Why did Cagliostro choose her?
Did she slip past his defenses the way she slipped past mine?
Or had the old traitor simply known—that the moment I saw her, I wouldn’t be able to harm her?
I leaned back in the velvet seat, fingers steepled beneath my chin. Gaslights and shadows blurred past the window. And her reflection on the dark glass. Daphne sat across from me in the empty compartment, curled against the window, her breath fogging the glass. The coat I’d lent her swallowed her, and a single hair strand clung to her cheek. She was quiet now, for once. Thoughtful. Troubled. Maybe calculating her next attempt to flee, or wondering if she’d traded her brother and Vexley for a greater danger.
I wasn’t sure what I would do if she ran again.
A curious ache twisted behind my ribs, unfamiliar and unwelcome.
She carried a piece of my power inside her. That was obvious; however, there was more. A resonance. A familiarity. Like music from another life—unnamed, but humming deep in my marrow.
The thought that she might be Branwyn reincarnated was ridiculous. Humans don’t return from the other side. This was the curse of my kind—seeing those we loved fade and die. Losing them to the darkness. My mind drifted to those precious memories I had long since buried in a locked box deep inside me. Our escape from Rome together, that stormy night when we stepped once more upon the sacred earth of the Celts; the rebellion we organized together. No. I should not let myself go back to what was lost.
I had centuries to mourn my loss. Centuries to build fences around my heart and swear by all gods and demons that I’d never love again. And yet that venomous hope, that need to see the warmth in someone’s eyes when they lock with mine, to share a laugh, was still there. She had the fiery spirit of my Celtic warrior princess; I gave her that. Few mortals would face the horrors in the manor and leave with their mind intact. But Daphne was different. She had captured an undyne and survived the Lady in the Lake.
And broke the cage I wasn’t able to bend for decades.
The train roared into a tunnel, casting the compartment in momentary darkness.
When the light returned, she was still there.
She looked straight at me, a furrow deepening between her odd, lavender-colored eyes.
“Who’s Camille?” she asked, and I blinked. Then I laughed.
“Why do you think it’s funny? I think I need to know everything about the lunatic who kidnapped me—” she snarled, blushing deliciously. Something hid beneath that fury. Something I wanted to explore.
“Is that so, little thief? Because I could swear you’re jealous.”
She tried to turn her back to me and stared at the night outside. The pink curve of her lip dropped as if she were about to cry, and I sensed the odd need to run my finger along it. To smooth that angle and make her smile again.
“Camille is a… friend. Someone like me. We looked after each other, once. Before the Renegade tore it all apart,” I said. I wanted her to look at me again, for whatever damned reason.
Daphne’s hand went up, and she tucked a strand behind her ear. Her fingers lingered there for a moment as if the length of her hair surprised her. Someone chopped it unevenly with a careless hand. Her face darkened—it seemed like she remembered some dark moment.
“How many of your kind are out there?”
“There were five of us in the beginning, charged to watch over the magic of this world. Camille is alive and well in Brazil. I hope Orren is also well. He left it all behind, that mad druid with moss in his beard, and went to live in a cave and talk to squirrels. And you’ve met the Renegade.”
“That’s four,” she noted, her hand still pulling on that strand, as if trying to make it grow.
Silence stretched, disturbed only by the clatter of the wheels.
My voice was low when I spoke again. “We’ve lost one.”
“So your kind can die?” She pulled on that strand again and looked at me with those strange eyes. They looked mauve in the evening gloom. How would they look in the sunlight?
I took a deep breath. None of us liked talking about the Lost One and even mentioning his name. It was not a superstition but fear. Fear we might end up like him. That everything could get too much, the memories too heavy, the pain too sharp. “Like everything in this world, little thief. It’s just quite… difficult to kill us. Viktor is the one we don’t talk about,” I said and rubbed my temples. “He surrendered to the darkness willingly. He simply faded.” My voice dropped. Processing the death of someone like me was challenging. “Who cut your hair?” I asked. And nearly slapped myself across the face when I saw the pain in her eyes.
She looked back at the window, quickly composing herself. “Those terrible women working for Vexley. I fought them. I haven’t cut my hair since Mother died. She loved it. Every night, she was braiding it. Loved weaving flowers in it in the summer.” My chest tightened and suddenly, I craved to hurt those who did this to her. To do something that would make the sadness in those eyes disappear. When I was done with the Renegade, I’d raze Vexley’s hellhole to the ground. The idea of Daphne bruised, beaten, and mistreated awakened something savage inside me. A monster that craved blood.
I took the seat beside her. She stiffened, just barely—but I noticed it. My presence rattled her. Maybe even scared her. And for reasons I couldn’t quite name, I didn’t like that. Not one bit.
“Do not be afraid, Daphne,” I whispered. “May I?” She nodded. I ran a strand of her hair between my fingers. It was softer than I thought and smelled of lavender soap. Tiny sparks danced around my fingers. A prickle of magic shot through my hand, and the lock curled and grew. Her eyes widened while her hair grew like a magical vine and draped down her chest all the way to the velvet seat.
“How—” she started, brushing my fingers lightly as if to make sure that this was all real. Her light touch sent a jolt of energy through my body. A reminder of how dangerous those games were.
