* * *
Nightof the Fallen comes on a clear, late-January night. I plait my hair into an elaborate crown of braids and curls, standing before my mirror in the lace corset I used to blow Luca’s mind at the Feast of Marmora, a blouse with sleeves that balloon out to my elbows and fit tightly to my wrist, and the biggest ruffled and black petticoats I could find. I know from my reading that Saint Rosamund split her skirts and tied them up and away from her feet so she could fight, so I’ve bound the skirt up over one knee with a skinny black belt, revealing the kitten-heel knee-high boots and leather leggings I’ve added to make the costume my own. I do a little spin in the mirror.
The costume is all black and the effect is… staggering. I rub kohl eyeliner into a smokey eye with the tip of my finger, and then take a deep breath before taking the mask from its velvet box. I hold it by the corners, the glittering straps falling down behind it. A simple spell will activate it, will infuse it with my magic, molding it to my features for the night. It will glow in the night like a beacon.
Like the very courage that guided Fairhaven’s founders through the storm.
I can do this. I can be just as courageous. I can face down what’s to come with bravery in my heart.
I tie the mask on and then cast the spell, tapping my scribe to the mask. It illuminates, like a diamond catching midday sunlight, weaving magic through my plaited hair until I shine, a beacon in black.
I already know that Luca and Simon will lose their minds over the costume, but I’m just as surprised, joy singing in my veins.
I wear the mask of a warrior and I swear on the saints, I will fight against terror, just like she did.
I will go to fucking war to stop my father’s plans.
And I will raise an army to defeat the Soldiers of Saint Aldous.
* * *
I checkmy mask one more time and then step out onto the landing, looking for Marcus in the room below, but I don’t have to look far. He’s frozen, staring up at me, his mouth open, his jaw slack.
Does his scent spike or is our little cottage so suffused with our scents that I imagine it? Do his gray-green eyes darken as he takes me in?
“Is it too much? I think Hawthorn spent a fortune on the mask and—”
“It’s perfect, sweet-tart. You look… you look amazing. But you’re missing something.”
He conjures a glittering black rose of pure magic and when he meets me at the base of the stairs, he tucks it into my hair, brushing a strand of it behind my ear.
For a moment, we’re still, not even breathing, and then Marcus nods to the stairs. “Go see if I got it right,” he says, his voice tight and strained.
I clatter up the stairs in my boots and gasp when I see the black of the rose against the shining white-blond of my bespelled locks. And I cannotwaitfor my men to see me dressed like this.
Saints, I can’t wait for the world to see me like this.
* * *
I seeLuca and Simon before they see me and can’t help my beaming smile because they’re costumed just as they should be, as the intrepid explorer Saint Marco and the genius inventor Saint Nikola. They’re wickedly handsome together, dashing and debonair behind their glowing masks, and for a moment, I just watch them. The alpha and beta who have my heart.
I know the instant Luca sees me because his scent spikes so hard I catch it on the chill breeze, intoxicating wine and juicy cherries.
He closes the distance between us in just a few long steps, pulling me into a kiss that makes my toes curl in my boots, that makes me want to forego the whole of the party to drag him back to my nest and…
“My Black Rose,” he growls. “We are going to havesomuch fun tonight.”
Simon joins us, making me do a quick spin before kissing me, a teasing brush of his tongue against mine that makes me whine, makes me wantmore.
Alyssa bounds up behind us, the spitting image of a much curvier Saint Florence as she holds a lamp aloft. “Mind if I walk with you? Darika’s on drums tonight and I can’t wait to dance my face off!”
I link arms with her, leading her toward the quad, casting my dashing gentlemen a sly wink over my shoulder.
“We’re going to dance until we drop,” I promise Alyssa.
* * *
Bits and Piecesis playing the feast night party from a stage set up on one end of the quad, Bitsy going absolutely wild behind her keyboard, singing into the same mic as Ellie whenever she’s away from the keys. Their joyous, raucous pop punk is perfect to celebrate the lives of the fallen saints. Students gather near the stage to dance, or around bonfires, already tangled into each other’s arms as they drink and dance.
