Unwelcome, untimely. I had no space for it—not when I wanted a life beneath the Italian sun. Not… whatever this was.
He leaned closer, and the indigo strands of his hair tickled my cheek.
“You better hope we find that horse you startled,” he purred. “Otherwise, you’ll be flying to Charing Cross.”
His weight didn’t crush me—he was careful, balanced on one elbow. His other hand still pinned my wrists, but something flickered in his gaze. Something almost… human.
“Then you better get off me, Emrys,” I said.
He stilled. And pulled back a bit too fast. When he stood, his wings dissolved into mist.
“It’s not wise to run,” he said flatly. “I’m your best chance of surviving this. These woods are crawling with Hollowborn—and worse.”
Excuse me? Worse? What could be possibly worse than undead flying demons craving human flesh?
That was a challenge to the imagination.
My pulse hammered in my ears. I gathered my skirts and stood up without looking at him.
A moment later, he disappeared into the fog.
“Miss Daphne!” his voice called from another direction. “I have our horse!”
I ran toward him, away from the black trees. He reached down and pulled me back into the saddle. I didn’t flinch. I let his warmth close around me like armor.
Trees gave way to cobbles. Fog peeled back to reveal lantern light.
The tension in my shoulders slowly loosened. We were back in London.
And I was still not free.
Daphne
The Curiosity Shop
The city choked me with soot-stained fog and the sharp tang of coal in the air. Gas lanterns flickered like fireflies along crooked streets, their glow barely piercing the gloom. Horse-drawn carriages rattled past, wheels splashing through the mud. Somewhere nearby, a drunkard sang off-key, and a baby cried behind a boarded window. My fingers tightened around the saddle, and I scanned the dark alleys that bled off the main road. I felt watched. What if the Renegade’s monsters had followed us? Or Vexley’s men?
An odd vibration shook me. I glanced at Emrys. There was no doubt—this winged lunatic was actually laughing.
“It didn’t change that much, Miss Daphne! Gods, how I missed this mud!” He winked at a woman with too much rouge on her cheeks who smoked a pipe and tossed a coin to a beggar. “This is how freedom smells!” He took a deep breath and spurred the horse.
We passed through slums where bent-backed men huddled over barrels of fire and children watched with hollow eyes. Signs for pawn shops, opium dens, and shady taverns hung overhead. It was like seeing it for the first time. Hiseuphoria was infectious. There was no Arthur around to control my every gaze, my every move. It was just me and Emrys, both drunk on that feeling of freedom, of the world at our fingertips. The traffic grew heavier. Wheels thundered. Hooves clattered against the soot-stained walls.
Like a dome of iron and glass rising from the receding mist stood the Charing Cross railroad station. Warm lamplight spilled through towering windows, reflecting off the damp cobblestones. The rhythmic clatter of carriages and the shrill cry of porters drifted into the night, a strange symphony of order after the lawless neighborhoods we’d ridden through.
To my surprise, Emrys pulled the reins and steered the horse into a narrow alley.
A hooded figure stood motionless in the shadows near a narrow shopfront with windows smeared by decades of smoke. A single lantern trickled light over a rusted brass sign: Hearth & Hollow: Tobacconist and Purveyor of Exotic Goods. Emrys swung down from the saddle. Before I could ask, his hands were on my waist, and he pulled me down. He steadied me as I staggered, then turned to the mysterious man. The figure nodded once in recognition as he handed over the reins. They murmured something to each other—too soft for me to catch—and the stranger led the horse into the fog, vanishing like a ghost into the alley.
Emrys turned, his eyes gleaming silver. “Stay close,” he said, pushing the shop door open.
The scent hit me first: old paper, cloves, and something more bitter—burned herbs, perhaps. Or something long buried. The interior was cramped and dim, lit only by an oil lamp nailed to the wall. Rows of worn shelves held dusty tinsand carved pipes, but the displays were sparse as if the real business took place elsewhere.
The floorboards groaned beneath our steps when we entered the shop’s depths. I followed Emrys closely but kept glancing at the door, half expecting a horde of Hollowborn to burst in.
What if this was a trap?
From behind a tattered velvet curtain shuffled an odd man in a waistcoat too large for his frame, his sallow skin stretched tight over sharp bones, his eyes keen behind smudged spectacles. Despite the gloom, he moved with uncanny precision.
