Trust the witch who just bound me to a demented Faerie? I resist the urge to sayI think notout loud, fearing it may come out in Shabbin. Nevertheless, I’m aware that to escape . . . to survive, I will need magic since I’ve stopped believing in miracles many moons ago. So I finally let go of my shirt, offering Meriam’s bloodied fingertips access to my heart.
She better not stop it.
The instant the tip of her index finger meets my flesh, a jolt a thousand times stronger than the one I felt during the blood-bind hits my heart, which seizes and hardens.
And hardens.
No beat vibrates my skin.
As the gold surrounding me dulls and the glow of Faerie fire darkens, a thought whispers across my skull: she may not have tricked Dante, but she tricked me.
You dumb, dumb girl.
My mate’s face brightens my lids, and even though he cannot hear me, I murmur into the void stretching between us,Forgive me, my love.
Ten
The muscle in my chest holds so still that I think,this is it, my very last moment on this godsforsaken earth.
I hate that Meriam is the last face I’ll see.
I hate that Justus is the last man I’ll feel.
I hate that Dante will bear witness to my death.
At least he won’t have my magic. Oh, the irony that even on my death bed, I manage to locate a silver lining. Me and my fucking optimism. Perhaps if I’d been acutely pessimistic, I would’ve survived longer.
In my next life—if there is such a thing as reincarnation—I will be cynical and negative to a fault. And I will not fucking trust anyone. And I will sayfucka lot.
I can hear my matetsk. He so hates when I swear.
Oh, Lore.Since I’ve yet to lose consciousness,I speak to him some more through our inexistent bond. I tell him not to go and play hero. I’m not worth avenging.However, make sure to murder Bronwen and Meriam.AndJustus. Just don’t murder Dante in case there’s some truth to Bronwen’s prophecy.
There probably isn’t.
She probably just said all she said so Lore didn’t risk his skin while she devised a ploy to send me down into the bowels of the earth for my slaughtering.
You got your wish, you old crone. Now die.
I wait to see my life flash before my eyes, but the only thing that flashes is the pink in Meriam’s irises as her pupils tighten before distending like the tide. How is the sight of her eyes still so crisp? I frown because, although my mind is a dark place—pitch-black, really—the vault is all golden again. And twinkling.
Bu-bump.
I drop my chin into my neck and stare at the palpitating skin Meriam uses as her canvas. When did my heart resume beating?
Under her breath, she begins to hum, then adds soft words to her hum. I think it’s part of the spell until she murmurs, “Fallon, listen to me. Listen, but do not react to anything I share with you, so the others aren’t aware that what I spill into your ears is no spell.”
I blink.
Her lashes are so low that they fan across her high cheekbones, black and thick like crow wings. “I will free your Shabbin magic, but we’ll pretend that I failed. Swallow once if you understand.”
Mynot-deadened pulse strikes my neck with such force that it takes me precious seconds to get my throat to dip.
“I’ve much to tell and will start with your mother. She isn’t dead. I saved her, but it’s of the utmost importance that everyone around us keeps believing that she’s gone.”
My heart holds still, before firing bangs as loud as the cannons Marco used on Lore that fateful day in the south.
“Understood?”
