Prologue
LORE
Cathal lobs a glass vial atop the ochre map of Luce unrolled on my desk. “Mattia found it amidst the wreckage.”
I pinch the leather cord laced around the jar that is no larger than my thumb and lift it. It swings in the gray light of the second dawn without my mate.
“There isn’t much blood inside, but perhaps enough for Bronwen to draw a sigil?” Cathal spears his fingers through his snarled black hair.
“A sigil? Cathal, she cannot manipulate blood magic.”
The whites of my general’s eyes are crimson, giving the huge man a demonic stare to go along with his attitude. “What can it hurt to fucking try?” I may have lost my mate, but he’s lost both his mate and daughter.
No. Not lost.
I tear that word to shreds.
We’ve been fleeced of our women.
Forced to exist without them.
I raise my gaze from the vial. “You’re right. It cannot hurt to try. Do you recall the shape of that sigil Daya used to penetrate walls?”
His jaw tenses, and in spite of his nascent beard, I don’t miss how sharp the square bone becomes at the mention of his mate. “No, but Bronwen might. Meriam did teach her once upon a time.”
To think that Bronwen once looked upon the Shabbin sorceress like a mother.
“Has she had anymore”—I stare so hard at the map that the ink blurs—“visions?”
“Not that she’s shared with me.” Cathal squeezes the bridge of his nose and shuts his eyes. “If Dante hasn’t turned Aoife into a forever-Crow, I will.”
It was Connor who suggested that Fallon must have been airlifted into the valley, because she’d left the tavern sometime after lunch, and it would’ve taken her far longer than a couple hours to travel down the mountain by horseback. We figured it was Aoife because all the other Crows had been accounted for—save for Imogen.
Although Cian is convinced that Aoife flew Fallon into the valley on my mate’s request, Cathal believes Aoife acted out of selfishness. I still haven’t made up my mind about her true intent. Aoife is attached to her sister and could’ve been attempting to retrieve her, but she’s also loyal to a fault and a true friend to Fallon.
And Fallon, for all the love I have for her, is impetuous and passionate, guided first and foremost by her heart.
I can imagine her beseeching Aoife to take her to Dante.
My grip tightens around the vial’s leather cord. Before I can hurl it at the wall and spoil one of our only chances at breaching the obsidian tunnels, I set it down. “Is Gabriele still denying having told Fallon where to find Regio?”
Cathal nods.
“Up his intake of salt. I don’t care if he chokes on the condiment; I want the fucking truth!”
To think I allowed the Faerie inside my kingdom’s walls . . . Bronwen may have seen him dying at the hands of Tavo, but I expect I will be the one to murder him.
Before I disintegrate into shadows to pay Dante’s imprisoned friend a visit, I walk to the window that overlooks Shabbe, hands linked behind my skull. “What of Lazarus?”
“He swears he didn’t slip Fallon obsidian powder.”
“Search his rooms.”
“We have.”
“Again. Search them again!” I glance over my shoulder and lock eyes with Cathal. “You and I both know that is the only way to hush a bond.”
“There are books in her room, Lore. Are you certain that the use of obsidian powder isn’t mentioned in one of them?”
