Not the fluffy, pastel Disney kind I grew up on.
The old kind.
The ones with blood and teeth in the margins.
The kind that whisper, “Don’t do this, or the woods will eat you.”
The great hall of The Barrow is carved straight into the cliff face, ribs of stone arching overhead like the inside of some ancient beast.
Vines threaded with tiny bioluminescent beetles climb the pillars, casting soft green-gold light that competes with the gentle glow spilling in through the high slit windows from the moon outside.
The Glowworm Moon hangs low and heavy tonight, its pale surface veined with that strange, soft luminescence that makes all the roots in the Marches hum.
I can feel it beneath the soles of my feet—like the whole land is holding its breath.
I look across the room.
So much power in one place should be illegal—and yet, they’re not posturing or fighting each other like you’d expect from so much maleness in one place.
The Lords are huddled around a stone table—four of them, carved from different nightmares and somehow sharing the same war.
Alaric, Lord of Air, lounging like a Dragon who’s pretending not to be coiled and ready. Kael, all sea-storm and sharp edges, fingers drumming an impatient rhythm on the tabletop. Thorne, a big, broody wall of heat, flame-tattoos shifting beneath his skin even when he’s still.
And Dagan.
My viyen.
He sits at the head, broad shoulders hunched slightly forward, dark wings tucked tight against his back.
His green-gold gaze is flinty, storm brewing just under his skin. He’s listening, but every time his eyes flick away from the table, they find me.
Every. Time.
My heart does a stupid flip.
I drag my gaze away from him and focus on the women.
My side of the room.
Jules is propped up on a nest of pillows in a wide stone chair softened with furs and blankets.
Her belly is round and firm beneath her soft dress, the swell of Nightfall’s first Lordling in an age.
Delia is perched on the armrest next to her, fingers warm and competent on Jules’s wrist, quietly taking her pulse like she’s still back in Jersey City, on shift in an ambulance instead of in a Demon castle in another realm.
Phoebe sits cross-legged on a low bench, a book spread open on her lap, pretending to read.
She’s not. Not really.
Her eyes keep flicking to Kael like a magnet.
And me?
I’m somewhere between all of them—awkward, buzzing, too full of feelings and not enough sleep.
The earth under The Barrow feels like it’s thrumming directly into my spine, and on top of that, the zareth bond hums quietly between my ribs, tying me to the very serious, very gorgeous Lord currently pretending I’m not distracting the shit out of him.
I’ve had enough.
