“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Tavo shrugs his shoulder against his dirty cheek, wiping away more glistening bile.
“—in exchange for—” Dante continues, lips barely shifting over his teeth.
“Marco will kill you, Dante.” Gabriele sounds calm, but his white-knuckled grip on his reins betrays his anxiety.
“He won’t kill me.”
Tavo finally pries himself upright. “He will, Dee.”
Annoyance glosses the prince’s cheekbones. “Gods!” He tosses both hands in the air. “Will you both be quiet and listen?”
Silence.
“We’re going to aid Fallon, in exchange for which Lore will depose Marco.”
I stare at the coalescing shadow of Lore’s crows, wondering if Bronwen foresaw this moment, this deal between Fae and prince. And then I wonder if she warned Morrgot about it. But then something else flicks those questions out of my mind.
Lore? I thoughtyouwould be the one deposing Marco.
“How do we know he won’t ‘depose’ you—and us—too?” Tavo’s amber eyes burn as hot as his anger.
Although Morrgot’s presence is reassuring, it fails to calm me. “Because he’s not some crazed assassin!”
“The man was known as the Crimson Crow.” Tavo seizes the saddle of his horse and swings himself atop it, then grabs either end of his reins and knots them together. “And let me tell you, Rossi, he didn’t earn his title because he favored the color red.”
My heart flaps wildly within the confines of my chest.Is that true?
That I’ve spilled blood? Yes.
But how much?
As little as possible; as much as necessary.
The memory of the two sprite bodies from the forest inflames my still-stinging eyelids. Did I really expect the master of lethal birds to be kind?Swear to me that Dante will be unharmed.
The roiling shadow weaves into two crows with two sets of golden eyes—one pair on me; the other on the three men and the sprite who’s regained his wits.I swear to you, Fallon Báeinach, that your princeling shall live.
I don’t bother correcting his use of my paternal last name. It matters too little at the moment.And beunharmed,I insist.By youorby Lore.
And be unharmed by us both.
I wait to feel the burn of his oath twine around my biceps, but the same way Antoni’s skin didn’t react to my words, my skin doesn’t react to Morrgot’s.
Crow blood must incapacitate bargaining. Wait . . . he struck one with Dante, didn’t he?
Before I can ask if the flesh beneath his feathers bares the mark of their deal, Dante says, “Tavo, go start a fire in the stables to buy us time.”
“Not in the stables!” My chest heaves. “Not anywhere there are living beings.”
Dante crosses his arms. “Fine. Not the stables.”
Tavo’s jaw ticks. And ticks. “I can’t believe we’re trusting her.”
“We’re not trusting her”—Dante dips his chin, eyes darker than a starless ocean—“we’re trusting Lore.”
A steel blade to the heart would’ve hurt less than Dante’s avowal.
Sixty-Seven
