“I let you walk away, and my debt to you is cleared.”
The quiet stings. Lys stands predator still, listening to every word.
Paris watches her wrestle with her indecision, his smile unwavering. “I feel it’s paramount to remind you that Oliver called you here, not I. It was quite a thing to behold. One ring of the bell, and you appeared. He has you very well trained.”
“What are you saying?”
“Only that I might be willing to let you leave, but I’m not sure I can say the same for him.”
He drew her out. He brought her here. And she fell for it, thinking it meant there was something of him remaining. When she peers back at the altar, Lys is smiling over at her, his canines sharp, his chin dark with blood. Here, at last, is the wolf he wished for when he was small. There is nothing human left in his stare.
Tell me how to fix this, he begged her.
There’s no fixing any of this. The damage is done.
“The decision is yours,” says Paris. “Die in the street, or live like a queen.”
The back of her neck prickles with a sudden awareness. The air shifts, pressure changing, and a shadow breaks free of the rest.
“You forgot the third option,” she says.
Paris’s eyes glimmer. “And what’s that?”
“You can go to hell.”
There’s a whistle, sharp. The unmistakablethwackof a missile finding its mark. Paris staggers back, black widening in a circle over his heart. From his chest protrudes a thin wooden stake. White oak, whittled by hand. For a moment, he wavers where he stands, staring down at his body like he can’t quite understand what he’s seeing. And then, with a silent cry, he drops to his knees.
From out of the dark steps Asher. The crossbow hangs slack at his side.
“We had a deal,” gasps out Paris. “We hada deal.”
“We did,” agrees Asher. “You broke it. You promised me—youswore—that you would keep my sister safe if I did what you told me to do.”
“And I did. Look at her. She’s stronger than ever—”
“You killed her,” says Asher, silencing him. “I did everything you asked, and you killed her.”
His quiet anger reverberates through the dark cathedral. The very air seems to shudder with it. He doesn’t spare a glance toward Camellia. She hovers in the dark of a shallow niche, her eyes wide and flat. Poppy starts for her, but Shea catches her by the wrist, shaking her head.
Wedging himself between them, Asher crouches down in front of the kneeling Paris. “All that work. All that planning. Everything you did—it was for nothing. The Keeling legacy will die with you.”
“You’re already too late,” gasps Paris. “You can’t stop what’s coming, you—”
Paris’s head lolls back the instant Asher pries the stake loose. His eyes go flat, his chest still. Rising to his feet, Asher casts the weapon aside. It clatters onto the floor, rolling noisily along the aisle before coming to a stop at the toe of Lys’s boot. Lys leans down and picks it up, turning it over for inspection.
“A thank-you would be nice,” gripes Asher.
Lys is silent, pressing a finger to the stake’s bloodied point.
“I’d also accept an apology from Parker,” adds Asher, rounding on her. “I mean, what the hell were you thinking—”
“Asher,” says Poppy, “let it go.”
“Why?” His gaze lands on Lys and lingers, assessing. “What’s wrong with him?”
No one answers. The sanctuary is gripped in a graveyard hush. Slowly, Lys drags his eyes to Shea’s. She feels like a little girl again, staring up at the forest. Wishing for it. She sees it in him, plain as day—the same dendroid grip. The same eldritch pulse.
There is nothing left of Lys behind his eyes.
