“I called upon the Cauldron many times during those years to ask whether Meriam would become a hindrance to Fallon’s destiny, but Fallon’s fate never changed, and though I stayed wary, I stopped tormenting myself with a future in which the Crows didn’t reconquer Luce.”
My lungs ache from how hard I clutch each breath before releasing it. “The Cauldron isn’t always right!”
“Perhaps not about the journey, but it isalwaysright about the destination. It would be a mistake to stop listening to its guidance.”
“Are you saying the Cauldron told you to drop my child into Dante’s lap?” Cathal’s hands are fisted at his sides, his knuckles pale from how hard he flexes his fingers.
“No, Cathal.” The cloth finally falls away to reveal a chunk of gray stone that seems to have been cleaved from my mountain. “That was Meriam.”
Cathal’s eyes grow so large that his irises become mere specks in the pinkened pools of white.
“Meriam needed Fallon.” Bronwen’s brown fingers skim down the ruffled edges of the timeworn rock with such reverence that I begin to wonder if the Cauldron’s done away with her damn mind. “And Fallon needed her.”
One
I’m no bird—not yet, anyway—and yet Dante has locked me in a bloody cage.
I cling to the golden bars of my newest lodging—a wine cellar taller than my two-story house in Tarelexo—and scream obscenities at the top of my aching lungs. I’m surprisingly fluent in lewd language. To think Sybille and Phoebus consider me the prim one. My best friends’ mandibles would unhinge at the amount of filth I’ve tossed at my jailers upon awakening from my magic-induced slumber.
And Lore . . . how he’d growl at my use of foul language.
What I wouldn’t give to hear him complain.
What I wouldn’t give to hear him breathe.
I press my hand against my chest and knead the aching muscle within. The pain between my ribs is so acute that it drowns out the dull throb at the back of my scalp where my head hit rock, then bone.
Once I’ve transformed my grief into anger, I curl my fingers around the bars of my prison and go back to raging, my shouts echoing against the glass bottoms of dusty vintages spiraling up the sides of this obsidian cellar.
I try to remember how long I’ve been locked up for, but all that comes to mind is the memory of Dante shoving me down the darkened tunnel toward another obsidian wall, and Justus waiting there for us—soldiers and Aoife nowhere to be seen.
I remember sinking my teeth into the meaty part of Dante’s hand, which had elicited a satisfying growl from his throat, but which, unluckily, had made his grip tighten around my neck.
I remember Justus swiping his thumb across my lids, smearing the scent of copper in the darkened air. My stomach had heaved when my crumbling vision had caught the scarlet streak of blood on the pad of the Faerie general’s finger.
Just before my consciousness had faded, I remember wondering how it was possible that a Faerie, and a man at that, could perform blood magic, a power reserved to Shabbin females.
“Hey, Faeries,” I yell at the soldiers standing like stone figureheads against the walls of my prison. “Where, do tell, has the cockered gopher and his trusty mole gone? Are they digging up some more little tunnels to hide from the Crows?”
The four uniformed wallflowers continue pretending to be one with the stone at their back.
Yes, four. Apparently, even though I’m under lock and key and suspended in midair, I necessitate that many pure-blooded males to keep me from escaping. I suppose I should be flattered but I’m not; I’m incensed. Especially since hours have passed—days, even—and neither Justus nor Dante have deigned to pay me a visit.
I crane my neck to study the sturdy chain holding up my cage. I wonder whether it’s long enough for me to swing myself into the wall and crack the stone. Can metal shatter obsidian?
At the very least, it would get someone’s attention. Perhaps the impact would even pop open the gated entrance to my suspended cell.
Since trying will only cost me energy, and I possess an excess of that, I bend my knees and funnel all my weight into my feet. The chain groans as the cage begins to swing. I straighten my legs, then crouch, repeating the motion until my gold pen sways like the pendulum of a cuckoo clock.
The thin cot and wool blanket—the only items in my cage—glide across the floor, bumping into my ankles before retreating like a wave and jouncing off the opposite wall. If I close my eyes, I can almost pretend I’m sitting on one of the wooden swings roped around the massive oak branches in Scola Cuori’s gardens. But I don’t close my eyes. I keep them wide and trained on the soldiers below. All four of them are looking up. Actually, make that three.
One must’ve gone to alert a higher-up to my erratic behavior.
By the time the cage finally clips stone, sweat has gathered at my nape, gluing the high collar of my shirt to my skin. The ding propels vibrations into my legs, which I bend and straighten with added fervor.
“Stop this madness immediately, scazza!” an amber-eyed soldier barks, fiery palms at the ready.
“By all means”—I grunt—“melt my cage!”
