“I will keep your secret.”
“I know you will. I’ve foreseen your fate.”
Gabriele goes as pale as Bronwen’s eyes. “Excuse me?”
“Bronwen has flashes of the future.” Lorcan does not add that her soothsaying was granted by the Shabbins.
“What have you foreseen?” Gabriele’s voice is full of nerves.
“Luce falling to the rightful king.” Bronwen’s gaze drapes over Lorcan before shifting toward me.
Our eyes hold, and although Bronwen cannot speak into my mind, I hear the thoughts huddled behind the waxy skin of her forehead: Lore’s future hinges on me, the magicless girl who helped an unworthy man seize a throne that wasn’t his to take.
I sit up straighter. “Bronwen, can you see where Dante is hiding?”
If she could, Behach Éan—Lore’s smoke coils around my clenched fingers, as slippery and cold as Minimus’s scales—she would not tell you, for she and I struck a little bargain this morning.
Lore . . .
Have I put a wrench in your plans, my love?
I know it comes from a noble sentiment, but yes, my mate’s protectiveness does throw an immense wrench in my plans.What if that’s the only way to get you on the throne?
His shadows hem back into a hand, one that pries my fist wide to slot his long fingers through.I’d rather live another thousand years without a throne than a day without my mate.
“They can talk to each other, can’t they?” I hear Syb whisper to Phoebus, who must nod, because she hisses, “I knew it! I fucking knew it.”
“What does the future hold for me, Bronwen?” Gabriele asks.
“Sometimes, ignorance is bliss.”
“Tell me.”
“Very well.” She sighs. “You will perish before the next full moon.”
The Faerie in front of me turns deathly still along with every Crow at the table. “Have you ever been wrong?”
“Never.”
When goosebumps bloom across my skin, Lore slackens his grip and begins to sketch circles on my palm.
“So I’m to leave this mountain in a body bag?” Gabriele’s voice ropes my attention. Everyone’s attention. “I suppose that does ensure that your secrets remain safe.”
Bronwen slides her forearms onto the table as though to get a better line of sight on Gabriele past Aoife. “You will not die at our hands, Gabriele; you will die at the hands of your Faerie general.”
Sixty
Gabriele has not uttered a single word since Bronwen proclaimed Tavo would end his life. I suppose I wouldn’t be all that talkative either if she’d announced that Syb or Phoebus were going to stab me in the back and send me into the overworld. Or the under one. My soul is, after all, not all that pure anymore. Sure, I’ve yet to kill Dargento, but I’ve contemplated it at length.
“What if Gabriele remains here, in the Sky Kingdom?” I suddenly ask.
Gabriele looks up—or rather, cants his head in my direction. He’s still blindfolded.
A few Crows hiss as though I’ve suggested arming the man with obsidian.
“You’d only delay his death,” Bronwen says.
“Would he be welcomed to stay?” I ask Lore.
