathing himself deep, drinking from me like a starving man.

I couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. The caresses of his tongue and hot breath had me squirming against him, had me moaning his name as if it was the last word left in the world. His hands wrapped around my hips to hold me steady. With agonising laziness, he moved up again, licking and suckling and nibbling, teasing around that little knot of nerves begging for his attention until I whimpered with frustration.

He chuckled against me, his breath over my wetness another layer of torture. All I could think – I wanted more. I needed more, needed to have him inside me and shatter me into oblivion.

‘Creon.’ A hoarse, breathless moan. ‘Creon, please, I—’

His teeth clamped down, slightly. Stars exploded behind my eyelids.

‘I’ll never try to be innocent again,’ I managed, knotting my fingers into the silk strands of his hair. ‘I’ll never call you a brute again. Just … Creon …’

He pulled back, hovering close, breathing against my agonised body. I blinked open my eyes and found his gaze locked on mine. His pupils had swallowed all but the last of his irises, need glistening in that bottomless darkness.

‘I need to touch you,’ I breathed.

Slowly, without letting go of my gaze, he laid a heavy fingertip against my drenched folds. Pushed it half an inch in, waited, and watched me writhe and wriggle.

‘More.’ A mindless chant. ‘Please … more.’

He filled me so slowly with that single finger, such gentle, delicious friction, and it was not enough – not enough by far. I needed abandon. I needed madness. I needed that overwhelming fullness of him inside me, more than his tongue, more than his fingers.

‘More.’

He pulled back.

‘Creon.’ I was going to kill something. I was going to tear this couch to pieces, or the windows. ‘I need your cock. Inside me. Now.’

He speared two fingers into me at once, and my back bounced up from the couch as I arched towards him in bone-shattering frustration. His free arm swept around my waist. With a supple motion, he rose, lifted me, and made for the bed in five long strides. I clawed at his crotch as he lowered me into the blankets, finding him hard as steel under my palm, the tip of his erection pressing so tight against the band of his trousers that it was a miracle the buttons held.

I tore off a couple in my haste to undress him. He pulled my dress over my head so roughly I nearly dislodged an arm. But the gleam in his eyes as he watched me, naked and sprawled out before him … In that moment, I would gladly have lost a limb for that look. For just the smallest taste of his sculpted body, gleaming sinfully in the warm lights of the pavilion.

‘Please,’ I muttered, and I no longer cared that I was begging.

He nudged my legs apart, lowering himself between them. Guided himself towards me until the broad tip of his cock strained against my entrance and even my heart stopped beating in anticipation of what was to come.

His mouth pressed to mine, enveloping me in the intoxicating taste of my own pleasure as he sank into me. A slow, gentle slide, his cock stretching me open all the way to some intangible, nameless core of my being.

Not enough. Not even close to enough.

I wrapped my legs around his hips and buried my nails into his shoulders. His breath turned to a hiss against my lips. Again he drove himself into me, harder this time, filling me with blunt promise – and again he held still at the last moment, thighs straining as he resisted my attempts to draw him deeper.

A moan fell over my lips. His hands clenched to fists in the blankets beside my head, but he pulled back ever so slowly, allowing me to savour every irresistible inch of his hard length as he slid out of me. My body seemed to shrivel in his wake, the ache within me burning for release.

‘You’re holding back.’ My voice gave in at his next thrust – deeper but controlled, constrained by a caution, a self-awareness that hadn't been there in last night’s madness. I didn’t want him constrained after the agony of this day. I didn’t want him sane. I wanted him fierce and frantic – wanted him pounding into me as if the world would end if he didn’t come hard enough to melt his bones to pulp. ‘Stop it … Stop trying …’

His lips slanted over mine in a kiss that demanded silence and surrender. I groaned out a laugh, then yelped as he slammed into me again. He was so breathtakingly huge, stretching me open in such unimaginably delightful ways – and yet, not enough.

‘I don’t want you thinking,’ I managed, wrestling to escape his kiss. Sensations of him washed over me – of his sweet, musky scent, his soft blankets beneath me, his hot skin against mine. His cock claiming me, blurring everything else to a haze of bliss and madness. ‘Don’t try to protect me. Give me the danger. Give me the shame.’

His face was a battlefield of lust and hunger and need as he met my gaze, a gleam in his dark eyes that begged for release. But still he slowed as he buried himself inside me again, leaving my body crying out for that last push, that last inch …

‘Creon,’ I whispered, clawing a hand into his chest. ‘Give me the monster.’

He shattered.

Slammed into me with a soundless snarl, a predator freed from its cage at last – deep enough that I couldn’t even cry or gasp or moan, that I could only burn around him, savouring the feel of him in every last fibre of my body. I set my nails into his shoulder and surrendered. Took him in, the monster, the murderer, every ugly, broken, deadly shard of him, and joined him in his agony and rage. No more soothing kisses. No more gentle caresses. He was hands and teeth and wings as he pounded into me, and I gave in to it.

Revelled in it.

Uncaged, undone, he was power and beauty and death, and he was mine.

Perhaps that word slipped over my lips. Perhaps the sound of it reached his ears even through the moaning and panting and creaking of our madness.

With a soundless growl, he slammed into me a last time and broke, flooded me with his seed as he collapsed on top of me. I felt the spurts of his release fill me, rush after rush. Felt him shudder and tremble against me, inside me. Before it was over, his fingers returned between my legs, rubbing that one desperate spot so fiercely that I came within seconds, hard enough to see suns burn and die behind my eyes.

Then there were just his arms, strong and safe, cradling me, sheltering me. And I could just whisper, ‘That … That was …’

There was no word to finish that sentence. No language capable of capturing this feeling, this wonder, in mere sounds and syllables.

Creon held me closer, wrapping a wing around us. His forehead bumped against mine. When I looked up to kiss him, I found him rumpled and tousled in the blankets, his eyes closed, his lips moving.

Emelin. Emelin.

Gods help me, I was falling.

I’d been falling for a while, I realised in that moment, as I held him and breathed the scent of his nearness, his undoing. I’d been falling ever since the day his fingers first spoke to me, the day he first laughed with me.

And it had frightened me.

But now that I knew what he had sacrificed, now that I finally understood what war he’d fought for so many years, I leaned into that fall. I let myself plummet, into the unfathomable, bottomless depths of my heart, and trusted his arms to catch me.

Chapter 18

It was almost becoming routine, waking up with my back against a warm, muscular chest, the scent of musk and almonds drifting around me. Creon’s hand was slowly stroking along my body this morning, lazy circles over my bare breasts, my stomach, my thighs. I wondered for a moment how long he’d been doing it already – how long I’d slept like that, the Silent Death caressing me like a thing of wonder in his arms.

A sigh escaped me, soft and content.

His hand stilled on my hip. Warm breath fluttered over the skin just below my ear as he nuzzled that sensitive spot, then pressed a quick kiss to my shoulder.

‘Hmm,’ I muttered. ‘Morning.’

He lifted his hand from my hip. Morning.

I snuggled tighter against him and tried to make some sense of last night’s memories. I was so … peaceful. So calm. Because I could want him. Because he was not a monster. Because he had—

He had taken their pain.

Oh, gods.

His broken body on the couch returned to my mind’s eye. That glazed, yellow sheen in his eyes. I swallowed, a little less drowsy now, and whispered, ‘How are you feeling?’

Surprisingly fine. Again he pressed his lips to my neck. You’re an excellent painkiller.

Warm, fuzzy pleasure bloomed through me, but I just gave a content huff and said, ‘Goes to show that I’m a woman of many talents.’

His chuckle warmed my hair. You never fail to impress. Slept well?

‘Little short, for some reason,’ I muttered, wiggling against him. To my satisfaction, the hard length against my thigh twitched in reply. ‘But not unpleasantly. I seem to be spending a lot of time in your arms these days.’

These days, his fingers said, and if fingers could look amused, these did.

I abruptly turned around, narrowing my eyes at him. Creon sent a pleasant smile back at me, amusement twinkling in the dark of his eyes.

These days. With that knowing, teasing smile. Almost as if he knew it wasn’t quite so new an experience for me.

‘Wait,’ I said.

His smile broadened a fraction.

‘Were you even asleep? That time I … I …’

Perhaps not entirely, he admitted dryly.

‘You were awake?’ When I had crawled into his arms at night a week ago, long before I had dared to admit I wanted to do so. When I had been mortified that he might even suspect what I’d done. All the effort I’d made not to wake him, and all that time … ‘Why didn’t you just move me back to my side of the bed, you swine?’

He gave me a wry grin. Is this the moment to tell you you’ve been rolling into my arms since the first night you slept here?

‘I … What?’

He nuzzled the tip of his nose against my forehead. I snorted and shoved away from him, unsure if I should laugh or commit bloody murder.

‘What do you mean I’ve rolled into your arms since …’

He shrugged. I moved you back. Most of the time.

‘You … What? You bastard!’ I let out a laugh. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

You’d have been annoying about it. The look in his eyes challenged me to deny it. Would probably start hugging cactuses to make a point.

He was probably right – I would have died from embarrassment. That one morning had already nearly been the end of me. Cursing the impulses of my own sleeping mind, I scoffed and said, ‘So why didn’t you shove me back that one time?’

Call it an experiment.

‘Oh, you’re absolutely insufferable.’

He grinned at me. I couldn’t help but laugh as I slid back into his arms, wrapped my legs around his, and pressed a kiss to his scarred chest. His hand returned to those languid caresses along my spine, teasing down to just above my bottom.

I closed my eyes and just breathed him in, luxuriating in his scent, his touches, his warmth.

The world felt so unfathomably … easy, suddenly. So very manageable. The Mother was still there, sure. Humans were still dying. My parents still didn’t want to see me again. But Creon was here, holding me, and I was safe and wanted and …

Loved?

Was that a word I was allowed to think?

It didn’t make sense. None of this made sense. It came too easily, too blissfully. All of a sudden, I could allow myself to want him? And he still wanted me, even if the chase was over? No more fighting my own instincts, no more doubting my own morals …

I hadn't known I could feel this safe. But he was holding me, and all I wanted was to be here, just like this, for the rest of time.

And kill the Mother. That, too.

‘Creon?’

He moved back a fraction to meet my gaze. My warm, drowsy happiness seemed to bubble to the surface as I looked up at him; I couldn’t stop smiling for the life of me. ‘There’s something I didn’t tell you yet. About the Labyrinth.’

His brows drew together.

I smiled even more broadly. ‘Don’t get jealous, but I might have been flirting with a mountain a little.’

He let himself roll back in the blankets, frown deepening. You did what?

‘Became friends with the Labyrinth,’ I said brightly. ‘It showed me the way. I have a good bit of the map done.’

Creon stared at me. I pulled my knees to my chest and felt like I might start purring any moment.

It showed you the way. His gestures were slow and incredulous.

‘Yes. Have to admit I didn’t reach the end yet, but the general direction seemed to be reasonably close to where you’d expect to find the bone hall.’

He threw a look over his shoulder, at the table covered in maps and notes. When he turned back to me, his eyes were still a little too wide.

Many talents, indeed.

‘Certainly.’ I stretched with a satisfied yawn, a little too well aware of the way my breasts shifted as I did. Creon certainly noticed. I probably shouldn’t feel so triumphant about the way his eyes abruptly darkened – but it turned out my body hadn't quite gotten used to the presence of a naked, muscled fae male in my bed yet.

So I smiled sweetly at him and added, ‘And what is my reward for this impressive feat?’

I could feel the shift in him, in the way his eyes narrowed and his muscles tensed – could see the hunger flicker to life inside him. A few pointed words and we were no longer lounging in bed, recovering from a night of terror and devastation. I had instigated the hunt. Now my options were losing or losing even more pleasantly.

Any suggestions? Even his gestures were challenges, every twist of his fingers somehow a reminder of what else he might use them for.

‘Hmm,’ I said smugly. ‘You still owe me pancakes, if I’m not mistaken.’

A hunter’s gleam shone in his eyes as he leaned over me, his wings flaring a little wider behind him. I find pancakes much more enjoyable after an appetizer.

I sniggered. ‘I always considered myself more of a dessert.’

I see no need to choose.

‘Greedy, Your Highness. Does nobody in this place teach fae princes any moderation?’

He raised his eyebrow at me. Were you planning to?

I bit my lip. Well. I could, of course, just to make my point. But the want gleaming in his dilated pupils made my point look less and less attractive with every passing heartbeat.

‘Well,’ I said primly. ‘I think I first have to assess how urgent the issue is, don’t you think?’

He turned me in the blankets, spreading my legs before him with a single demanding gesture. I decided within a few moments that the issue really wasn’t in need of urgent solving.

We discussed the Labyrinth over a breakfast of pancakes with lemon and honey, paused our discussion for a rather extensive dessert, and then paused a little longer to take a much-needed bath. By the time we emerged from the bathroom again, it was past noon. It took me a moment to remember why that felt like a problem.

Oh. Lyn and her secrets. Afternoon, today.

I found myself caring very little about whatever she and Tared had to say. If they hadn't told me at our first meeting, it couldn’t be that life-threatening, could it? And it felt … wrong, going behind Creon’s back to meet with his old enemies. Or friends. Or friends-turned-enemies. It had made sense when I didn’t fully dare to trust him, yes. Now that I knew – now that he had trusted me with his secrets …

I’d have to lie again to sneak away on my own. And depending on whatever Lyn had to say, I might have to lie again to cover up my own sudden knowledge.

So what if I just told him?

But before I could seriously begin to consider that option, the shadow of a winged silhouette darkened the windows.

Even in little more than a bathrobe, Creon could be impressively menacing. The interaction with the fae male outside lasted no more than a minute, and judging by the other’s strained voice, that was too much for his taste already. I caught a few words and names I knew – Mother, Rhudak, story. Enough to tell me what was going on.

The shadow on Creon’s face as he restored the window and turned his back on the messenger convinced me to keep my mouth shut about Lyn for now. Not the moment to put more trouble on his shoulders.

‘Does she want to see you?’

Report, he gestured. Might be away for a while.

Which meant I wouldn’t have to lie to get into Faewood unseen. A meagre comfort, knowing that he’d have to face that colourless monster again.

‘Will you be careful?’

A pale smile crossed his face. Always.

‘Good.’

He’d done this for a hundred and thirty years, I reminded myself. Little chance she would suddenly catch wind of his use of that mysterious pain-soothing magic today. And yet my heartbeat wouldn’t fully come down as he dressed and armed himself – not now I knew how much he would sacrifice to defy her authority.

It’s a routine visit, he gestured as he stepped into his boots. No need to look at me as if I’m taking my last breaths. Although your concern is flattering.

How did he always manage to see straight through me? I snorted and said, ‘I have reason to be concerned. Who else is going to make me breakfast?’

Another one of those faint smiles. I’ll be back, Em.

And that left me so lost for sensible thought that I could only sheepishly stare at him and say, ‘Alright. See you.’

Em.

He’d called me Em.

I sat on the edge of his bed for minutes after he’d left, his fingers forming those two letters on my mind’s eye again and again. And took my decision.

I was going to tell him everything.

I was going to inform Lyn and Tared that I was no longer willing to keep their existence a secret. And unless they came up with a very good reason to change my mind, Creon would be fully aware of their presence on the island before nightfall.

I had barely taken two steps into Faewood when Tared appeared next to me in a flicker of light and sudden substance, hands in his pocket, sword on his back. I should have expected him, and yet I shrieked.

‘Apologies,’ he said, and gave me a skewed grin. ‘Fearsome as I am, I wasn’t trying to frighten you. Just wanted to spare you the walk through Faewood.’

Which was considerate, especially if he didn’t know I was a mage – but I still eyed his outstretched hand with some suspicion. For all I knew about alf magic, he could just as easily pull me to the other side of the archipelago.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said, smile coming down a little. ‘I won’t deny I’d prefer to get you out of this place, but it’s your choice. Lyn is waiting at that ruin where we saw you last time.’

Well. At least I could be justified in my fury if he brought me anywhere else.

I laid my fingers in his calloused palm. The world blended with itself again as he gripped me, colours and sounds and smells whirling around me for a single endless heartbeat until the old forest ruin emerged from the chaos. Lyn was indeed waiting, a small fire burning at her feet. She didn’t seem at all unnerved by our sudden appearance, judging by the way she beamed at me.

Most of their Alliance consisted of alves, she’d said. After a few centuries, she must have gotten used to people appearing and vanishing without warning.

‘Welcome back, Emelin! Tea?’

I pulled my hand from Tared’s and mumbled a confirmation. It was damn hard to stay annoyed about their secrets if they insisted on welcoming me like an old friend they’d known for years.

‘There should be a mug behind that bush to your right,’ Lyn said brightly. ‘Yes, that one, behind the – oh, you’ve found it. Something to eat?’

‘No, thank you.’ I fell down next to her and looked at Tared, who pulled a slightly squashed package of nuts from his pocket and stuffed a handful into his mouth. ‘Are you people ever not eating?’

‘Hungry alves are a danger to avoid at all costs,’ Lyn said, grinning at Tared. He threw an almond at her. She caught it from the air and stuck it into her own mouth, looking very satisfied as she chewed it down.

‘It’s the magic,’ Tared said with an apologetic shrug at me. ‘Larger distances take a lot of energy. So does transporting people.’

I blinked. He sank down on Lyn’s other side and shoved another handful of almonds into his mouth, then accepted the full mug she reached him with a nod of gratitude. As she filled my newfound cup with steaming tea too, I said, ‘So … would you starve to death if you had to transport yourself all the way to some northern island?’

Tared grinned. ‘Already looking for ways to kill me?’

‘I like to prepare for the worst in such fearsome company,’ I said modestly. An almond came flying my way, hitting me right between the eyes. I decided to take it as a compliment and added, ‘Am I stumbling upon any unpleasant weaknesses?’

Tared snorted a laugh. ‘You’ll have to try a little harder to get rid of me. We don’t starve, no. But fading on an empty stomach is close to impossible, so you might get stuck in unpleasant places if you don’t feed me in time.’

‘You should see the bakeries at home when we know a group of alves is returning from some mission,’ Lyn said, leaning comfortably against the tree behind her back. ‘I’ve seen one of Tared’s lovely family members devour several loaves of bread after he had to pull twelve people across islands.’

Tared raised an amused eyebrow. ‘Was it Edored?’

‘Of course it was Edored. Bastard seems to waste a lot of energy by just existing.’

They both chuckled. I shifted in the moss and sand, not nearly as determined to spoil their secrets to Creon as I had been five minutes ago. Zera help me, why did they have to be so likeable? A hard ultimatum would have been much easier to give if I had actually felt like carrying it out.

Could I just … ask them nicely? But from the way Tared had looked at the mention of Creon’s name last time, I wasn’t sure if the alf would be much inclined to do his old enemy any favours. Even if I was the one asking for them.

‘Anyway,’ Lyn said, turning back to me. ‘Enough talk of alves. They’re not that interesting anyway. How’ – she ducked to avoid an almond – ‘was your day? Not too much trouble?’

Trouble. I’d tamed a Labyrinth since I last saw her, then patched up a fae assassin torturing himself to near death, and spent most of my night fucking that same fae assassin afterwards.

‘Nothing out of the ordinary,’ I said.

‘Good.’ She didn’t look particularly reassured. ‘And Creon didn’t mind you going out to—’

‘Look,’ I blurted out. Impolite and ill-timed – but if she kept looking so fundamentally decent and so honestly concerned, I would no longer have it in me to protest. ‘Mind if I ask – why exactly is it so important that he doesn’t know you set foot on this bloody island every now and then? Because he would probably agree with your intentions, considering that—’

‘As I said,’ Lyn said, a joyless smile on her face, ‘he’s not particularly fond of us.’

Creon not being particularly fond of Tared … that I could understand. It seemed mutual, at least. But Lyn had pulled him from the Mother’s chains. She’d cared enough to visit him in that cell even when he was still trying to convince her his past life had been the epitome of success. She’d won his trust to the point he’d confided in her about the horrors of his childhood. So why, exactly, would he hate her so much he would not even accept her as an ally?

‘For good reasons?’ I said.

Tared’s face didn’t so much as shift. But he sat too still, even the light no longer shimmering around him, as he looked at Lyn and waited for her to answer.

‘Misunderstandings and mutual frustrations,’ she said, staring at the little fire. ‘It’s a long story.’

‘Which you’re not going to tell me.’

A deep breath. ‘Not today.’

So that wasn’t the point of whatever information she had to share. I put my tea aside, wrapped my arms around myself and said, ‘If it’s all misunderstandings, wouldn’t it be nice to clear them up at some point? A century of mutual hatred seems more than enough to me.’

‘You want to tell him we’re here,’ Tared concluded from the other side of the fire. His voice hadn't exactly gone cold, but it did sound … business-like. Not nearly as pleasantly amused as he had sounded a moment ago.

‘Yes,’ I said.

He sighed. ‘Why?’

‘Because I trust him.’

‘Which is interesting,’ he said, giving me a faint smile, ‘considering that you don’t come across as a very trustful person.’

I frowned. ‘Do you mean interesting in the sense that you don’t trust me or interesting in the sense that you’re actually interested in my reasoning?’

His smile became a grin. ‘We wouldn’t be here if we didn’t trust you.’

‘But?’

‘But there are things you’re not telling us.’

‘Which is mutual,’ I said, and he gave me yet another apologetic shrug.

‘Fine. Tell us about your reasoning and we’ll tell you about ours.’

I glanced at Lyn, but she just nodded and gestured for me to go on. Well. That seemed to mean we were in agreement, then.

‘I’ve been here for a few weeks,’ I said, sitting up straighter. ‘He’s kept his word and protected me so far, and—’

‘As your bargain obliges him to do,’ Tared muttered.

Lyn threw him a withering look. He groaned and added, ‘Sorry, Emelin. Go on.’

‘And,’ I continued, sending him what felt like a reasonable imitation of Lyn’s glare, ‘he has been surprisingly pleasant about it. Which the bargain doesn’t oblige him to do.’

‘Pleasant?’ Lyn said, and if I’d just called Creon adorable, she couldn’t have sounded more confused.

‘Pleasant,’ I said, perhaps a little more emphatically than I should have. ‘Yes.’

‘A bit over a week ago, you told me he was being an insufferable prick to you. Or something along those lines.’

A week. Had it really just been a week? I shrugged that thought off and said, ‘He’s made some progress.’

‘Enough progress that you’d call him pleasant,’ Tared said, making a visible effort to sound neutral but managing very poorly.

‘Well, yes. He … well …’

I felt the words drift out of my grasp. What had I intended to say, exactly? He flirts and jokes with me? That wouldn’t convince them of his good intentions. I’m starting to fall in love with him? The best way to lose their trust in my own good sense. He never even hurt those people, not really? Not my secret to share.

What exactly was it that had changed my mind so fundamentally about him in the past week?

The familiarity. The vulnerability. The honest attempts to treat me like a partner rather than a witless human tool. But how exactly I should explain that to these two …

Everything had shifted so much, so fast. If I was honest, I barely knew how to explain it to myself.

‘Emelin,’ Lyn said, leaning over slightly as she examined me. ‘Forgive the odd question, but how do you feel around him?’

Perpetually aroused. Not the answer they were looking for, presumably. I blinked and said, ‘I feel … safe, I suppose? And … welcome.’

The look she exchanged with Tared was a full conversation in a single glance.

‘You know,’ I said, unable to keep the flare of annoyance from my voice entirely, ‘I think I’ve given enough of my reasoning. If I tell you he’s making an effort to be pleasant to me, why exactly is that something you need to look so suspicious about? Shouldn’t the fact that I changed my mind be enough of an argument?’

‘In most cases, I’d agree with that, yes,’ Tared said grimly.

‘So what’s different in this case? That we’re talking about someone you’ve already decided you dislike?’

‘That’s not the point.’ Lyn drew in a breath, a gesture of a decision made – an inhalation that said, damn it all, we’ll risk the jump. ‘It’s – oh, gods help me. He didn’t tell you about his parents, did he?’

I didn’t like the sound of that at all, and I liked the way Tared pressed his lips together even less.

‘About his mother? He did tell me—’

‘No, not her.’ She glanced at Tared. He gave a small, resigned nod, and she weakly added, ‘His father is the problem here.’

Creon’s mysterious father – powerful mage, killed after his birth, and that was all he’d ever told me. Different story, he’d said the one time I asked about it, and I never returned to the point when there were so many more urgent matters to worry about.

Unease twisted in my gut. He clearly hadn't wanted me to ask more. Clearly didn’t want to talk about that fae male he’d never even known. So what was I doing here, talking to near strangers about secrets I should be asking him about, if I should ask anyone at all?

‘He didn’t tell me about his father,’ I admitted. I felt like a traitor for those words alone. ‘And I’m not sure if I want to discuss … It seems a little unpleasant to go behind his back to—’

‘He’s half demon,’ Tared said.

Faewood went very still.

And so did I. So still that I could almost hear my thoughts creaking to a halt as I stared at the two of them and blinked and went over those words again and blinked some more.

Half demon.

Creon?

That did not make sense – no sense at all. He was as fae as any fae I’d ever met. Surely I would have known – surely someone would have known – if the Silent Death was merely a half blood like me?

Although, I hadn't known the Mother was his actual mother, either. None of the human stories I knew contained that detail.

I shook that thought away, thoughts clinging to any argument, any shred of sense they could find. Of course Creon wasn’t half demon. Demons were monsters – he’d told me so himself, told me even though he had clearly been unhappy with discussing that subject.

Oh, gods.

Unhappy with discussing that secret?

I was spinning. Spinning and spiralling. None of this made sense – and yet it made all the sense in the world.

‘What?’ I managed.

‘His father,’ Tared said, meeting my gaze with a mixture of apology and grim determination in his grey eyes. ‘Kertayan. Was a demon.’

‘But … What?’ I uttered a laugh. ‘Why wouldn’t he have told me? And how is it even relevant to whatever you think I think of him?’

Lyn made a whimpering sound, like a young animal in pain. ‘He really didn’t tell you a lot about demon magic, did he?’

‘He said they go around tormenting people. Which sounded unpleasant enough.’

‘It’s not untrue.’ She rubbed her face, swiping red locks everywhere. ‘It’s just a very limited explanation. Demon magic works on emotions. Feelings. It involves a balance of sorts – a demon will feel the opposite of whatever they do to their target. So most demons make an effort to make their targets feel as unpleasant as possible because it will give them a ridiculous high of emotions. See?’

I stared at her and saw only bloodshot eyes and strained fingers. Took their pain.

Oh, gods.

‘I see.’ My words came out breathless. What had I said? Did you inherit the magic? And he had given me that stiff, reluctant nod – not a lie, technically, but also … Oh, gods. ‘Yes, I see.’

‘And make no mistake,’ Lyn said gloomily, ‘he’s not any less powerful because he’s only half demon. Kertayan was frightening enough from all I’ve heard about him, and half bloods tend to take—’

‘The full powers of each parent,’ I finished mindlessly.

She blinked. ‘Well, yes. Exactly.’

Powers of a fearsome demon and two strong fae females together. I barely dared to breathe. No wonder even fae preferred to stay safely on his good side. No wonder the Mother had been eager to bind him as soon as the chance arose after the War.

‘So the thing is, Emelin,’ Tared said, examining me with a concerned sharpness from the other side of the fire, ‘that it’s rather hard for us to rely on how much you like him. Not because we don’t trust you. We do. But because it would barely be a morning exercise for Creon to determine exactly how you feel about him.’

Dread rose in me like vomit, thick and nauseating.

‘He could make you trust him. He could make you feel safe. He could make you feel like he was the kindest person in the world.’ Something twitched in the alf’s slender face as he glanced aside to meet Lyn’s gaze, then looked back at me. ‘Hell, he could make you fall madly in love with him if he wanted to – and you’d never even know it wasn’t your own heart at play.’

Chapter 19

The beach was a blur.

The woods were a blur.

I stumbled back to the pavilion on instinct and memories. Lyn and Tared’s voices were blurs in my ears, too, all those well-meaning warnings and offers and bits of advice – to leave, to let them deal with Creon, to at least pretend I knew nothing until I learned more about his reasons.

I had shrugged them all off.

They were right, probably. I was being reckless at best, foolish at worst. But none of their careful, balanced suggestions had offered any relief from the heart bleeding to death in my chest – from that gnawing, shattering pain of heartbreak I had thought I knew after leaving Ildhelm.

Now I knew the pain of leaving Helmer behind had been a joke by comparison.

Was it heartbreak? Or was it only an illusion shattering, my true feelings finally tearing through an artfully constructed mirage of blossoming love?

If I left the court with them and never returned, as Lyn had repeated I could do time and time again, I might never know.

So I staggered forwards, unthinking step after step after step, until the pavilion emerged from the green and grey of the foliage. Peaceful green and white windows, carved wooden pillars, blood red roses growing over the whole building. Even now, I couldn’t help thinking of it as home.

Was that a lie, too?

I shattered a window with a thoughtless burst of red. Destruction. I expected the glass to fly miles away when the storm raging in me hit – but it merely vanished, a cleaner blast of colour than I’d ever managed before. A pointed, focused kind of anger, blurring out everything but the calm determination that someone was going to pay for this.

And it wasn’t going to be me.

I climbed the steps to the porch with an icy sort of composure. My feet didn’t even falter as I caught sight of the pavilion’s familiar interior. I stepped inside without crying and wailing and crumbling, my back straight as a pole, my head up high.

Creon was sitting on the couch.

On that same couch where I had stupidly overlooked the implications of his mysterious magical powers. The same couch where I had cleaned him and comforted him and decided so oddly easily that his past no longer meant a damn to me – there he sat, studying my Labyrinth sketches in the sunlight as if the world hadn't just collapsed beneath my feet.

He looked up as he stepped aside. Met my eyes, his hand already lifted to greet me, and frowned.

What’s the matter?

The weight of a mountain seemed to press against my chest. I could barely breathe. Could barely endure the thorny twisting of my heart, that hollow ache of fear and loss inside me. But my voice came out cold and composed even as I barely remembered how to open my mouth, as if another woman was speaking in my place.

‘You know something is the matter.’

He blinked, frown deepening.

‘You can feel something is wrong.’ My voice rose without thought or control. ‘All these weeks, I’ve been wondering how you saw through me so easily – how you always seemed to understand what I was feeling and thinking – and all this time you conveniently forgot to tell me you can sense my emotions? That it’s just your magic at work?’

His face went ashen. What did you—

‘When,’ I snapped, not waiting for him to finish his gestures, ‘were you planning to tell me this?’

He jumped up, wings perched behind his shoulders, eyes shooting from me to the still forest outside and back to me. Em, what—

‘Don’t Em me!’

His eyes grew wider, his gestures more rushed. Where did you—

‘Your first concern is where I’ve been?’ I bit out a razor-sharp laugh, pacing towards the table and the pile of parchment on it. ‘Not explaining what in the damn hell you were thinking, hiding half of your powers all this time? Or how often you’ve been using those powers on me? Or how it’s possible that I’ve been so suspiciously quick to forgive you for every bit of rudeness and cruelty? How … How …’

I didn’t—

‘Did you never use demon magic on me? Can you swear you never used demon magic on me?’

His hands remained frozen, but the blind panic in his eyes told me all I needed to know.

‘You bastard!’ The words burst from me in a frayed sob, and then those damn tears were rolling over my cheeks anyway – real tears, real hurt, and I no longer even knew what for. ‘How much of this is real, Creon? How many of these things I’m feeling are my feelings? And how many did you conveniently plant into my heart because—’

Let me explain—

‘Oh, I damn well hope you’re going to explain this mess!’ I yanked the nearest sheet of empty parchment from a pile. I could no longer bear to be patient. Could no longer stand waiting five, ten seconds for his fingers to shape the gestures I’d taught him myself. ‘Because if you can’t give me a very convincing account of exactly why you kept this quiet and what you have and haven’t been doing to me, I’ll be out of here by tomorrow morning. Need me to further clarify? Or …’

He stared at me, standing tall and aghast in the middle of his home. Out.

‘Yes, Creon. Out.’

Where would you—

‘Oh, I’ll be safe.’ I scoffed. ‘So. Explanations?’

You made a bargain. He didn’t step forward to get a pencil; it took all I had not to throw one in his face. May stop you from leaving even if you—

A cutting, joyless laugh escaped me. ‘That bloody bargain? That’s the argument you want to use to keep me here?’

His fingers stiffened as he closed his eyes. I wanted to cry – wanted to fold into a little ball of misery on the birchwood floor and stay there until the world had somehow fixed itself. What had I hoped for? That he would in a few simple words wipe my fears and suspicions off the table and convincingly prove that he was truly the person I’d thought him to be?

And instead that bloody bargain was the best he could come up with?

He raised his hand again, his motions slow and emphatic. Don’t want you to get hurt—

‘How terribly moving, after you hurt me,’ I bit out, jutting up my chin. I hadn't even thought about that bloody mark at my wrist yet. But then again … ‘And don’t worry, I’m not planning to break the bargain. All I promised was to help you kill the Mother, and I can just as well try to end her with Lyn and—’

Creon stiffened up to the very tips of his wings.

My mouth slapped shut just two words too late. Oh, fuck. A little too busy making a point, a little too heated to think …

Creon stared at me as if I’d shown up with the Mother herself to arrest him.

‘Well,’ I said, my voice half an octave higher. ‘I can just as well work against the Mother with anyone else, is what I’m trying to say. So I doubt the bargain will be much of a—’

Lyn, his lips interrupted me.

Just that single syllable, dazed and disoriented. His hands hung motionless by his sides. Even his wings sagged behind his shoulders, as if all strength was seeping from his muscles. Whatever misunderstandings and mutual frustrations had occurred between him and the Alliance, they were bad enough to dull his face to a wax-like pallor.

Lyn.

I swallowed, cursing myself and my reckless mouth and these bloody secrets everyone insisted on keeping from me.

‘Well.’ There was no sounding casual in the face of those scarred hands clenching to fists, but I’d be damned if I didn’t try. ‘Yes. I happened to run into her.’

His haunted glance outside didn’t escape me. As if Lyn would be standing in the open window suddenly, with those flaming eyes and that deceptively childlike smile. As if it might well be the end of him if she was.

‘Don’t bother looking for her,’ I said sharply. ‘She’s already gone.’

Too dangerous to stay here for long, they had said. And that had been before I had spilled her name to the mage who might still have a score to settle.

Just her? he gestured, turning back to me with rushed, jerky motions.

‘What?’

You said Lyn and. He spelled the and.

Oh, damn me twenty times. And Tared, I had been about to say. The same Tared who couldn’t hear Creon’s name without falling prey to murderous urges. How mutual was that sentiment, exactly? Mutual enough that they hadn't wanted Creon to know about their presence on the island at all, at least.

I should have kept my mouth shut. I should just have gone with them and never show my face to Creon again.

His eyes were pools of ice. Knowing, waiting eyes.

Perhaps he’d already read the truth from whatever hesitation his cursed demon magic could sense around me. Perhaps Lyn and Tared had always been inseparable enough to make the answer self-evident. In either case, I had little to win by lying.

‘And Tared,’ I said, my voice hollow in the utter silence.

His nostrils flared.

‘So.’ Something about that look in his eyes robbed me of all desire to shout. ‘Are we finally getting to the explanations, or—’

Creon turned around. And walked.

‘Hey!’ On reflection, shouting came very easy to me today. ‘Don’t you dare walk out on me without even – Creon!’

He did not look back, did not even falter. With five long strides, he was out on the porch, wings flaring wide behind his back. My burst of red came too late. It splintered the wood above the doorway only when he had already passed, unable to stop or even delay him. I staggered after him, voice rising. ‘Creon, please—’

His wings swept wide, slamming air back into my face.

‘Creon!’

And with three rapid wingbeats, he was gone, leaving only the ruined doorway and my breaking voice behind.

Was it the shock that had brought him to flee me so abruptly? Or was it the realisation that he wasn’t going to twist himself out of whatever truths Lyn and Tared might have told me about his past?

I paced around the pavilion for half an hour and found myself coming no closer to the answer. All I could conclude after wasting that valuable time was that Creon apparently didn’t intend to return anytime soon to give me a decent explanation for his lies.

Which suggested the explanation might not exist.

I should know better than to let that thought hurt me. But it did hurt – claws and barbs straight through my ribs, twisting another drop of blood from the heart I thought had been emptied by now.

Had he really been manipulating me all this time? Taken note of my reactions to his behaviour, figured out the easiest way to please me, and wrapped a little extra appreciation, a little extra sympathy around my heart whenever I could consider it justified? Nudged me into liking him just a little more easily than I would normally have been persuaded to like him, slipped in a generous sprinkle of arousal as time went by …

Barely more than a morning exercise. Tared was presumably right.

Which would mean I had never really fallen in love with him. That without his demon mingling I would just have seen the complicated bastard Lyn and Tared knew, the male who fought to kill the Mother but murdered children all the same, who could play the comfortable housemate as easily as the cold-hearted fae prince. A male to fear, perhaps a male to admire in some twisted way or another – but also a male to keep at a healthy, cautious distance.

All else I felt – a figment of a demon’s imagination.

Intellectually, it made sense. It had all gone so fast, so uncannily easily. I had acknowledged that even before the truth was revealed to me. Demon magic would explain that sudden madness, my unusual willingness to leave every shred of my old life behind within a matter of days.

It made sense. But it felt so, so wrong.

There is nothing small about you.

Had it been a calculated move in his game? A carefully placed remark designed to hit me just where it would affect me most, based on earlier observations and experiments?

Emelin. Emelin.

And the realisation that hit me in that moment, that I was falling so madly in love with him I could taste it on every breath I took – had it been his work?

Why wasn’t he coming back to apologise and answer my questions, damn him?

Because there was no answer to my questions. The little voice in my head would not be denied, no matter how hard I tried to shut it out. I didn’t want to hear that uncomfortably likely answer. I’d stormed into this confrontation with the vague, subconscious expectation that he would once again prove me wrong, that I could still want him, that I was still my very own woman with my very own heart …

And now he wasn’t coming back.

I finally collapsed on the couch and buried my face in my arms. Tears stung my eyes again, hot and painful. He wasn’t coming back, and I wanted him to come back. I wanted my Creon to come back – the Creon who laughed when I was egging him on, who reminded me there was nothing small about me, who told me to want more. The Creon who had killed for me. The Creon I would kill for.

Not this stranger in his skin – the demon who avoided me when pressed for answers.

I should have gone with Lyn and Tared immediately. Not knowing couldn’t possibly have been worse than this dread of knowing what I didn’t want to know.

Tomorrow morning – I’d promised them I’d return to Faewood tomorrow morning, to either come with them or report on whatever solution I had found. If Creon didn’t return, leaving the court for wherever the Alliance had gathered was the only sensible option.

But that left me with hours and hours of waiting and fearing and hoping for things I was not supposed to hope for.

I cursed and jumped up. Bags. If I was leaving, I had to pack my bags. Or at least a singular bag – or at least the few dresses I owned and the sewing materials Creon had given me.

It took me no more than five minutes to gather those meagre belongings. Creon still hadn't shown up.

It was almost like last night again, the nerve-wracking wait for him to return from his Rhudaki torture mission. Except this time, he might not even return. I might pace an empty pavilion until the sun rose again tomorrow, and never even see his face again.

I would go mad. I was going mad already.

There had to be a better way to spend the last hours I had left in the heart of the enemy’s empire – something more useful than moping and whining. Nothing at the court itself, because I didn’t dare to be sure Creon would still protect me if I were to be found. But the rest of the island …

The Labyrinth.

I hadn't finished my map of the Labyrinth yet.

Did I need to? It might come in handy for alves trying to sneak into the palace without me. And in any case, I had promised the Labyrinth I would be back today. I wasn’t sure if mountains kept very strict track of time, but from what I’d read about the place so far, it seemed better not to risk its disappointment.

Something to do. Someplace to go. It soothed the heartbreak for a while, at least.

I found another backpack in Creon’s wardrobe and shoved my parchment, pencils, and half-finished map inside. A leftover bun from yesterday’s food delivery, too – if my stomach somehow recovered its will to exist, I didn’t want to return home to look for lunch.

If I was lucky, I could keep myself busy for at least the rest of the day. Then only a few hours of sleep would separate me from the moment I could finally leave this cursed island.

The Labyrinth welcomed me with a flicker of blue and purple light. It made me feel so much better that I nearly burst out crying again.

‘Thanks,’ I muttered, slipping into the dark tunnel and leaving the doorway open behind me. By now I dared to trust the mountain wouldn’t lock me in while I was exploring the twisting depths of the maze. ‘Glad to have at least one friend left here.’

A comforting gust of warm air wrapped around me. I patted the walls, swallowing the sudden catch in my throat, and added, ‘It might be a while before I’m back, after today. Looks like the fae decided they aren’t too fond of me either. But if it’s alright with you, I’d like to finish our map anyway. That will make it easier to come back to you as soon as possible, at least.’

The blue veins in the floor glowed up again. I smiled weakly.

‘You really are the most brilliant Labyrinth I’ve ever met, have I told you?’

The Labyrinth gave a contented shiver.

I checked my notes of yesterday as I walked the part I had already charted, counting my footsteps to check and marking any recognisable feature that might help another visitor to find their way. It seemed hours had passed by the time I reached the split where I had given up and turned back yesterday.

Yesterday. Before Creon had returned home a mess. Before I had found it in me to forgive him for every human life taken – before he had made me forgive him, perhaps.

Not the time to think about that. Not the time to allow my heart to cave in again. I had work to do.

So I followed the line of twinkling blue and purple, through arches low enough to bump into, past stalactites and stalagmites, around corners sharp enough to cut through bone, until only the map under my fingers could give me the faintest idea of where I was going. Deeper and deeper into the mountain, on a winding road of detour after detour. By the ethereal light of the veins in the rocks, I wouldn’t have been able to tell if I’d been walking in circles for the past two hours.

But there, finally …

A room opened up before me in a sparkle of sapphire and amethyst.

It was barely higher than the rest of the Labyrinth – some eight feet at most, but in most places, the ceiling lay low enough for me to touch it if I jumped. It was wide and deep, though, the walls receding until they were barely visible in the dusk. Larger than any room or cellar I had known at home or on Ildhelm. The only room of this size I’d ever seen before …

The bone hall.

My breath hitched in my lungs as I tiptoed through the broad doorway. Before me, with a small tremble of warm air, the blue glow in the floor sizzled out. But the gems in the walls lit up, shrouding the room in the glory of every imaginable shade, and for a moment, I forgot I was hurt and furious and broken-hearted.

‘We’re below the hall,’ I whispered. ‘The bitch built her throne hall right above this room – mirroring you?’

The lights flickered.

‘So she knew about you?’ I didn’t dare to speak louder than that hushed whisper, as if the monster residing on the throne above me would be able to hear me through the layers of stone that separated us. ‘Or – no, wait, she didn’t build the court herself, did she? That god did it for her?’

A whisper of icy air drifted around me. The Labyrinth, I concluded, had not been too sorry to see Korok leave for good.

‘So they knew of your magic. Was there a reason they tried to imitate you? Some attempt to suck your powers out of the mountain?’ I managed a laugh. ‘It didn’t really work, in any case. No matter how much gold and blood she spends on her cursed palace, it will never even be half as beautiful as this place she’s trying to forget.’

I was not even trying to flatter the Labyrinth anymore. The idea that the Mother had, in any way or form, shaped her court after this wondrous place below and ended up with the monstrous bone hall I had visited above – it went to show the bitch wouldn’t recognise true beauty if it bit her on the frighteningly pale nose.

A small flurry of sparks lit the floor on the other side of the room. I obediently walked over, trying to reconstruct the hall above as I approached. If I was still right about north and south, the entrance of the bone hall should be to my left. Which meant that the place where those icy blue sparks were now swarming through the rocks …

The throne.

The Labyrinth was pointing out exactly where to reach her.

I glanced up. So here she was. Mere dozens of feet above me, on that monstrous seat of bones and skulls. A few bursts of red …

It was so tempting to try. So tempting to see just how powerful the magic of my mysterious fae parent had made me.

But I had to be rational and careful now. Even Creon hadn't known why his mother’s throne was so significant to her, why she wouldn’t leave the damn thing even to take a walk around the palace every now and then. Perhaps destroying it required a highly specific kind of magic. Perhaps it would only be useful under specific circumstances.

I had one chance. If this one failed, she would know about the danger from the Labyrinth and take measures. It would be beyond stupid to take the risk under those circumstances. I had to mark the room on my map, get the hell out of here, and hope that Lyn and Tared had an idea of how to use this information.

It took me a few minutes to convince myself of that fact, though, staring up at the rock that shielded the bitch from me.

‘Alright,’ I said finally, stepping back. ‘I’m going to look for people who know better how to attack her here. I’m not that much of a mage, you see. And when I’ve found them, I’ll come back.’

The warmth wrapping around me felt like a hug. Again I had to swallow away a few tears.

‘And thank you – thank you so much.’

The blue light returned, guiding me back the way I’d come. I moved faster now, no longer bothered with keeping track of my steps or counting the number of splits in the road. It had to be past sunset, considering the hours I’d spent charting and searching. But I didn’t feel tired, didn’t feel hungry; the bread I had taken lay untouched in my bag.

Hours and hours and hours to go until I could leave. The prospect of them was a boulder in my stomach.

Perhaps Creon would have returned to the pavilion by now. I shouldn’t have hoped, and yet I couldn’t help myself as I slunk back through the Labyrinth, slower and slower as I approached the exit. Perhaps he’d scraped himself together and decided he didn’t want me to disappear. Perhaps he’d make an attempt to explain himself. Perhaps it would turn out he had never actually used his magic on me …

He had frozen when I asked him, though. Frozen and not denied it.

Bastard. Why did I even make the effort of hurting for him?

But when I stepped out of the low doorway of the Labyrinth and found a winged silhouette waiting for me in the twilight, my heart leaped into my throat in a confusing mixture of hope and relief and unbridled fury. Had he come back? Figured out where to find me? Waited for me to apologise and beg for forgiveness and …

Only then did I fully take in the sharp, pale face staring at me from the shadows of Faewood. The short, black hair. The cat green eyes. The elaborate silver embroidery on a pompous shirt Creon would never wear.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

‘Hello, Emelin,’ Ophion said.

Chapter 20

He was not alone.

Four, five other pairs of wings moved in the twilight in that single stunned moment. From the corners of my eyes, I could see pale hands raised in my direction, ready to blast a bloodbath of red into my face. Others moved beyond that first line, quiet whispers rustling through the silence of the falling twilight. Whispers of men prepared for bloodshed, prepared for battle.

Prepared for … me?

I stared at Ophion, not daring to move or blink or breathe.

He had been waiting for me to come out, I concluded in that fraction of a heartbeat. Had been waiting for someone to come out, at least. Had one of his men seen me sneak in and warned him? But why would the Mother’s lover – not the weakest of fae males himself, presumably – gather half an army just to constrain a single silly little human?

Unless …

Unless he knew I was not so silly or so human at all.

The thought took root in less than the time it took to blink. Had someone betrayed me? Had Creon betrayed me? What was the chance they would find me here, sneaking through the island’s forbidden Labyrinth, mere hours after I had told a ruthless fae murderer that I wasn’t going to play his games anymore?

But then again, Creon would incriminate himself in outing me, wouldn’t he?

So there might be something else going on. They might not know the truth about me yet. And if they didn’t, holding on to that lie was the only chance of survival I had.

Be stupid. Be innocent. Be unremarkable enough for them to let me go.

‘Lord Ophion!’ I whispered, clutching my map against my chest. How long had I stood there paralysed like a deer surrounded by hunters? Ages, my pounding heart said – but perhaps it was still short enough that I could play it off as a witless girl’s moment of shock. ‘Oh, good gods! You must forgive me – I’m not dressed for such high company at all!’

He blinked. For a moment, the shortest fraction of a moment, his feline smile faltered in what seemed to be a measure of surprise.

‘You are worried about your dress, Emelin?’

‘Well,’ I said breathlessly, glancing down at the simple black dress I had donned that morning. ‘It’s not that pretty, is it, my lord?’

It was black, though. Enough magic at my disposal. But did I dare to take that risk, attacking a dozen fae in the hope that their surprise would allow me to escape? Even if I got away from this rat trap, I’d have to stay out of their hands until sunrise. And if they knew I was an unbound mage, they would presumably be very eager to find me.

I wasn’t going to risk it. Not yet. First I had to figure out what the hell was going on.

Ophion seemed not entirely sure about his triumph now that I showed no intention of pleading for mercy or crying at his feet. His eyes flew from his men back to me as he slowly said, ‘Do you know what place you just walked out of, Emelin?’

Oh, Zera help me. He wasn’t going to let me walk off with a stern warning to resume whatever mission had brought him here.

‘The maze?’ I said brightly, stifling the alarm roaring through every fibre of my body. ‘Oh, yes, of course. You know it too, don’t you? It’s very beautiful, Lord Ophion! Such brilliant colours! You should—’

‘You’re unaware, I understand,’ he interrupted, cat eyes narrowed in obvious puzzlement, ‘that you are not allowed to enter the Labyrinth?’

I made myself fall silent. Made myself blink at him with wide innocent doe eyes, mouth sagging open a fraction.

‘Not … Not allowed?’

‘Not at all,’ he said, and there was a hint of cruelty in his sneer.

‘Did I … Did I break a rule?’

The fae surrounding us lowered their hands on the edges of my sight, one by one, exchanging puzzled glances across the clearing. Not what they had expected, an oblivious little girl? And yet they didn’t see through the guise. Did that mean Creon had not informed them of the truth at all – that he may have had nothing to do with their presence at the Labyrinth?

‘A rule,’ Ophion said with an insincere smile at me, ‘for which violation is punishable by death.’

My heart slammed into my throat. Death. A flick of his hand, a flash of red, and the Mother wouldn’t bat an eye …

I had to buy time. Distract them. Hell, I couldn’t die here – couldn’t let Lyn and Tared wait in vain for me tomorrow. I refused to believe it, refused to believe that every breath I drew deep into my lungs might be the last I’d ever breathe. If I stalled them long enough, surely something would save me? Surely I would eventually figure out how to save myself?

‘By … Oh, but that can’t be.’ I let out a breathless laugh, with all the confidence of a girl too stupid to know when she is in trouble. But I lowered my left hand a fraction until it was firmly pressed against the black of my dress, just in case he decided to execute his death verdict right there and then. I wasn’t going down without a fight, damn him. ‘The door was open, you see. Why would it be open if it was indeed forbidden to enter the maze?’

There. Let him think there was a larger problem at hand than some witless human wandering into the wrong places.

He took the bait. ‘It was open?’

‘Of course, my lord! How could I have opened it?’

Again that puzzled frown slid over his pointy face as he examined me, considering this newest complication. He really hadn't prepared to deal with witless little humans. What had he expected, for him to bring half an army to this place? Some fae intruder?

One of his companions said something from the shadows. It seemed to be a question. She – I understood that word. Parchment. Holding.

I gaped blankly at Ophion as he frowned even more deeply. ‘Good point. What is that parchment you’re holding, Emelin?’

Oh, damn them all. Little sense in lying, I decided in the blink of an eye. They would know as soon as they took a look at my drawing, and lies might be a death sentence. My thoughts worked at frantic speed as I glanced down and exclaimed, ‘Oh, my map!’

‘Your … map?’

‘Yes, of course.’ I fluttered my eyelashes at him, defiantly now. ‘To make sure I could find my way back out. I’m not stupid, Lord Ophion.’

That last statement seemed to befuddle him more than anything I’d said so far. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he snapped a few words in Faerie at one of his men – a sentence I understood in full. Go get Creon.

My heart skipped a beat.

The recipient of the order looked thoroughly unhappy about his assignment. Which seemed to indicate they weren’t cooperating with Creon. Which meant that the Silent Death hadn't betrayed me. The secret of my identity should be safe, then – but even if they didn’t know who I was, what I was, how was I going to explain my traversing forbidden ground? Ophion didn’t give the impression he would be happy to let that question go, even if the question of the open door seemed to unnerve him as much as I had hoped.

But if he pressed me for an explanation, and Creon too …

Contrasting stories might kill the both of us. Unbound mage or not.

My heartbeat was a pounding drum in my ears as Ophion turned back to me, some of that vicious confidence returned to his eyes. I wasn’t what he had expected here. Not what he had hoped for, perhaps. But that look in his eyes … No unexpected development would stop him from using the situation to his advantage, it told me.

And if my life was to be collateral damage, what would he care?

It took all I had to keep my breath in check as he slowly sauntered towards me, the ghost of a smile around his lips again. Punishable by death. The words suddenly landed, slamming the air from my lungs. Punishable by death. He might decide he was done with me now. Might decide my corpse would be more useful to his schemes than my living, breathing body, and no one would stop him.

My left hand clutched my dress so tight my nails bit into the skin below. If he even raised a hand …

He did not raise a hand.

‘Well, Emelin.’ His smile … like a snake’s attempt at sympathy. ‘You’re telling us a rather disconcerting story. Why don’t you come with us to report what you’ve seen to the rest of the court?’

The rest of the court. The Mother. I couldn’t breathe – couldn’t think. He was going to drag me in front of the Mother to tell her I’d been snooping in the Labyrinth, with the entire court watching. And why would she spare me in public? Even if I was innocent and oblivious, I was her perfect example to reinforce the rule – a little human she wouldn’t miss anyway.

Get Creon. Did I dare to hope he would find a way to save me from this trap?

Did I dare to hope he would care at all?

Whenever you don’t put yourself in danger. Did sneaking off on my own into a forbidden maze qualify as endangering myself? If it didn’t, not even the bargain could save me this time …

‘Emelin?’ The soft purr of Ophion’s voice was a warning.

‘Of course,’ I managed, words falling from my lips in a stammer. ‘If I can help, Lord Ophion – but you’re not angry with me, are you? For not knowing that I wasn’t allowed?’

‘Not at all.’ He waved at one of the others without so much as a glance in their direction. ‘Take her.’

Strong arms pulled me back, locking around my wrists like steel cuffs. I stifled a cry. Behind me, the fae male who’d grabbed me chuckled, wrapping an arm around my waist.

‘Quiet, little one.’ It was not a reassurance. ‘Or some of us might decide they’d like to hear some more of those sounds you’re making.’

I stiffened. Two of his brothers in arms laughed behind me. Ophion snapped some annoyed command, and the group became silent again.

The fae male holding me loosened his grip a little. I was fairly certain I understood his question to Ophion – Time to go?

At Ophion’s confirmation, my guardian hoisted me into his arms and shot up into the darkening sky. I barely suppressed a shriek, willing my body to stay still in those stranger’s arms. Below us, the forest was little more than a continuous blur of black and grey. If I moved even an inch too much and he dropped me …

But his hold was steady as he flew towards the candlelit shape of the court, the others following in our wake.

The faster we approached those red marble arches, the more I began to wish he wasn’t holding me so tightly. With every wingbeat that brought me closer to the Mother, being dropped a few dozen feet into the trees below grew into a more and more attractive alternative.

Punishable by death. And hoping for mercy from her … It seemed more realistic to hope for mercy from the hounds.

I could have thrown up when my captor finally flew through the high arch closest to the bone hall. Had I eaten something in the last eight hours, I might have. Now only my knees buckled when I was unceremoniously planted back on my own feet.

Fae laughed around me. Hands grabbed my shoulders, keeping me steady. The world swam in a sea of red and gold and danger.

‘No reason for melodrama,’ Ophion hissed at me as he pushed me into the hall like a contrary toddler. Fae flanked us on either side, a wry guard of honour. ‘Just a few questions, remember?’

Just a few questions. And when I had answered those … then what?

I didn’t ask. I didn’t dare to ask.

The throne was a menacing beacon on the other side of the hall, that cruel pile of bones and skulls … I swallowed down the gall in my throat. I had stood right below that throne barely an hour ago. Had been in the perfect place to work my way up through the rocks and destroy the whole cursed thing – and now I might die before I could even try.

I should never have gone into the Labyrinth again. Should never have so carelessly left that entrance open. Should never have refused Lyn and Tared’s offer to take me away immediately.

I wanted to throw up.

It was almost like that first night at the court again – the stranger’s hand pulling me forward, the blur of dozens and dozens of eyes following me. Survive. That single word had been my lifeline through the shock and the paralysing fear. Survive. But that night, Creon had been there, protecting me even though I didn’t know it yet, and this time …

The Mother waited for us on her throne, lying back in the velvet and silk pillows, dressed in little more than a flimsy organza dress. She was looking mortally bored and desperate for any form of amusement – the bloodier, the better. Her pillowy lips curled into a smile of merciless delight when she caught sight of me.

What had Creon said? She finds you much more interesting …

His first little human plaything since the Last Battle. I swallowed down another surge of bitter gall. Why hadn't he lured any other human women into his bed with those demon powers, if it was so easy for him?

Why hadn't that question occurred to me until now?

And if he had seduced me with his demon magic … why would he even have allowed me to confront him, to leave? Shouldn’t he have been able to pull me back in line with the slightest twitch of his fingers?

The world was spinning. Survive. I didn’t have time for this confusing mess of my feelings now, this painful tangle of dread and desire, anger and grief, loss and hope. I couldn’t allow myself to doubt when all I should think about was staying alive until my next heartbeat. It really shouldn’t be that complicated. He had used his demon magic on me. That hesitation had been as much as a confession. Which made him a deceitful bastard even in the best possible scenario.

And then he might still be my best hope to get out of this predicament.

So I was going to focus, now. I was going to be very, very clever until Ophion’s messenger returned with Creon. I was going to work with him even if I wanted to scream at him, and then …

Then we would see. Perhaps we would talk. Perhaps he would answer my questions after all.

If we didn’t lose our heads before that time, at least.

Survive.

I dropped to my knees before the Mother’s throne, focusing on that single word, that single thought. I was silly little Emelin. I hadn't done anything wrong. I was going to give them more important trouble to worry about. And then Creon would tell them to leave me alone …

Would he?

Hope was all I had.

‘Well, well,’ the Mother said from high above me, tittering. ‘If it isn’t Creon’s little dove again. To what do we owe the honour of her company, Ophion?’

He sounded far too satisfied next to me. ‘You’ll never guess where we found her.’

The Mother laughed again, all traces of boredom gone at once. I squeezed my eyes shut. Was this how Ophion kept her interested – shoving new victims for recreational bloodshed into her hall every now and then?

‘Oh, tell us. You know we don’t like guessing.’

Ophion chuckled. ‘She came wandering out of the Labyrinth.’

The hall turned dead silent.

I breathed in slowly, very slowly, expecting any moment to see a flash of red and then … nothing. But no colour came. Just the sound of the Mother moving in the pillows, and then her voice again, now hard and sharp like a shard of broken glass.

‘Look up, girl.’

I somehow brought myself to raise my head.

She sat upright now, pale white hair pouring over her back and shoulders. Her bored smile had vanished without a trace. In its place was the razor-sharp alertness of the High Lady who had survived for over a thousand years now, who’d conquered worlds and killed gods – all that ancient, deadly focus, aimed at me.

‘The Labyrinth,’ she repeated, slowly, savouring the words.

Ophion cleared his throat. ‘Exactly.’

‘How fascinating.’ She examined me for a long moment of silence. ‘Is that true, little dove?’

I nodded. I didn’t trust my own voice to give a more elaborate answer.

‘Fascinating indeed,’ she muttered, turning to Ophion. ‘What were you doing near the Labyrinth?’

‘Looking for your dear son,’ he said.

My heart skipped a beat.

The Mother, too, stiffened for a fraction in her seat, and her tinkering laugh came out without a touch of amusement. ‘Ever so distrustful. What would Creon have to do with the Labyrinth?’

‘He’s been hoarding books, the library girls told me this morning. Books in which the Labyrinth is mentioned, more specifically.’

I didn’t dare to turn to see Ophion’s face – but the smooth, polished triumph in his voice told me enough. Oh, Zera help me. Ever so distrustful. My little act at that lunch weeks ago hadn't taken his suspicions away at all. Hadn't made him forget the humiliation of his defeat at Creon’s hands. And after weeks of sniffling around …

The library. He had finally found a trace of Creon’s motivations there.

‘Has he?’ The Mother seemed to chew on those words for a moment. Around us, no one in our audience still seemed to be breathing. ‘Remarkable. Did you send for him to join us here?’

‘Of course.’

‘Good.’ She turned back to me, tapping a fingertip against her full bottom lip. ‘Tell us, little dove, have you been reading books about the Labyrinth?’

‘Reading?’ I whispered.

‘Yes, Emelin. Reading.’

I picked the first way out I could think of. ‘Do you … Do you mean the history books with the pretty pictures, Mother?’

She stared at me, one perfect eyebrow arched up towards her hairline.

‘I can’t read Faerie,’ I said awkwardly. Time. I had to buy time. Creon would be here soon, and until he was … I couldn’t say a thing of substance without him. Couldn’t say anything that might contradict whatever story he would spin.

Even if I had no idea if he would spin anything. If he would even try to save me.

‘Ah,’ she said, examining me closely. ‘Of course.’

‘But the pictures were really very pretty, Mother!’ I hurried to say before she could steer the conversation towards more sensible topics. ‘All those colours! There was one painting of the court – I could have sworn it was—’

‘So you never read about the Labyrinth?’ she interrupted, leaning forward in her seat. ‘You had no idea you were not allowed to enter it?’

I blinked up at her. ‘But the door was open, Mother.’

Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. ‘Say that again?’

‘It was open.’ I pouted. ‘So I didn’t think it would be a problem at all if I went in. Of course, if it had been closed, I wouldn’t have gone in, because that is just very impolite, isn’t it? But …’

Her look at Ophion didn’t escape me. Concern, even on that porcelain doll face – because if I hadn't revealed and opened that hidden door, then who had? But just as Ophion sucked in a breath to reply, her dark eyes swept to something farther behind me.

‘Ah, Creon.’

I jerked around. I couldn’t help myself.

He came sauntering in with barely a glance at my miserable figure on the floor – black-clad and beautiful, his eyes cold, a ghost of that uncaring smile around his lips as he stalked over to his mother’s throne. Fae shrunk away from him like waves rolling back from the surf. Away from those deadly knives at his belt. Away from his demon magic. He looked every inch the dark fae prince again, an epitome of cruel, cold power – as if that bitter, desperate fight at the pavilion had never happened. As if he’d never fled me and my knowledge like a child fleeing his nightmares.

And even now, even here, the majestic sight of him was enough to knock the air from my lungs for a moment.

What was I doing? What was my body doing to me? It was supposed to be a lie, this merciless attraction, this need I felt. But my eyes clung to him as he approached, to his swift, slender fingers and his night-black eyes and the contours of muscles below his shirt and trousers, and a painfully familiar sting of twisted desire burnt through me as if it had never been gone.

Give me the monster, I’d said. Here was the monster – and I still wanted him.

Was he still working his magic on me? Was I going mad? Or had I been wrong altogether – so, so wrong …

‘Creon,’ the Mother purred, but there was a vicious sharpness to that one word, and I forced my thoughts away from demons and deceit. Survive. I couldn’t lose focus here.

He raised an eyebrow. Bored and careless.

‘We’re glad you could join us,’ she added, her voice laced with deceptive pleasantness. ‘Perhaps you could clarify for us why your little dove has been found playing in the Labyrinth?’

I saw no more of his reply than a bland shrug, but the Mother’s dark eyes narrowed. She could still hear him speak – it all made sense to me now. Because she was the one who had bound him. Because she owned his voice.

The thought filled me with rage – such senseless, reckless rage.

‘We know you’re not a babysitter,’ she said with venomous sweetness, ‘but is it too much to ask that you keep your humans out of the forbidden parts of this island? What was she doing in Myriskeia, anyway?’

Creon threw me a tired glance, like a parent sick of his rebellious toddler. No trace of an apology in that look, or even an acknowledgement of all that had happened between us mere hours ago. There’s nothing small about you – but that glance … That glance made me feel small indeed.

He gestured for me to get to my feet, then turned back to the Mother again. The stubborn mask of boredom on his face didn’t waver as he answered her.

‘No, that was not all,’ she interrupted within mere moments, nearly snapping now. Zera help me – was he trying to deliberately infuriate her with that careless act? How would that save anyone’s life – mine or his own? ‘Ophion tells us you have been gathering books about the Labyrinth. How are we to connect that to your little girl’s wanderings?’

Again he threw me that look as he answered her in silence. I hastily scrambled to my feet, if only so he couldn’t continue to glare at me from above.

‘She was interested in the Labyrinth?’ the Mother said slowly.

My blood turned to ice in my veins. Creon didn’t even look my way.

Was this how it was going to end, then? Without the bargain forcing him to protect me, he was going to lay the blame on me, present himself as the loyal son who had gotten a little too lax with his human pet, and look the other way as she killed me by whatever painful method she found amusing? My breath rasped through my throat. You bastard, I wanted to snap at him – but swearing at him would give both of us away, and I didn’t see how that would save me …

‘Well.’ That light, tingling voice sounded far too satisfied. I stared at the bones of her throne with unseeing eyes and tried to think, tried to plan – would I have time to run if I lashed out at her now? Was there anything I could say, anything I could do? ‘In that case, it seems the situation is clear. She entered the Labyrinth deliberately. You know the consequences.’

A short silence. I could feel every gaze in the hall pricking between my shoulder blades. The consequences. They knew the consequences. Were already imagining me nailed to the walls of the court or burnt at the stake or torn apart by hounds …

‘You’re not going to defend her?’ the Mother broke the silence, her voice sharp again.

Every fibre in my body screamed at me to stay still. But I couldn’t stop myself turning towards him, battling an overwhelming urge to throw up at the sight of his cold dark eyes – not going to defend her. He wouldn’t even try. Would deliver me to the questionable justice of the Crimson Court and stand aside with that bland, unmoving expression on his face …

His face.

But his fingers – they moved.

My breath hitched in my throat.

Slight, barely noticeable motions, his hand hanging nonchalantly at his thigh. But they were motions. Letters. He was spelling some message at me, and I hadn't even noticed until now—

Blame me.

What?

From up on the throne, the Mother uttered a high, mirthless laugh. ‘Yes, we’re well aware she’s not the only human out there, but you’ve kept this one for weeks. You’ve been amusingly protective of her so far. Why, exactly, aren’t you making more of an effort to keep her alive?’

Oh, gods help me.

At once, everything took on an entirely different look. Was he being deliberately flippant about my life? Playing the guilty one with something to hide, the cornered liar who was trying to silence me before I could say anything incriminating – and doing it so unsubtly that the Mother would immediately realise that something was amiss? That she would …

‘Emelin?’ Her voice cut through my whirling thoughts. ‘Is there anything you wish to tell us, little dove?’

I stared at Creon’s bland face, at his fingers still moving in the edge of my sight. Blame me blame me blame me.

What was he planning to do? How would he save himself?

‘I …’ I managed, stammering. ‘I don’t understand …’

‘Creon,’ she said, the distrust audible in every slowly savoured word, ‘claims he wouldn’t care if we handed you over to the hounds to do with as they please. Not a very pleasant stance on the matter, is it? So we were wondering if there’s anything else you’d like to tell us?’

He finally turned towards me with a piercing, pressing glare. And for a fraction of a moment, I saw something else in the depths of those eyes – something that wasn’t cold, emotionless fae pride. A flicker of feeling. Of … fear.

If he was afraid, my numb thoughts concluded, he cared.

After I’d told him I would leave. After I’d conspired with his enemies against him. After I’d accused him of magic manipulation to win me over – he cared. Blame me. Because betraying him to the Mother would prove my loyalty, at least. But then what would he do? He must have some plan, if he was taking the responsibility on his shoulders so confidently …

‘Emelin?’

There was an unmistakable threat in the way she pronounced my name. I tore my gaze away from Creon’s lethal stare – looking so close to a warning to keep my mouth shut while he pressed me so quietly to do the opposite. The Mother was sitting on the edge of her seat, wings flaring out behind her, pale left hand loosely on the black pillows by her side. One wrong word, I knew, and all would be over.

Blame me.

I caved.

‘Creon,’ I whispered. My voice barely rose over the rustle of the sea in the distance. ‘Creon told me to go in.’

Nothing moved in the hall around me. Not even the Mother herself, stiff and narrow-eyed on her throne. But Creon turned towards me, a feral sneer on his lips – the look of a male who finds himself driven into a corner by little more than a rat.

‘Did he?’ The tone in her voice set every hair on my body on end. How in the world did he expect to talk himself out of this trap? ‘Tell us more, Emelin.’

‘I … I’m so sorry,’ I breathed, blinking tears into my eyes as I looked up at her. ‘I’m so sorry, Mother – he told me to go in. He said it was a … a game! A treasure hunt. He said it wasn’t forbidden if the door wasn’t closed. I’m so sorry! If I’d known that wasn’t true, I would never have gone in, of course. But I don’t understand why … why …’

The hall was silent around me. They had to realise what was happening. What I was implying – that the Silent Death, the Mother’s son, her personal weapon, had lied to her.

Betrayed her.

And that a simple trip to the Labyrinth could hardly be the full story.

But I was his stupid little dove. I didn’t understand loyalty and politics. So I sniffed in that utter silence of slow realisations and snivelled, ‘Why would he lie about that to me?’

She didn’t look my way. Didn’t tear her eyes away from her son, the fae male she’d bred and tortured and bound, as her wings slowly spread wide behind her shoulders.

‘That, Emelin, is an excellent question. Shall we ask him?’

Creon didn’t move. Didn’t even blink, meeting her gaze. Now was the time for clever plans, wasn’t it? Now was the moment he should present whatever brilliant escape he had thought of, whatever excuse could take the blame I’d shifted upon his shoulders and move it somewhere else entirely …

But the Mother’s nostrils flared as she snapped a command in Faerie. I understood the verb – enough to make sense of the statement. Talk to me.

He only stared at her. Unmoved, unaffected.

‘Talk!’

Was he just … not going to answer her? But then she would assume the worst – the truth – that he had indeed betrayed her and that …

The Mother roared. A primal, blood-curdling cry of undiluted rage. And her eyes—

Oh, gods help me. I staggered away from the throne, and nobody seemed to notice. One of her eyes was still deep black, like the darkest of nightmares. But the other had turned that icy blue I remembered from my first night at the court, peering at the tall figure before her throne with the sharpness of a bright summer sky.

Achlys and Melinoë.

Both of them.

Their voices mingled as their shared body opened its mouth, similar but noticeably different now that I heard them together. ‘Answer me, you …’

In a flash, his knife was on its way.

A blaze of silver, splitting the air between him and her throne in two – too fast for my eyes to follow, and not fast enough. The Mother swung up her right hand in an age-old reflex, her left still buried in the black pillows of her throne. A lightning bolt of red set the world on fire, blinding me for a moment. The knife was gone when I blinked open my eyes, and Creon …

As if in a dream, I saw him fall to his knees on the marble floor as the Mother flicked her hand at him again. Saw him arch back, wings cramping, shrivelling, as his lips parted in a heart-wrenching, soundless scream.

‘No!’

The cry escaped me without thinking. No, no, this was not what was supposed to happen. He was going to save us. He was going to save both of us. Torture wasn’t part of the plan – death wasn’t part of the plan.

Half demon or not, he wasn’t going to die on me, was he?

But the Mother laughed on her throne, loud and sharp, and another flash of red split the air. Creon’s face contorted to an unrecognisable mask as he screamed again, hands clenching so tight that blood dripped on the spotless marble below his fists.

‘No,’ I breathed. I couldn’t stop. ‘No! Please—’

‘He betrayed you, Emelin.’ The razor-sharp fury in her voice shut me up. ‘Do you want to know why he sent you into the Labyrinth, little dove? Because that place isn’t safe. For anyone.’ Another crackling burst of red. Before my eyes, Creon slumped against the floor, silent sobs wracking his body as he curled into a ball on the cold marble.

No. No. I couldn’t think fast enough – couldn’t think anything but that single word.

‘He used you. Like the canary in the mine.’ The magic danced on her fingertips as she swung it at him, flashes of red painting her white face in a glow of cruelty. ‘You’ve been nothing but a tool to him. He betrayed you like he betrayed us. Do you still want us to stop?’

No, I should say.

I couldn’t force out the word.

He lay shivering before her throne, his wings wrapped around himself in a useless shield against the torment raining down on him. No defence. He’d done nothing to save himself except for that single, desperate attempt with his knife, and he must have known that would fail … So what in hell had made him take the blame for my transgressions, then, if the bargain didn’t even force him to?

Had he never even planned to save himself?

Had he willingly, knowingly—

I couldn’t breathe. I stared at his broken body curled up on the floor and could … not … breathe.

‘Emelin?’ That sweet, cold voice. Did I still want her to stop? A test. A final check of my loyalty. ‘What do you think we should do with him, little dove?’

‘I – I …’

I was the little girl who had gleefully suggested Creon beheaded someone. The rebellious daughter who had shrugged off her parents’ horrific deaths without blinking. I should have ideas – better ideas than screaming and falling to my knees beside him. I should …

Hidden under the dark cover of his cramping wings, his hand moved. Two minuscule signs, but there was no misunderstanding them.

Kill me.

No, no, no, no, no.

I had to be swaying on my feet. Black spots danced before my eyes as my brain desperately grappled to make sense of the world, to maintain the faintest bit of grip on reality. This couldn’t be happening. I had woken up in his arms this morning – had eaten pancakes and made love to him this morning. He could not lie here at my feet, begging to die. He could not have done this for me … for me.

‘Yes, Emelin?’

Kill me.

‘Shouldn’t you …’ My voice came from miles away. ‘Shouldn’t you just … kill him, if he betrayed you?’

She tittered. ‘Oh, but wouldn’t that be boring?’

A test, indeed. I had to think. I had to stop panicking and be clever now, very clever, or I would be the next one pleading for mercy at her feet.

Survive.

I dragged my gaze away from Creon, back to the black-and-blue eyed, powdery pale figure on that throne. I could survive this night. Could suggest some satisfactory cruel punishment and prove my loyalty, then sneak away in the morning and flee the court forever with Lyn and Tared. But Creon would stay behind to suffer the consequences of her wrath – would suffer them for me.

And I’d thought him to be a heartless liar an hour ago.

My heart hadn't been bleeding that afternoon. It had barely been scratched. The iron claw of regret that pierced through my poor, battered chest now – I might be dying.

No. Survive.

I wasn’t going to die. That was no way of thanking him …

And neither was leaving him here.

At once, the world was clear again, through the shock and the panic and the fear. Because I wasn’t going to leave him here, whatever his hands tried to tell me. I wasn’t going to abandon him, not after he sacrificed his own life for mine. Which meant I had to be able to reach him. Which meant …

‘Well,’ I said and swallowed. I had one chance, and perhaps even that was optimistic. No time to hesitate. No time to ruin it. ‘My father – he was a painter. And he always said …’ I made myself smile at the pale figure on that cursed throne – an empty, mindless smile. ‘He always said you should keep your greatest triumphs on display where everyone would be able to see them. So I think that’s what you should do if you want to hurt him. Not kill him, but keep him here. Because I don’t think he wants the world to see him that way.’

‘What way, little dove?’

I hunched up my shoulders and said, ‘Powerless.’

The Mother laughed – a light, carefree laugh, as if that cruel, violent outburst had never even happened. As if the broken body at her feet wasn’t her son, the murderer she had shaped to serve her.

‘As you wish, Emelin. As you wish.’

Her right hand came up from the pillows. I flinched, but no red light filled the hall. Instead the rattling of chains broke through the breathless silence of our audience, clanking down to us from above.

Above?

I jerked up my head. Chains indeed, unrolling themselves from the ceiling at that slight gesture of her hand. What ungodly magic allowed her to do that, moving things at will?

The iron hooks at the ends slammed against the floor with a dull thud. The Mother sighed, settling herself back in the silk pillows.

‘Ophion?’

I had forgotten her lover next to me. But he moved now, his sharp face shining with such malicious glee that I almost blew my magic into his winged back anyway.

Creon didn’t stir as the other fae male reached him and prodded him with a nonchalant foot. Even his fingers held still now. Perhaps that last plea was all he’d been able to produce before his mind gave in.

And then I hadn't even managed to fulfil that single request.

Ophion snatched one of the hooks from the floor, then knelt at Creon’s side. Before I could wonder what he was planning to do with those chains …

He lifted one of Creon’s wilting wings.

And drove the hook straight through the thin, sensitive membrane.

I stifled a yelp even as every muscle in my body tensed in horror. No. Not his wings. But I was silly little Emelin, morbidly fascinated with cruelty and violence, and nothing I could do would stop him from getting hurt so, so badly—

Survive.

So I stared, sheepish and curious, as Ophion stabbed the second hook through Creon’s left wing as well. I stared as the Mother waved her hand again and the chains rattled into motion. I stared as the hooks yanked Creon’s wings up into the air, and then dragged his limp body with them, higher and higher, until he was dangling motionless at ten feet above the floor.

And when the Mother said, ‘Satisfied, Emelin?’ I giggled and nodded.

‘Excellent.’ She sounded almost – tired, all of a sudden? Perhaps that mysterious magic took more energy than it seemed. I refused to believe it may have been a matter of emotion at her son’s downfall. ‘Now what should we do with you, little dove?’

Let me go, my thoughts pressed. Forget I was ever in that Labyrinth, that you planned to throw me to the hounds. Allow me out of sight long enough for me to figure out how I’m going to free him from your claws.

I lowered my head, squeezed my eyes shut, and muttered, ‘May I ask for a favour, Mother?’

‘A favour?’ She chuckled. ‘You’re full of surprises. Go ahead, then.’

‘I – I just realised you still didn’t get your tribute from Cathra. And I don’t suppose that traitor is going to bring it to you now.’ I glared up at him as I spat out those words, as if he could hear me, dangling powerless by his straining wings. ‘So will you please give me one night to find you something – to make you something to make up for that loss? I’ll be very happy to join the court in your service afterwards.’

She sat examining me as I turned to her – one icy blue eye, one dark, bottomless one – and for a fraction of a moment, I thought I’d gone too far, stretched the believability of my flattery to a point beyond tearing.

Then she smiled and glanced at something behind me.

‘Thysandra, take Emelin to the pavilion to gather her belongings. We will see you tomorrow, little dove.’

Chapter 21

I imagined Creon staring at my back as Thysandra pulled me from that silent hall, ink black eyes following me as I fled him.

Abandoned him.

Hanging powerless and humiliated from the ceiling, while they would do the gods knew what with him until I returned in the morning.

But I had no choice. He had given me no choice. Blame me – if I’d known that command was a suicide mission, would I ever have obeyed? It saved my life, yes, but without him, without his protection … Even if I was alive, his defeat left me powerless and alone at a treacherous fae court too. The Mother might just as well have killed me the next moment. She might have sent me out of the hall without Thysandra’s protection, delivering me to the paws of every single fae male eager to get a taste of Creon Hytherion’s little pet. She might …

You wouldn’t let them.

My heart skipped a beat.

He’d said that, once. He’d known it to be true. Because I hadn't let her – I had acted and lied and flattered, and she had let me go. He had handed himself over to her to give me that chance, to make sure I would reach Faewood at sunrise and escape the court for good.

And I had thought he didn’t care.

It took all I had not to cry as Thysandra scooped me into her arms with more gentleness than I had expected. Somehow, somewhere, I had gone horribly wrong. Drawn a conclusion so utterly incorrect that it was hard to imagine how I’d ever thought it justified. And now I was leaving him behind like that, and if I didn’t sort this out very, very quickly, he would never even know how much I hadn't wanted to blame him …

Or did he know? Had his magic sensed that in me, too, how unwilling I had been to let those accusations over my lips?

A thought that should have been a comfort, and it only brought me closer to tears.

We flew in silence through the night, towards the small beacon of twinkling lights that betrayed the pavilion’s location near the coastline. Looking so peaceful, so familiar, and again I only wanted to curl up in a corner and cry my heart out. Because it might be familiar, but Creon wouldn’t be waiting for me with tea and snacks, wouldn’t be commenting on my magic training from his usual spot at the table, wouldn’t be holding me in his arms while I slept …

By the time Thysandra landed between the trees, I had lost all will to ever see the pavilion again.

She put me back on my feet without a word, then turned one of the windows to dust and nudged me towards the building. As if she could sense that hesitation in me. For a single nonsensical moment, I found myself wondering if she had demon blood too – but no, they called her Demonbane. I should be safe.

She’d trained herself to resist demon magic, Creon had said ages ago, and for a moment, I wondered if he had been the one training her.

I didn’t dare to ask. I didn’t dare to ask anything.

‘Thanks for bringing me,’ I muttered. ‘I … I won’t bother you any longer.’

She only nodded and waited as I trudged past her, up the steps to the porch. Only then did she say, ‘Emelin?’

I tensed but turned. She still stood in the same spot between the trees, the glow of the small lights pouring over her dark skin and her gold-flecked hair and the knives in her boots. But the look on her face was … earnest. Perhaps almost concerned.

‘Are you alright?’ she said.

I stared at her.

This was the woman who had visited the smoking ruins of Cathra and reported back to me without a hint of remorse. Who had gladly cooperated with the Mother to test my devotion to faekind at that lunch weeks ago. And yet – are you alright?

Would she be reporting my answers to her High Lady in a moment? Was this yet another trap, yet another test?

‘I’ll be fine,’ I said and almost forgot to sound like that whiny, wailing little human girl for a moment. To compensate, I sniffed. ‘I’m not going to be less than fine for someone who … who betrayed me.’

A shadow slid over her face. ‘Of course.’

Something told me that wasn’t the full answer. I didn’t move, and neither did she, tall and powerful in the shimmering shadows of the forest.

‘It can be complicated,’ she said, finally. ‘When the wrong people mean the wrong things to you. Come see me if you need help.’

She turned around and vanished between the shadows before I could figure out the correct answer to that offer.

The wrong people. The wrong things. Anaxia, again. How much of herself had she recognised in a frightened little human girl staring at her lover’s unconscious body swinging from the ceiling?

Creon.

Oh, gods, Creon.

I jerked around and staggered inside, into the soft glow of the lights, into the space that had become my home in the past weeks. A half-empty mug beside the couch. My messy Labyrinth notes on the table. Remnants of stones from my magic training in crooks and corners of the room.

My packed bag at the foot of the bed.

I sagged onto the floor beside it and lowered my head between my knees. Breathe. I had to breathe and think and plan – but the air struggled through my throat in pathetic gasps, every muscle in my body caving in now that I was finally safe and unseen.

I could have died.

I should have died.

And instead …

Instead I’d left him there, dying and humiliated. Because after a hundred and thirty years of surviving at any price, he’d preferred a painful death to subjecting me to the Mother’s idea of justice.

Why? Why? He’d lied to me for weeks, had seen straight through my feelings for weeks and never told me, had manipulated my emotions by his own admission. Not the actions of a fae male who gave a damn about me, and yet—

My gaze slid over the packed bag by my side and faltered there.

Sticking out from between the bright colours of my folded dresses, a small corner of pale parchment was peering back at me.

Parchment. My breath hitched. I hadn't taken any parchment with me, I was sure of that – and even if I had, I definitely hadn't stuck it right between my clothes. The only other explanation …

My hands were heavy as marble as I reached for the letter and tugged it out. Line after line of scribbled writing appeared, in that hand so familiar that the sight of it hurt.

Emelin, the first line said.

Don’t Em me, I had snapped at him.

A pit opened in my stomach. But I read – I could do nothing but read.

I hope you’re safe when you read this. I hope you’re well.

I’m starting to realise leaving is the best thing you could do. Lyn and Tared will do a better job of keeping you safe than I ever could. Ask Lyn to tell you what she knows about my past. That should give you most of the story.

This is the one part she doesn’t know:

I met my father once. When I was nine years old, he escaped the cell in which my mother had kept him since my birth and found me. Tortured me. A demon’s sense of humour, I suppose. She found us and killed him before my eyes. Then informed me that I’d just met my father and that I would develop those same powers soon.

I had killed by that time. I knew physical pain – a wide range of it. But demon torture went far beyond anything I’d ever felt, far beyond anything I could bear to inflict on anyone. So I swore that day that I would not be a demon. I would not be my father. What I said to you was true – I don’t want to have these powers. I despise them, despise that part of me.

And I should have told you. I knew I had to. But it was such an unimaginable relief to not be that demon brood to someone for once, and I couldn’t bring myself to ruin that. Couldn’t bring myself to make you despise me, too.

You asked how much of this was real. I can only hope you’ll believe me when I say I used my magic on you just once, the first night you spent here. You were so frightened and so alone, and I couldn’t stand it – knowing I was doing that to you without a way to stop it. So I took some of your fears until you fell asleep. I never needed to do it again. You were so ridiculously brave all this time.

All else you felt – it was yours and yours alone.

And because it seems unfair for me to know your feelings while you don’t know mine – I’ve been in utter awe of you since the moment you started bargaining with me. Wanted you since the moment you forced your first hand signs upon me. Stayed away for a week in some pathetic attempt to get my own heart under control and gave up on it when you told me you didn’t hate me after all. And then somehow you only became … more.

I’m not fully sure what you are to me. I’m not sure if I dare to figure it out. But I know you’re a first, and I’ll be forever grateful for all you taught me.

Stay safe. Stay strong. Tell Lyn I’m sorry. If we meet again, I’ll be here.

Yours,

Creon.

I curled up into a little ball on the floor, clutching the parchment against my chest, and cried until I could no longer speak.

The stars had shifted between the trees when I finally staggered outside again, my throat raw, my heart a battered mess, my mind a numb sheet of nothingness on which only a single truth burnt bright and clear.

I was not going to leave.

Even if I could leave. Even if the Mother had given me enough time to sneak into Faewood at sunrise and hide until Lyn and Tared found me and took me to safety. Because leaving meant leaving Creon behind for his second parent to torture him to death, and I’d rather play the fawning little human to the Mother and Ophion for ten more years than allow any such thing to happen.

So I was going to stay. And save him.

The question was how.

Until today, I had at least been protected at this court – by Creon, by my own insignificance. Now both those layers of security had vanished, leaving me naked and vulnerable, a lamb amongst wolves—

You wouldn’t let them.

Fine. A lamb with hidden claws, then.

What advantages did I have? Magic powers no one knew about – but that was a dangerous weapon to use. Once the secret was out, it would make me a most wanted enemy of the Crimson Court, and that wouldn’t make sneaking into the bone hall any easier.

Apart from my magic, the list of my assets was sickeningly short. A Labyrinth. Needle and thread. A single unsupervised night. And a handful of enemies.

And somehow I’d have to make do with it.

I stared at the forest for what felt like hours as the pieces of the puzzle slowly came together in my head. Ideas locking together and breaking apart again. Thoughts rising and falling. Bouts of hope and pits of despair. But from that whirlwind of my mind something arose at last, something brittle and fragile, a plan that could be the death of me as easily as save me.

But a plan it was.

Two, three times, I looked it over, turning it in my mind for inspection the way Miss Matilda had scrutinised every finished piece about to leave her workshop. I found no gaping holes, no fraying seams, no overlooked loose ends. Just risks. But Creon – I owed him more than a few risks.

So I got up from the cold stone of the porch, pulled on one of Creon’s coats to keep me warm in the chill of the island night, and went to look for horses.

It took me less than an hour to find the stables where I had tried to hide weeks ago. The ramshackle wooden building was mostly dark in the depth of night, but a single lantern burnt near the main entrance, and I dared to assume no one had left a flame so close to the hay without any supervision.

Praying my luck wouldn’t abandon me, I tiptoed to the broad doors and said, ‘Anyone here?’

For a moment, I heard only the snoring and snorting of the horses. Then a familiar low voice snapped, ‘What?’

I thought I might faint from relief.

‘Can I come in? I have a question for you.’

‘Who the fuck are – oh.’ She stopped dead in her tracks as she stumbled into view, her hair in wild peaks around her freckled face, her clothes covered in hay from hip to shoulder. Some of the sharpest spite softened on her face, giving way to an equally sharp confusion. ‘It’s you again?’

I gave an apologetic shrug. ‘As you see.’

‘Thought I told you not to show your stupid face around my animals again.’

‘You did,’ I said. ‘Wasn’t sure how you’d feel about my more intelligent face, though.’

The stable girl stared at me for a moment, eyes narrowed. Then, brusquely, she said, ‘There’s been talk of you all over the place. Of both of you. They say she’s killing him.’

I only barely managed not to flinch. ‘Yes.’

‘Did he betray her? Is that true?’

‘Yes.’

She stared at me, mulling over that new information without softening that suspicious frown etched into her forehead. But she didn’t tell me to piss off. She didn’t threaten to alert the fae to my presence. She didn’t swear.

I clenched my hands into fists and risked the leap.

‘I need your help.’

She scowled. ‘My help?’

‘Yes.’

‘Fuck. You must be desperate.’ A scoffed laugh; my stomach sunk a few inches. I was desperate, and I’d preferred for her not to notice so soon. ‘Why would I help some murderer and his little whore with anything, exactly?’

‘Because he’s trying to kill her,’ I said, closing my eyes. No time to be subtle, then. ‘He’s been trying to kill her for a bloody long time, and I’ve been trying to help him for the past few weeks. Things went wrong, she found him out, and if I don’t get him out of there, we’re never getting rid of her. That’s the short version of the story. Can we talk?’

She didn’t move. ‘You’re not his fae whore, then.’

‘Not exactly, no.’

Perhaps she heard the small tremble in my voice, because her eyes narrowed another fraction. But she nodded and turned, stalking back into her domain in those grubby boy’s clothes.

‘Come in, then. Don’t step in the shit.’

I followed her to the back of the stables, to the heap of hay where I’d tried to hide last time. She’d been sleeping in that same spot until I woke her, it seemed. A leather drinking sack, a small towel, and a grey piece of soap lay in the same corner of the building. I had overlooked them in the darkness and my distress last time.

‘Are you actually living here?’

She snorted. ‘Technically, no. But it’s a better place to stay than Greyside.’

‘Greyside?’

‘Fuck’s sake. You really don’t know anything, do you?’ She plopped down in the hay and gestured for me to follow her example. ‘They’re keeping humans in a couple of places on this island. Greyside is the village fifteen minutes away from here. Lies between the land they make us work and the gallows where they hang us if we cause trouble.’

‘Why would they need gallows to—’

She cut me off. ‘Because a couple of swinging corpses sends more of a message than an obliterated body. You should know. Your dear friend is the one littering the world with those messages, in case you forgot.’

Right. I decided to keep my mouth shut about demon powers for now. Something told me they wouldn’t appease her.

‘I – I see.’

She snorted. ‘The intelligent face isn’t very convincing so far.’

‘Oh, for hell’s sake,’ I snapped, my restraint crumbling. ‘I’m trying to be polite, but if you don’t care about any of that – want to try looking intelligent after spending a few hours before that damn throne, lying to the bitch’s face and knowing every next word could be your last? I haven’t had the best of nights, in case it wasn’t clear.’

‘Hm.’ She cocked her head at me. ‘That’s better. Perhaps you’re salvageable. What was your name again?’

‘Emelin.’

‘Pleasure. Finn.’ She sank back in the hay, folding her arms over her chest. ‘So what do you need my help for?’

I sent a prayer to every god I could think of. ‘To free Creon and flee the court.’

‘Flee.’ She bit out a laugh. ‘Thought you were planning to kill her.’

‘I am. But I need him alive – I need his knowledge of her weak spots – and by the time I’ve gotten him out of there …’ I swallowed. ‘I might need to get out of her sight for a while.’

‘Weak spots aren’t going to help you,’ Finn said sharply. ‘She can’t be killed. Something she’s done with fae magic. Miss Inga told me about those … those …’

‘Bindings. Yes, I know.’

‘So then …’

‘She didn’t bind me, though.’

Finn stared at me, nose wrinkled in appalled confusion. ‘What?’

‘She didn’t bind me. That’s why I’m here. Because I’m …’

‘Fae?’

I closed my eyes. ‘Half fae.’

For a moment, she was silent.

Then she burst out laughing.

Loud, boisterous bursts of laughter, echoing through the silent night in oddly infectious roars. She’d fallen back into the hay when I blinked open my eyes, wiping the tears from her cheeks as another fit of mirth rolled through her.

I swallowed. Remembering Creon’s silent body swinging from those hooks, her amusement seemed too much out of place to be true.

‘I don’t see what’s so funny about—’

‘So that’s why the fucker pulled you from that island? To fix his own lacking powers? To do a job he couldn’t do himself?’ She clamped a hand over her own mouth, smothering another burst of laughter. ‘Zera have mercy. The bastard must have hated that.’

‘Oh,’ I said, wry grin breaking through, ‘you’ve met some fae.’

She snorted. ‘Please tell me you made him pay for it. Had him polish your shoes for you or—’

‘No shoes.’ I swallowed away the catch in my throat. ‘He did make me breakfast.’

‘Hell. That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in a decade.’ She let out a last chuckle, then threw me a look. ‘And now you want to go save him.’

‘Yes.’

‘Bit of a fae whore after all?’

I considered that. ‘A bit.’

‘Thought so.’ She scoffed, but the sound lacked that older, derisive edge. ‘Well. As long as he makes you breakfast. And as long as you get rid of that mother of his.’

‘Was planning to,’ I said, unable to suppress a shiver at the mention of her.

‘Excellent.’ The last of her laughter had vanished now, but her curtness did not return as she sat up straighter and leaned over to me and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Fine, then. Tell me what you need from me.’

I blinked at her.

‘You’re doing the stupid face again.’ Her grin was positively wolfish. ‘Don’t look that surprised, fae whore. Any chance I get to annoy the fuckers – I’m taking it. So. What’s the plan?’

The sky was already paling above the eastern horizon when I finally reached the pavilion again, tired as death but bursting with a grim determination that wiped out every thought of sleep.

Less than an hour until sunrise and most of the pieces had moved into place. There was just one final task to take care of in these last quiet minutes of the night – a rush job, but six months at Miss Matilda’s workshop had at least prepared me to sew under pressure. So I got my needles and scissors, took my favourite light blue dress and the blood-red creation Creon had sent me for the Mother’s party, and found a silent spot on the porch. There I set to work.

By the very first light of day, I cut and stitched until the sun came creeping above the horizon and my adjusted dress was ready.

I did not wait any longer, then. There was no sense in waiting.

I put on my blue dress and folded Creon’s letter into the pocket I’d just created. Everything else I left behind. There was no way to take it with me without raising suspicion, and losing a handful of clothes was a small price to pay for my life.

One last look over my shoulder was all I allowed myself as a goodbye – a single glance to memorise the place I’d begun to call home. The broad bed and the velvet couch. The birchwood table, covered in books I could still barely read. The soft glow of the faelights and the peaceful green windows.

Then I turned away and walked. Over the twisting forest path, up the slope of the mountain – back into the lion’s den.

Chapter 22

The climb was so steep that I had to pause to gather my breath at every other bend in the road. Parts of the path were paved and easily accessible; other parts, though, were muddy and slippery and crumbling at the edges, as if even the road to the palace’s front door was another test, the Mother determining who was worthy of reaching her home.

And with every step I took, the Crimson Court loomed closer, a macabre giant towering over me, waiting to swallow me whole.

I glared back at it at every turn. There was nothing small about me. I wasn’t going to let a bloody castle convince me otherwise.

I was a sweaty mess by the time I reached the top of the climb, my blue dress sticking to my back and armpits, my face burning hot and doubtlessly red enough to blend in with the crimson marble walls. I didn’t pause to freshen up. The more pathetic and miserable I looked, the better it was for me.

The palace was still quiet, so soon after sunrise. Here and there, I caught a glimpse of some human servants as I tiptoed through the broad corridors, but they never looked my way, and avoided me like the plague. Fae whore. Creon’s sudden downfall hadn't changed much about that, presumably – not after I’d betrayed him and subsequently offered to make up for those despised tributes to the Mother.

So be it. I could worry about humanity’s opinion later.

The court was large – so much larger than it looked on the outside. I tried to follow the way Creon had walked that very first night, but it had been too long ago, and every arch and gallery and staircase looked just like the next one. After fifteen minutes, I began to consider the option that I had gotten stuck in some fae trap that condemned me to wander in circles between these walls for the rest of eternity.

From behind me, a voice purred, ‘Looking for someone, sweetheart?’

I jerked around. A tall fae male had approached me within a few feet, his smirk full of suggestions. I shrunk back a few steps to get away from that expression alone, that look that said, I’m inviting you to a game, and denying or winning are not among your options.

‘I – I’m looking for the bone hall, lord fae!’

His smile widened at that title, revealing a row of eerily white teeth. ‘But not in a hurry, I presume?’

The tone of his voice was a quiet warning. If I didn’t give the right answer voluntarily, it said, he wouldn’t hesitate to take it by force. And if I resisted, it would get ugly.

Very ugly. And very dangerous.

So I said, ‘I am in a bit of a hurry, lord fae. The Mother summoned me, and I don’t think she likes to wait.’ I giggled, just to take away any impression that I might be threatening him. ‘But if you would be so kind as to escort me to the hall, I think I will have time after I have presented her with my gift?’

Close enough to the right answer. He winked at me.

‘At once, then, sweetheart.’

‘Very kind of you, my lord!’

Kindness, my arse. But my giggling and tiptoeing seemed to have the desired effect, and he showed no sign of suspicion as he led me through the marble maze. Up the stairs. Through a couple of doors I’d never have dared to open on my own. Down another flight of stairs, through another lengthy gallery, until finally, a couple of familiar arches emerged from the blur of abundance and the broad copper-plated gate to the bone hall loomed before me.

My feet faltered, then. I couldn’t help it.

‘Nervous after all?’ The observation seemed to amuse him. Bastard. ‘No reason to worry, sweetheart. I’m sure the Mother will appreciate your little gift.’

I was quite sure she wouldn’t. It was not what my nerves were rattling about. Facing her – I’d had a full night to prepare for that part. What I had banned from my thoughts for as long as I needed to stay sane …

Facing Creon.

Or what was left of him.

Because if I stepped around that last corner and didn’t find him where I’d abandoned him last night – if I found him hanging bloodied and lifeless from those chains – I wasn’t sure what I’d do. How my magic would react. If the walls and the fae male beside me would survive, and what the Mother would do to me in retaliation.

You wouldn’t let her.

Right. Knees shaking or not, fear clenching in my gut or not, I wouldn’t.

I forced myself to take one step. Then another one. Then I was walking again, such long strides that my self-proclaimed guide had to hurry to catch up with me. For better or worse, it was time to get it over with. Five more steps to the last corner. Three. Two. One – and the hall opened up before me.

My eyes flew to that spot beside the throne before they could notice anything else. Found his motionless form still there, dangling from those hooks like a pig at the butcher’s.

Still there.

For a single, long heartbeat, I dared to be relieved.

And then I saw the rest. His face, pale as wax, his wings, stretching so tight from his weight that they might rip out any moment. There was a tear in his shirt – a tear that hadn't been there yesterday. The dark velvet of his wings was dusty on one side. Half hidden below his dark hair, his neck and shoulder showed a bright red abrasion, and now that I looked closer, the third finger on his left hand bent the wrong way.

She hadn't left him alone through the night.

My stomach churned. Had he woken up during those long, torturous hours? Found himself alone and surrounded by enemies, with me nowhere to be seen?

Leaving was the best you could do …

No. No, it wasn’t.

I swept my gaze over the rest of the hall as I hesitated there in the doorway, like the prim, timid little human they believed me to be. Most of last night’s crowd had vanished. The Mother was still there on her throne, wholly black-eyed again. Ophion lounged on the pillows beside her, still looking far too satisfied with his triumph of yesterday.

Fury itched at my fingertips. I held it still, contained. This was not the moment for reckless bursts of destruction.

A small group of fae gathered around that monstrous creation of bones, gesturing wildly as they discussed whatever matters of state a prince’s betrayal brought up. I spotted Thysandra in their middle, cold and unperturbable again. The others – I’d seen some of their faces before but didn’t know their names. No doubt they were established mages in their own right.

This, then, was to be my battlefield.

I tiptoed gingerly over the threshold. A tiny twenty-year-old near-human, wingless and barely trained, in muddy boots and an innocent blue dress. Here to steal back a traitor from the beautiful, colourless creature of inhuman power that focused her gaze on me in that moment, aware of every step, every word spoken in her hall like a spider at the centre of its web.

Creon’s words danced before my mind’s eye. He taught her the magic of the gods …

A smile curled around the Mother’s full, white lips as I cautiously approached her throne. A smile older than this court. Older than any of these people. Older than three dozen of my lifetimes combined. A smile that had convinced a god to violate the ancient rules of his kind and hand over his powers with the last of his common sense and, eventually, his life.

I lowered my head. And walked on.

The conversations faltered around me as the group of fae dispersed around the throne, freeing a path for me. Staring at the floor, I counted the pairs of feet on the edges of my sight – five of them, ten of them. Too many of them. If your one attempt fails … Creon had written what seemed like ages ago.

My mouth was dry as ash, but I didn’t falter. Not until I’d passed those rows of fae and found myself at the foot of the Mother’s throne, bones and skulls towering over me. There I knelt, praying my legs wouldn’t give out on that cold marble floor.

Five years went by, it seemed, as I waited for her to greet me. Then, finally, ‘Emelin.’

‘Good morning, Mother,’ I managed. ‘I hope I didn’t stay away too long.’

‘You did not. We had company.’ A tinkle of ice-cold laughter, but she didn’t sound amused. ‘You promised us a gift, little dove.’

My empty hands. I should have known her cold, greedy heart would take note.

‘It’s just a small gift, Mother,’ I breathed, looking up. From a dozen feet above me, her ink-black eyes pierced through me. ‘But it’s coming from the bottom of my heart.’

Her gesture was an impatient command. Get on with it, then, it said.

I took half a step back, far enough from her throne to look her in the eyes. Far enough, too, to glance around the pile of bones, at where Creon’s limp body hung motionless in the air. Behind me, the Mother’s attendants were silent. Wondering, perhaps, whether I’d survive the offering of an unsatisfactory present.

I slipped my left hand into my newly created pocket, as if to pull out my gift.

She’s very fast. As soon as she sees you draw …

My fingertips found the blood-red velvet I’d stitched onto the inside of my dress, hidden from the rest of the world.

‘This,’ I whispered, meeting her eyes, ‘is on behalf of Cathra.’

And I swung my right hand up.

A lightning flash of the brightest crimson split the air between us, striking the one vulnerable spot I’d aimed for – those ink-black eyes glaring down at me.

I knew I’d hit my target before she even screamed. Felt the destruction, the disintegration, as soon as the full flaming red force of my rage left my fingertips. But I didn’t pause to await her reaction, didn’t give myself even a fraction of a second to assess the damage done – because these few moments were all I had, these last instants of frozen bewilderment before the gathered magics of the fae around me hit …

In a single, supple motion, I swung my right hand aside and fired a next whiplash of crimson into Creon’s chains. And down, sending a measured burst of pale salmon into the marble floor beneath his body. The stone pulverised, Creon’s motionless body fell … and fell … and vanished through the hole I had opened up below his feet, into the darkness beneath.

A meticulously planned, perfectly executed sequence of colours, ingrained into me during hours and hours of breaking stones to smithereens. A single second was all it took.

I started running.

And only then did the Mother scream.

It was that sound, that frayed, razor-sharp cry of agony, that broke the paralysis of the hall. A voice bellowed behind me, a flash of red cracked against the floor a fraction of an inch behind my heel, and I dove into the crater I’d broken open myself, drawing every drop of blue from my dress as I plummeted into the darkness of the Labyrinth. Above me, around me, the hole healed itself under the next burst of my magic, shutting out the cacophony rising in the bone hall.

I landed a moment later, slammed into a stack of hay bales with such force that I couldn’t remember how to breathe for two whole heartbeats.

No time to breathe. No time to think.

I rolled onto my back, gasping for air, and dragged myself upright. Creon had landed half a foot to my left, his body sprawled limply in the hay that Finn and I had hauled into the heart of the Labyrinth. His wings lay crumpled at unnatural angles, the cruel iron hooks still buried in the torn membrane.

‘Creon?’ I hissed.

He didn’t move.

Fuck. I knelt next to him and prodded his shoulder, repeating his name, louder now. He didn’t stir, didn’t twitch. As if I was shaking a corpse. Around me, the walls of the Labyrinth flickered in a restless blue, wisps of air urging me to move, to hurry.

I couldn’t move. Not until I knew …

I grabbed his limp arm and tightened my fingers around his wrist. Faint, irregular – but I did feel a pulse.

A bang went off somewhere far above me, loud enough to stir the mountain itself. The ceiling of the underground room cracked, and dust rained down over us.

Fuck.

Never mind about waking him, then. I hooked my hands below his armpits and dragged him with me to the nearest exit, praying that the iron scraping along his wings wouldn’t damage them any further. Again the mountain shook. The crack in the stone above me widened, and a first sliver of light fell through the dust and rock fragments. Move, move, move – but Creon’s lifeless body was too heavy, and I was too slow. A third blast of red lit up the underground cellar for the blink of an eye, and the shadow of a winged figure filled the hole that cracked open in the ceiling.

I kept my left hand on Creon’s black shirt and drew my next red attack from the very tips of my toes.

My magic collided with the fae coming down before he had even fully entered the Labyrinth. The burst of red cut through his left wing with a sickening, ripping sound. Tendons tore. Blood spurted. The fae screamed as he crashed into the hay, flinging desperate flashes of blue over his shoulder as he writhed in pain.

I bit away the urge to help. He hadn't bothered to help Creon either.

The screams and curses of pain seemed to delay the next volunteer from above for at least a few moments. The sound of voices reached me as I hauled Creon’s body farther back, the Mother’s shrill commands, Ophion’s furious raging. Another bone-shattering explosion rolled through the hall, and a handful of bones and bone fragments tumbled through the hole into the Labyrinth.

Looked like the loss of her sight wasn’t doing her coordination any good. I couldn’t suppress a wry grin of triumph as I dragged Creon around the first bend and paused to gather my breath and feel his pulse again. Still alive. Thank the gods.

Around the corner, a new voice descended into the room, cursing and swearing at the sight of his injured friend. I couldn’t make sense of most of his tirade, but the shreds of Faerie I could understand were clear enough – this stupid place … little bitch … should break down … mountain …

‘Well,’ I whispered, resting my forehead against cool, gem-covered rock. ‘Sounds like someone never learned manners, hm?’

The icy breeze that stroked my shoulders and neck made me shiver.

‘Where is she?’ That sentence I understood in its entirety, shouted at the wounded fae I’d left behind. ‘Where did she go?’

A low rumble rolled through the rock beneath my feet, and the shouting abruptly stilled. More hesitant now, my pursuer started, ‘What …’

The Labyrinth shook. Shivered. And around me, the walls of smooth black rock and glittering gems slowly began to move.

The fae screamed.

I sat paralysed. I could only stare as the mountain stretched and shifted like a giant waking from its sleep, gems flickering red in a silent declaration of war. Farther away, the Mother was still shrieking orders – ‘Down! Go down!’ But the two males who had followed me into the innards of the mountain were screaming, pleading for the opposite as the walls closed in around them and they scrambled for safety …

Then, suddenly, silence, so deep I could hear only my own ragged breath. The corridor had sealed shut behind me, like a wound closing over – separating me from the room behind, from the screaming fae and the Mother’s explosions.

‘Oh.’ My voice came out breathless and hoarse. ‘Oh, gods. Thank you.’

A twinkle of blue. A breeze of warm air. I suppressed a sob of relief and sagged back against the cool wall, closing my eyes for just a moment – safe. I was safe. Or at least as much as I would ever be until I reached Lyn and Tared in Faewood.

‘Creon?’ I whispered again.

I hadn't expected him to wake up, but it still hurt when he didn’t.

Cursing my sore limbs and rattling heart, I shoved closer to him and bent over his wings. The hooks still stuck through their small, cruel holes – stabbed through the sensitive spot where I had kissed him a mere two nights ago. Even as I carefully pried the iron out, he didn’t react.

I shut out the fear, shut out the faint shreds of screaming that reached me every now and then from behind the stone tunnel walls, and forced myself to get to my feet. Focus. I couldn’t afford to slack now, to stray from the plan and wait too long for him to wake up. I had prepared for this possibility; I should make use of it.

The horse waited where Finn and I had left it, just around the next corner, bound to a slender pillar of stone. It looked a little suspicious as I approached, but not particularly skittish. It seemed that Finn hadn't been exaggerating when she picked this animal and told me old Wilfred wouldn’t interrupt his meal even for a bursting volcano.

My fingers trembled so heavily that it took me six attempts to loosen the knots. Wilfred waited patiently, chewing on the hay we’d left him.

Bit of a simpleton, Finn told me as we steered the horse and the hay through the tunnels. But he knows how to lie down, at least. And he’ll carry you and that fae bastard well enough.

I just had to get Creon into that saddle somehow.

Wilfred didn’t seem to think much of the unconscious fae body sprawled out on the stones as I led him back to Creon. I tapped him against the legs twice, the command Finn had shown me, and he obediently lay down.

‘Creon?’

Still no reaction. Could I drag him over the horse’s back like some bag of grain? It might worsen his injuries, to be ridden around like that. If I wasn’t very careful, he might slip off and fall.

I muttered a curse. Damn the bitch and whatever she’d done to him. I hadn't expected him to be this far gone.

Could I heal him with my last bit of blue? I knelt beside him, searching for visible wounds. Apart from that abrasion on his neck and his broken hand, there wasn’t much. Mostly internal injuries, then, and I had no idea how to deal with those. Just burying him in blue magic sounded like a risky endeavour if I had never tried anything similar before.

‘Creon.’ I wrapped my hands around his feverish face and rested my forehead against his. Around us, the mountain shook again. We didn’t have much time left – sooner or later, even the Labyrinth would give in to godly magic. ‘Creon, it’s me. I’m trying to get you out of here. But you have to come back to me for a moment.’

A shiver ran through his body. Barely more than an involuntary twitch, but I could have cried at that first sign of life.

‘It’s me,’ I whispered. Another loud bang had the walls tremble around me. ‘It’s Emelin. Wake up, please. I need you.’

Hitching, faltering breath brushed over my lips. The Labyrinth rumbled and groaned, resisting some force I could barely begin to imagine. I tightened my hands on his jaws and tried again. ‘Creon?’

He jerked to life on the stone floor beneath me. I pulled back my head and watched his eyes flutter open – dull and glazed, but focused on my face with too much intent for him to be entirely gone.

He blinked. Once, twice. Then his dry, cracked lips moved in silence.

Em?

The relief that washed over me – I could have died from it.

‘It’s me. We’re escaping.’ Only then did he seem to notice the blue-lit corridor behind me, the horse waiting patiently beside us. ‘I’m getting you out of here. You’ll be alright, I promise, but—’

The loudest explosion so far rattled the walls.

‘But we need to get the hell away from this place.’ I leaned close to him, holding his gaze as his eyelids sagged shut a fraction. ‘Don’t leave me now, Creon. I need you to get on that horse. If you can manage that, I’ll take care of the rest. But you need to help me a little now, alright?’

His gaze didn’t brighten, but he gave a minuscule nod.

‘Good. Let me—’

He lifted his hands before I could finish my sentence. The left fell back down immediately, but the right one reached my shoulder, then clutched around my neck so tightly it hurt, nails digging into my skin. I flinched.

‘Ow! Creon—’

He dragged me down with surprising strength, slamming my mouth into his in the most chaotic, uncomfortable, glorious kiss of my lifetime.

Teeth hit teeth. My chin slammed against his as I lost my balance. I tasted blood and wasn’t sure whose it was. But his lips enveloped mine with such familiar warmth, such familiar hunger, that I forgot for a moment about the world ending around us, about the seething High Lady on our heels, about Lyn and Tared waiting for me in Faewood. He was alive. He was alive. I clawed my hands into his shoulders and kissed him on that dusty stone floor, kissed him to tell him I was sorry, I was grateful, I was here, and they’d have to kill me before I let him go again …

He slackened under my hands.

With a gasp, I pulled back, just as the mountain shivered once more. ‘Creon?’

His eyes were falling shut.

‘Oh, fuck. Not yet, Creon.’ I shook his shoulders as hard as I could. He blinked, gaping up at me as if he barely remembered my name. ‘You have to get on the horse first. Then you can collapse again, yes?’

His drowsy gaze drifted to Wilfred, who snorted softly at every bang rolling through the mountain. His lips repeated, Horse.

‘Very good. Horse.’ I shoved back, tugging him upright as gently as I managed. ‘I can’t lift you – you’re too heavy for me. It’s all the bloody muscle, I suppose. Can you crawl?’

Every movement had his face contorting into a tormented grimace – but he moved, dragging wings and a limp left arm along as he hauled himself towards Wilfred. I followed, pulling and pushing wherever it seemed to help, tugging hands and feet into place as he somehow straddled the horse’s back. When Wilfred rose, Creon was still awake. By the time I climbed into the saddle behind him, grabbed the reins, and wrapped my free arm around him, careful not to further damage his wings, he had already lost consciousness again.

At least I had him in the saddle. We could move, now.

The Labyrinth guided us outside with lines of sparkling light, tunnels widening whenever they were too narrow for a horse to pass through. The violent rumbling sounded more and more distant as we got away from the heart of the mountain. It really couldn’t be more than a few minutes to the exit now. There was the sharp corner I’d learned to recognise after I’d almost stumbled into it with my arms full of hay; there was the stalactite Finn had pointed out, the one looking oddly like a human figure drooping from the ceiling …

We rounded the last corner, finally, and behind us, the world was almost silent again. Before me, behind the small doorway, I could distinguish sun-streaked trees and wisps of morning mist, a panorama that would have been peaceful if I hadn't known it to be Faewood.

Thank the gods.

I kept my left hand tight on Creon’s shirt, a dark moss green since I’d pulled some of the red from the cloth. No hounds moved between the foliage as Wilfred burst from the open door, clearly relieved to be back in the open again. I sucked in the briny sea air, dizzy from exhaustion and on the brink of crying with relief. We were out. We were out. So close to safety. If Lyn and Tared hadn't hidden themselves too well …

‘Not bad,’ a familiar voice said behind me. ‘Really not bad at all, Emelin.’

I jerked around so fast I nearly threw myself from the saddle.

Gold-flecked wings, bright scarlet dress – Thysandra, leaning casually against a thin tree trunk just beyond the tunnel entrance with a curved blade in her right hand and a cold, hard smile on her face.

Oh, damn me twice over.

Could I run? With that red she was wearing and the long blade in her hand – a fool’s bet. Between the trees, she would be faster and more agile than me, on a plodding horse and with an unconscious body in my arms. Did it make sense to fight? She’d been in the hall. She knew what to expect from me. After her centuries of training, I didn’t stand a chance.

Thysandra didn’t even move. Just stood there, absently cleaning her nails with the tip of her dagger as she watched me and waited.

I yanked on the reins, and Wilfred made a slow, unwilling quarter-turn. My heart was sinking into my guts. My head was pounding, a withering headache arising from the panic and exhaustion. But with Creon so heavy against me, his life dependent on my protection, I’d be damned if I let her know I might drop off this horse any moment. If this was going to be a game of wits, at least I could look her in the eyes.

‘Hello, Thysandra.’ I couldn’t force the effort to sound like silly little Emelin through the haze of nauseating fear. Silly little Emelin had died in the Labyrinth, as far as I was concerned. ‘Lovely to see you here.’

She clucked her tongue. ‘Half fae, then?’

‘Seems like it, yes.’

‘Unbound?’

I shrugged, hoping she wouldn’t notice my sweaty, trembling hands. ‘I think recent events are a pretty clear indication of that.’

‘Yes.’ She cocked her head at me, black and gold locks falling over a muscular shoulder. ‘You’ve been fooling us for a while, haven’t you?’

Was that why she hadn't blown me to bloody shreds yet? Because she wanted to see her suspicions confirmed first – wanted to understand what had happened at her court before she followed the Mother’s orders and ended me right here and now?

Did that give me time to delay her? To somehow talk myself out of this trap?

‘You had your suspicions,’ I managed to say. ‘Last night.’

‘Not suspicions. Call it interest.’ A tremble of amusement brushed over her proud face. ‘You do a convincing empty-headed twit, don’t get me wrong. But it was rather impressive how often you managed to say exactly the right half-witted things.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

‘As it was intended to be.’ She stood up a little straighter, and her eyes wandered to Creon’s unconscious body for a fraction of a moment. ‘A shame that you had to make some people rather unhappy, little dove.’

‘First of all,’ I said, a stab of fury momentarily trumping my fear, ‘piss off. The name is Emelin. Second of all, the unhappiness is mutual. Third of all, to what do I owe this charm offense?’

‘Interest, once again,’ she said, but it came out too slow, too thoughtful. ‘Where were you planning to go? Hoping the hounds would keep you safe?’

‘Why would I tell you?’

Thysandra shrugged. ‘You seem to be in a situation where you could use some goodwill.’

‘And goodwill isn’t going to keep me alive when you drag me back into the bone hall in a minute,’ I said, clamping my left hand tightly into Creon’s dark green shirt. ‘I’m not going to give you or the old bitch any more information than you already have, thank you very much.’

‘As you wish,’ she said, cold and flat – but there was a spark of something else in her eyes as she shoved her knife back into the sheath at her hip. Something close to … disappointment?

What had she expected?

I swallowed, confusion tearing through my exhausted brain. Why had she snuck out on her own when she realised where I would be headed? Why hadn't she blown my face off the moment I stuck my head out of that tunnel? Why did she care where I intended to go, if there was no way I would eventually reach—

Oh.

Wait.

Wait.

I was an idiot.

Of course she wasn’t going to tell me what she was looking for. Not if it revealed a weakness, a crack in the façade of the proud warrior, the loyal servant. But she had understood, last night.

‘I could pass on your regards, though,’ I blurted out before I could think it through another moment. How long did I have? How long would it take before Ophion or anyone else got the luminous idea to keep an eye on the exit where I would sooner or later emerge from the Labyrinth?

Thysandra didn’t freeze. Not exactly. But her hands did … tighten.

‘Why would I care to pass on my regards?’

‘Don’t know,’ I said, watching her closely. Was that a flicker of hope in her eyes? ‘There might be some old friends of yours out there that you’d like to—’

‘Of course there aren’t,’ she snapped and stepped forward so brusquely that Wilfred neighed in clear alarm. ‘Well, enough with the chatting, then. The Mother will—’

‘She still cries whenever she hears your name,’ I said. ‘Did you know?’

Thysandra stiffened three steps away from me. ‘What?’

‘Anaxia.’ No time to be subtle – not if she had finally realised herself what she had hoped for and was determined to deny it. ‘They’ve stopped mentioning you whenever she’s around. She’ll be inconsolable for days. I take it you didn’t know?’

I hadn't known it was possible for anyone to pale that abruptly, dark skin turning a greyish pallor within a heartbeat or two. A hundred and thirty years. Had she received even a shred of new information about Anaxia in all that time?

‘You … You have contacts in the Alliance?’ Her voice had gone hoarse.

‘Yes.’

‘You—’ She interrupted herself with a cutting laugh. ‘Never mind. It doesn’t matter. My orders are clear enough.’

‘And nobody knows you’ve even seen me.’

Thysandra scoffed, the sound of it too desperate. ‘There’s such a thing as loyalty.’

‘Ah,’ I said pleasantly. ‘That same loyalty that made you spare Naxi’s life during the Last Battle, I presume?’

A shiver ran through her at that nickname. I hadn't known it would be possible for Thysandra Daimonicheira to look timid, either. But in the pale morning light, the female before me seemed to shrink further with every silent moment, memories and guilty conscience dragging her into some shell that didn’t suit her, didn’t fit her.

‘How much do you know?’ Even her voice had gone hoarse.

‘After I lived with Creon for weeks? Enough.’

Her gaze trailed to Creon’s motionless body in my arms again, with a look of what was almost … fear?

She’d told him, he’d said. Now that I understood more about his powers, understood that he must have been able to sense that violent infatuation in her, I couldn’t help but wonder how voluntary her confession had been.

‘This may be your last chance in a while,’ I said, pushing that thought aside. ‘Drag me back into the Mother’s hands and I’ll never be able to pass on any message again. And I doubt the Alliance will come knocking at your door to ask for a word. Are you willing to wait another century for your next opportunity?’

She stared at me, unmoving. Jaw clenched, mind torn between opposite reflexes. High above us, a loud bang shook the sprawling buildings of the Crimson Court.

‘Thysandra?’

A voice cried out commands, somewhere up the mountain. From this distance, I couldn’t make out the words, but Thysandra flinched another inch. I shifted in the saddle, every fibre of my body begging me to run and save myself before they could come down and find us here.

But she might stop me. And make the wrong decision.

‘Thysandra, please.’

‘Tell her …’ Her voice was barely a whisper. ‘Tell her I should have slit her throat when I had the chance.’

I blinked.

She curled her lip up at me, reaching for her dagger again. Her fingers twitched around the hilt as if she couldn’t wait to throw it into my face.

‘And get out of my sight,’ she added hoarsely, ‘before I change my mind, little dove.’

Not the moment to be offended. Not the moment to wonder about fae romance and demon’s tears. I had allies to find and a dying traitor to save.

‘Right,’ I said, turning Wilfred away from her. ‘Thanks. I’ll pass it on. Good day to you, too.’

And I bolted.

Faewood was all thorny vines and twisting branches, tearing at my dress, hooking into my skin, tangling in my hair. I barely noticed the pain as I drove Wilfred deeper and deeper into the dark of the forest, clutching Creon to my chest with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking. The last of my sanity was rapidly unravelling. Lyn and Tared. That was all I could focus on. Find Lyn and Tared, and all would be fine; we would get out; we would be safe …

Behind me, the Mother’s wrath was still shaking the foundations of the court. Voices were still crying alarm around the palace, shouting commands at forces I couldn’t see. It wouldn’t be long, I vaguely realised, before she gave up on the Labyrinth and sent her cronies swarming over the island instead. Wouldn’t be long before she aimed her gaze at Faewood and the secrets it hid. As soon as anyone with wings took a look at this part of the island, we’d be lost.

I refused to think about it. Refused to think about anything but Creon’s body in my arms and the path we were slowly, stubbornly clearing through the eerie dusk of these woods.

If I could reach the beach, they’d find us. If I could reach the gnarled tree that marked the border of Faewood, they’d find us. I clung to those sorry excuses for plans, pulling vines out of my way, shielding Creon’s wings from the thorns as well as I could. Beach. Tree. Simple, manageable thoughts. By the time I’d managed that part—

A flash of fire soared through the air on the edge of my sight and vanished again.

Fire. I yanked Wilfred’s reins and blinked up at the sky above me – bright blue, the last pink and orange of the sunrise dissolving. Nothing that could reasonably be mistaken for flames. Either I was going mad, or—

‘What in hell,’ Tared’s voice burst from between the trees the next moment, ‘is going on on this gods-damned island?’

And before he’d spoken his last word, Lyn’s voice, twice as shrill: ‘Creon!’

They broke from the foliage in a burst of light and fire, Lyn on Tared’s back, flaming wings still leaking over her shoulders. She jumped down as soon as his footsteps faltered, the fire now playing around her fingers and forearms as well. Ready to fight. Ready to defend. Next to her, Tared froze in his tracks, staring at Creon’s motionless body with bewildered grey eyes.

I felt myself waver in the saddle. If not for my arms around Creon’s chest, holding me steady, I might have slipped into the moss and sand at Wilfred’s feet.

‘Morning,’ I managed, thoughts stumbling over themselves in the surge of relief that washed over me. Explanations. This was probably a moment for explanations. ‘Glad to see you. We had some … er … unexpected developments.’

‘Gods have mercy,’ Lyn whispered, covering her mouth with a small hand. ‘What happened to his wings?’

‘Hooks. Ceiling.’ I closed my eyes. The image returned to me far too easily. ‘Bone hall.’

‘What?’

‘She found him out. Well, found me out. Then – oh, never mind.’ I sucked in a shivering breath, looking up. ‘Can I explain this later? He needs to come with us, is the summary. She—’

‘No.’

I slapped my mouth shut.

Tared stood frozen in the same spot, knuckles white around his sword hilt. Had it not been his voice blurting out that single word, I would have doubted he’d even spoken at all.

No.

I stared at him. He didn’t look up to meet my gaze.

‘Tared?’ Lyn said.

‘Beg your bloody pardon?’ I said.

He took two staggering steps away from me, away from the wilted body in my arms, with none of the usual alf grace in his movements. I had expected to see hate in his look and was prepared to loathe him for it in turn – but as he finally tore his eyes away from Creon and looked up at me again, all I could find in the lines on his face was pure, undiluted fear.

That took the words from me for an instant.

‘Emelin …’ he started, and it sounded like a plea.

A plea for me to give up. To let go of the body in my arms and come with them on my own, to leave Creon behind to suffer his fate at the Mother’s hands. Darkness hovered at the edges of my sight as I stared at him, the last of my relief vaporising. No – he wasn’t going to refuse to take us, was he? I hadn't braved High Ladies and stable girls only for my last allies to betray me on the threshold of safety, had I?

‘He … He has to come.’ I couldn’t find better words. Couldn’t think of any more elaborate arguments to make. ‘He saved my life. He’ll die here. He—’

‘I’m not going to take him with me.’ Tared’s words came out on the verge of panic, his voice too high and too hoarse. ‘Emelin, I’ll be overjoyed to get you out of here, but I can’t … he can’t …’

His sentence drifted off, unfinished. Behind me, hounds howled. I didn’t dare to move – didn’t dare to pull my hands from Creon’s warm body. If I let go of him now …

I couldn’t let go of him now.

‘Tared,’ Lyn said again, and the undertone flickering through that name set the hairs rising on the back of my neck. ‘Be reasonable.’

‘What – you want to start housing him again?’ A bitter laugh fell from his lips as he jerked around to face her. ‘After how that ended last time?’

‘He’s injured.’

His nostrils flared. ‘Like last time.’

Lyn flung up her hands before I could interrupt, fire crackling at her fingertips. ‘And she about murdered him!’

‘Yes,’ Tared said, closing his eyes. ‘Like last time.’

‘Oh, for the bloody gods’ sake – Tared, this is not exactly the moment for—’

‘So when would be the moment?’ he burst out, his voice cracking. My presence seemed to have been forgotten entirely. ‘Next time we’re all in each other’s hair again over his very damn existence? Next time he betrays us because the truth doesn’t suit his poor little feelings? We’ve done this before, and I know how that ended, so will you excuse me for being—’

‘Mind if I say something?’ I said.

He snapped around, breathing in jagged, jerky gasps. Next to him, Lyn again muttered, ‘Tared …’

‘It cost us far too much last time,’ he said hoarsely. Again that odd, heart-breaking plea in his voice. ‘I’m sorry, Emelin, I really am, but I’m not going to risk—’

‘I blinded the Mother,’ I said.

Both of them stiffened at that.

‘You … what?’

‘Blinded,’ I repeated, sucking in a deep breath. ‘The Mother. Flung a blast of red into her face and ran out again. She’s not taking it very well, it seems.’

As if to underline my words, another loud rumble rose from somewhere deep in the mountain behind me.

Lyn stood staring at me from between the tangles and thorns, her eyes widening slowly, her mouth sagging open a fraction. ‘Are you saying you’re—’

‘Half fae,’ I finished flatly. ‘And unbound.’

Her mouth fell shut. Next to her, Tared had grown pale like the foam of the sea.

‘So.’ I forced a smile at them. ‘You might have a use for me. And I’m more than happy to help you out. But I didn’t pull Creon from under her damn nose just to leave him to the hounds.’ He stirred under my hands at the mention of his name, as if a last conscious part of him was listening, fighting to stay with me. It was that small stirring that gave me the courage to shrug and add, ‘Take both of us or leave both of us here. Your pick.’

Loud shouts went up behind us – mere minutes behind us. Pursuers, finally. Had they picked up our trail already?

Tared’s eyes flicked towards the forest, noting the sounds, the threat. ‘They’ll kill you if you stay here.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And you still won’t have an unbound mage at your side.’

He closed his eyes and muttered a bleak curse in a language I didn’t know. ‘You are starting to sound very fae there, Emelin.’

‘I won’t be fae about the rest, I promise.’ I wanted to be angry, I really wanted to, but with that mortal dread twitching on his face, how could I not feel guilty for whatever terror I was pushing upon him? ‘I’ll go wherever you need me to go and blow up whatever court you need me to blow up, but get him out of here, Tared. Please.’

He swallowed, fingers fidgeting around his sword hilt. Behind me, the voices of our pursuers were getting closer and closer.

‘Tared,’ Lyn said quietly.

A shiver ran through him.

‘Tared, we can talk about this later.’ She slipped a small hand into his, eyes darting from his averted face to Creon’s slumping body. Her next words came in another language I had never even heard. It was no more than a few quick sentences, but the alf’s slender shoulders loosened a fraction. When he looked up to meet my gaze, the rising resignation in his grey eyes told me enough.

‘Sorry,’ I muttered.

He bit away another curse but stepped forward, shoving his sword back into the sheath on his back. I flinched as he held out his arms for Creon. A first glimpse of wry amusement flickered back to life on his face.

‘I’m not going to tear him to shreds with my bare hands, Emelin. Let me get him off that horse. Don’t want to pull the poor thing with us, too.’

I swallowed and uneasily loosened my hands from Creon’s battered torso. He slid into Tared’s arms like a lifeless rag doll, wings drooping around him as the alf lowered him into the moss with more care than I had dared to expect. Lyn knelt next to him, feeling his pulse and checking his temperature with quick, seasoned gestures far older than her seven years.

‘Emelin?’ Tared said.

I turned back to him and the hand he was holding out to me. A peace offering, the apology in his eyes said. A quiet promise that whatever had occurred between him and Creon – it didn’t have to stand between us.

‘You would have left him here.’ It was hard not to make it sound like an accusation. ‘You really would have …’

‘Things happened,’ he said, his voice so quiet not even Lyn would hear him. ‘He’s not the only one who came out of that situation a little battered, Emelin.’

And there it was again – a flash of that old agony, a hurt of centuries that had lain concealed behind that bitter hate until this moment. Battered, indeed. Whatever had happened between Creon and the Alliance – whatever had happened between him and Tared – it went far beyond simple dislike and animosity.

Far beyond anything I could understand in the mere minutes we had.

I steeled myself and took his hand. We could talk later.

Even with Tared’s support, my knees buckled as soon as I hit the ground. He had to grab my shoulder to keep me standing. The voices were everywhere, now – in the air above us, the forest around us. Any moment, I expected an army of fae to come bursting from the foliage, setting the world alight in a sea of red …

‘Well,’ Tared said, glancing at the sky with another flicker of that casual amusement on his face. ‘Time to get out of here, then?’

‘Thought you’d never say it,’ Lyn said, looking up from her examination. He managed a chuckle that seemed to be more for her benefit than his and reached for her with his free hand.

She grabbed it tightly, wrapping her small fingers around Creon’s wrist at the same moment. ‘Ready?’

He nodded but hesitated a last moment, glancing once more at the blood-red palace towering over us. When he turned to meet my gaze, a joyless, wolfish grin had grown around his lips – a look that contained more bloodlust than amusement.

‘But you’d better kill the bitch for us, Emelin.’

‘Deal,’ I said.

‘Good,’ he said.

And the world dissolved in blurs of colour and sound around us.

Emelin and Creon's story continues in book 2 of the
Fae Isles series, Lord of Gold and Glory. You can
get it HERE or at https://mybook.to/logag

Want to get all the latest news about releases, free books
and other fun stuff? Sign up for my newsletter via
www.lisettemarshall.com/sign-up.

Other books by Lisette Marshall

The Princess & The Spy

She despises his coldness. He loathes her nosy questions. But to avoid a war, they have no choice but to work together...

When a rebellious princess joins forces with her father’s cold, bitter spymaster to keep her kingdom safe, there is no denying the forbidden fire flaring up between them.

The Queen & The Assassin

He was supposed to kill her, not to melt her iron heart...

When a common enemy threatens both their lives, a ruthless queen and the assassin out for her life have no choice but to close an uncertain alliance. And as shadows of the past draw them deeper and deeper into a tangle of deceit, sizzling hate turns into something much more dangerous…

For a complete overview of all Lisette's published and upcoming work, visit www.lisettemarshall.com/books.

About the Author

Lisette Marshall is a fantasy romance author, language nerd and cartography enthusiast. Having grown up on a steady diet of epic fantasy, regency romance and cosy mysteries, she now writes steamy, swoony stories with a generous sprinkle of murder.

Lisette lives in the Netherlands (yes, below sea level) with her boyfriend and the few house plants that miraculously survive her highly irregular watering regime. When she’s not reading or writing, she can usually be found drawing fantasy maps, baking and eating too many chocolate cookies, or geeking out over Ancient Greek.

To get in touch, visit www.lisettemarshall.com, or follow @authorlisettemarshall on Instagram, where she spends way too much time looking at pretty book pictures.

Table of Contents

- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Other books by Lisette Marshall
- About the Author