The last time the male had been so fretful was when the Cauldron had beckoned his son inside at puberty to receive his shifter magic. Lachlano hadn’t resurfaced for so long that Reid had taken it out on everyone in attendance—savefor the children.
His expression when Lachlano had flown out was still seared into my heart. It was the look of the purest form of love. Agrippina, too, had been emotive, but that day, she’d somehow remained stoic.
Until Lachlano announced the Cauldron had given him a choice, and he’d picked Crow. How she’d fumed then—not because her son had picked Crow, but because Reid had spent the rest of the evening gloating about it.
We no longer turn to stone, so a Shabbin will be able to extract the tranquilizers—even if they’re lodged inside our heart,my father is saying as my shadows slick down the stairs, primed to split spleens and sever throats.
I’m met with darkness and a silence that is so complete that my wrath vibrates my bones and ripples my skin.
Ivan duped me.
49
ISLA
Iland on a carpet of glass that unspools like a ribbon toward the dais. A glance upward reveals that all the velour-cloaked chains which used to bear clusters of fire orbs dangle like vines, glassless.
Did a Crow sever them, or is this the work of an air-Fae? Why would Faeries unhook ceiling lamps, though?
I find the answer when I take a step and glass crunches beneath my boots, upsetting the stillness and betraying my invisibility. I’m about to morph into my Crow when a soft keening has my neck straining and my pulse hammering. I squint, scanning the gloom for the source of the noise.
There.
My breathing sharpens, then turns ragged when I spot a hunched figure with quivering shoulders and a tumble of flaxen locks.
I take to the air and swirl noiselessly toward the kneeling weeper. When I make out the body sprawled at the Faerie’s knees, my heart fills with conflicting emotions. I land, my lofty heels—which I should really have swapped out back in my closet—clicking against the stone.
Izolda flinches and tilts her head. Her eyebrows dip, because of course, she cannot see me. But she must sense me, for she calls out my name past the shaky fist she holds against her mouth.
“Are you all right?” I murmur, glancing left and right, hardly believing this isn’t a trap.
“Aodhan’s not—he’s n-not waking up.” Her muffled voice is a tormented croak.
“He will. Once the obsidian flees his system.”Please let it be true…“How did you get away?”
Her wet eyes are smudged with runny kohl. “Ksenia le-le-left me.”
“Where’s Konstantin?”
She points to the War Room door. “Tr-Tr-Train.”
I whirl but freeze, for there, slumped in the first pew, sits a huge man with a shoulder-length blond mane.
“D-Don’t look,” she murmurs.
My nerve endings begin to tingle as I not only behold but also approach. Salom has been skewered to the backrest of the tufted bench with a sword.
Bile swims up my throat. Although I gulp it back, the acid burn lingers. Shame sweeps through me at having believed him complicit. Horror quickly takes its place, and finally, grief. For Konstantin.
“Has your brother seen him?” I imagine he has if he’s come through this room.
“Yes.” Her voice is near. When I feel fingertips brush against my arm, I jerk. “S-Sorry. Just needed to be sure I wasn’t talking to a gh-ghost. I feel like I’m go-going mad.”
“I’m real, Iz.”
Her lash line is heavy with fresh moisture that carves through her stripes. Stripes which, for once, she didn’t match to her outfit.
Talk to me, mo khráach.My father’s voice knells between my temples.What’s happening?
