You will kill Dante. You will plot and plan his death.
Oh my Gods . . . Is this why Bronwen brought me here? Because she foresaw me murdering the Fae King under this mountain on this dark night?
The thought does not quell my anger. Yes, there may be a reason to her madness, but she is still fuckingmad. The second I get out of here, I will punch my aunt. In the heart.
“What the underworld?” Dante murmurs. “Dargento?”
I’m glad that his heightened pure-blood senses have yet to kick in.
Quietly, quietly, I snip the vine off my ankles with the steel blade. Before using it on the one binding my wrists, I roll onto my knees and pat the ground until I find the lump that is Dargento’s head. I skim my palms across his back until I locate his right shoulder blade. I’m glad for the darkness, for as much as I crave to see the life bleed out of Dargento’s eyes, I don’t care for the sight of flesh tearing and blood gushing.
“Maezza?” someone calls out, probably one of the Fae who dragged in Aoife.
Dante must sense something is going on because he doesn’t answer. I strain to grasp sounds—breathing, heartbeats, anything that will pinpoint his location. But between my lackluster hearing, the tempestuous drum of my pulse, and the rolls of thunder jarring the mountain, I hear nothing.
Sensing I have mere seconds left, I position the steel tip beneath the bladed bone and the knobs of Dargento’s spine, then, praying that I’m at the right spot, I rise to my feet and put all my weight and rage into the sword.
It plunges straight through him.
A wet rattle disturbs the deathly stillness.Merda. I must’ve pierced one of his lungs instead of his heart. I pull the blade out and slam it back down. This time, Dargento doesn’t even squeak.
Arms snag my waist and hoist me up, tearing my boots off the floor.
Possessed, I fling my head back, and my skull smashes against my captor’s face. Racked with adrenaline, I feel no pain, but my jailer must, because he growls and his grip slackens.
I jump away from him, then wheel around, sword extended. When it strikes armor, I know who grabbed me: Dante. I grunt as the force of my blow reverberates inside my arms. I suddenly wish the cavern would flood with light so he could see what his betrayal has done to me . . . who it’s turned me into.
Although I stand my ground, sword held aloft, my arms shake so hard I worry Dante will spot the bob of the gleaming steel or hear my chaotic swallows. I keep my lips sealed to avoid producing a sound and begin to back up.
My foot crunches against something, and the pop echoes through the noiseless blackness.
As Lore would say,focá. A surge of anguish rushes up my spine when the ground shakes. I pray it’s his thunder. I pray it’s because he’s violently angry with me for having left the castle. I pray it’s not the hoofbeats of Dante’s army.
The silence thickens until I think I may choke on it.
Suddenly, a flame erupts and chews away the cloak of night. Cold fear slickens my skin, because the only amber-eyed Faerie I spotted around Dante was Dargento. Did he—did he survive?
When I catch flames steaming off a torch, and Dargento’s supine body sprawled at Dante’s feet, I begin to expel a sigh, but then my breathing shortens because . . .
Because the fire splashes two faces I haven’t seen in weeks.
One I revile.
One I adore.
“Goccolina,” Nonna chokes out as Justus’s arm tightens around her long, slender neck.
Sixty-Seven
“Nonna?” The blood drains from my cheeks so fast that I feel lightheaded.
Lore said she was in Shabbe.
Gia said . . .
Did they lie to keep me from storming Luce to find her?
Tears gloss her green eyes and spill, coursing down her pallid cheeks.
