“You mean…their dwindling reputation?”
He nods.
“And my marriage that will supposedly save it.”
Another nod.
“They waited so long because they feared Mrs. Lemuria’s husband would try to hurt me,” I whisper, more to myself than to him. “But they sent for me, despite the lingering threat, because they need me.” I don’t know how to feel about all this. If the banshee’s husband is still a threat, then my parents are risking my life by bringing me home. And yet…if they’re taking the risk now, they could have taken it long ago. Why didn’t they?
We have spent years trying to find you, Mother’s note said, and that softens some of the pain that tightens my chest. That’s right. They’ve been looking for me for a long time. The only reason they didn’t come for me sooner was that they had to go through protection protocols. And without access to iron, Mrs. Lemuria’s husband can’t hurt me through my curse. I’ll be safe with my parents.
A nagging warning rings in the back of my head, reminding me of the darker parts of Thorne’s story. How my family blamed the banshee for a magic she had no control over. How they reacted by killing her child.
I shake my head, reminding myself that Thorne might have been misinformed. What would a human baker know about such a personal fae saga anyway? If the feud was well known, it would have made it into my textbooks. If my parents were guilty of worse crimes than the Lemurias, they’d have been punished far more severely. No, Thorne can’t know what he’s talking about.
Yet the way he described my family’s past…
I narrow my eyes as I take in his too-casual posture that contrasts the hard line of his jaw. The coldness in his eyes. The sharp edge that underlined his outwardly neutral tone when he explained certain parts of his story. “How do you know so much about my family, Mr. Blackwood?”
He slides his gaze from the closed window until his eyes lock on mine. A corner of his mouth flicks into a sad smile. “The story is over. It’s time to forget, my pretty nemesis.”
PARTII
SO WICKED
8
THORNE
Ishould have kept her from dozing off. I should have done whatever I could to hold her attention after I finished my story instead of falling into one of my brooding silences. Because now she’s sucked me into a damn dreamscape, and I’m determined she doesn’t find out these dreams hold truth. Not yet. Not until I’ve done what I need to do.
A quaint kitchen forms around me, focused on an old table upon which a crooked cake sits. Children bounce on their feet in slow motion, reaching for plates of cake with wide grins on their faces. I know this room. This scene. I entered this very kitchen this morning. While I may not have witnessed this exact moment, it’s similar enough to tell me it happened shortly before I arrived at the convent. No, that is a lie. I arrived well before that moment. Miss Rose doesn’t know that, and I plan to keep it that way for now, to use my ability to lie in my favor. Thanks to my human heritage, untruths slip from my lips with ease. Not that everything I’ve said to her has been a lie. Almost everything I’ve said is true.
Almost.
She’ll learn the rest soon.
One hidden truth is that my appearance in the convent’s kitchen marked mypublicarrival. My true arrival was in a small glade just beyond the Starcane fields, one I’d seen several times in the dreams I’ve been pulled into over the last couple of years. It was the third time in twenty-four hours that I’d visited the glade but the first that I’d finally caught her in the flesh.
Briony Rose.
Rosaline Briar.
My born nemesis.
She stands just before me in her dreamscape, watching the scene with a sentimental smile. If I knew how to leave the dream of my own volition, I would, but I’ve long since learned I’m trapped here until the dream ends, my physical body immobilized.
Dream magic. Sleep paralysis. The same power as her vile mother.
“Thank the All of All I’m not the driver,” I mutter.
Briony bites back a startled squeal and whirls around to face me. Her blue eyes go from wide to narrow in an instant while distaste curls her upper lip. “Oh. You.”
“That’s the greeting I get?”
“I didn’t invite you here. In fact, I never intentionally do. Regardless, I’ve had enough of you in all forms for the time being, though I must say I far prefer the dream version of you.”
“What a compliment.”
