“I have an idea.” Cas pulls away, giving me that devious smirk. “But first, you tell me.”
I run a gentle hand over his cheek. The words come to me easily. “I am still in love with you.”
“Very good. Then follow me, High Prince of Winter, and show me what those words taste like,” Cas says as a fresh thatch of briars breaks through the icy ground, wraps around my legs, and pulls me under.
53
Dayton
“We were in Australia, see? Down Under, they call it in thehuman world. And there, they have spiders as big as your hands!” George holds up his palms dramatically for emphasis.
After being waylaid by a hysterical Marigold and getting the rundown about Astrid’s furry fiasco this morning with strict instructions to be on call for a visit to Castletree whenever Rosalina’s ready, Farron, Ez, and I had gone to check on Rosalina’s father. He’s been working obsessively in the lab with those shards of the rose, so we thought it would be a good idea to check in on his progress. Somehow, we’ve instead been sidetracked by a story of how he and Anya accidentally ended up as guest stars on a wildlife television show after getting lost in the Australian outback.
I’m not as familiar with human customs as some other fae are, like Marigold, so I’m not sure what a television show is. Or Vegemite, for that matter. And we don’t have drop bears in theVale, but George is such a natural storyteller, I feel like I can picture it all anyway.
“Spiders the size of your hand?” Ezryn says dryly, that familiar metallic timbre back in his voice. “In Shadowspindle Cavern, the spiders are as big as a horse. And those are just the babies.”
“Must’ve been why Anya showed no fear,” George says with a grin. “Hugh—that was the name of the wild Aussie leading us around—was quite impressed with her.”
Farron laughs. “Statistically, some of the smallest spiders have the worst venom. The duskwraith widow, for example, can kill in three seconds.”
George, Ez, and Fare get in a heated discussion about venom, and my attention wanders. George’s done wonders to Perth’s old workshop. It looks like a mechanical monster sneezed in here. Tools are scattered across every surface. Gears and bizarre little doohickeys spill out of open crates, and there’s glue puddled on tables. Half-drunk mugs of kaffe are perched precariously on the clutter. The rose sits dead center on a wooden table, surrounded by a melting candle.
“How’s piecing together the rose going, George?” I interrupt.
Their conversation ends as we all crowd around the table. The rose is nothing like our living blooms back at Castletree. Sira changed this divine object in some unknowable way. The stem is such a dark green it’s practically black, and the petals shimmer with this weird, glassy sheen—as if the light can’t decide where to land.
George’s brow furrows. I imagine Rosalina must have inherited most of her looks from the queen, but George is quite the handsome human himself—a hard, firm jaw, brown hair peppered with a little gray, and rough stubble lining his face. His piercing blue eyes unsettle me, only because I’ve stared into thatsame shade before when the Nightingale tried to convince me we were mates.
“Not exactly,” George says, stepping closer to the table. “I’ve got all the shards placed correctly, but every time I try to fuse the broken pieces together, the binding agent shatters.”
“You need something stronger,” Farron says, rubbing his chin. A faint shadow of stubble covers his jaw.
“Yes, but what’s strong enough to hold together a relic of the Above?” George asks.
The three of them speculate, naming various metal types, but my gaze stays fixed on the rose.
Something curls at the edge of my vision, a creeping, swirling fog. The air grows heavy in my lungs, humid and oppressive.
I’m alive, I remind myself.I’m alive.
Whatever Caspian did to me doesn’t matter.
The candles around George’s workspace flicker. Their flames shift to an unnatural green hue. My chest tightens. Stumbling back, I catch myself against a nearby shelf, sending a few knickknacks clattering to the floor.
You are mine, a voice hisses from nowhere and everywhere. It’s deep and crackling, like a fire roaring in my ears.But you are clever, little spark. Strength is a blade. It can shatter, or it can forge.
“Day!” Farron runs up to me, grabbing my arm. “Are you alright?”
I blink, the air clearing to the crisp frost of Winter once more. The candles flicker back to their usual yellow. “Yes, uh, I tripped.”
I pull out of Farron’s grip and walk toward the table. I need to act normal, say something, before Farron keeps asking questions. Questions I don’t want to know the answers to.
“What about whatever made Faustrius’s blade? That thing was tougher than anything we’ve seen before. It was strong enough to break Kel’s Sword of the Protector.”
Ezryn taps his foot up and down. “Despite its deceiving color, it could only have been forged of mythkarite, the same ore that lends its power to the divine weapons. But our weapons are diluted, bound with steel. His blade must be pure. How else could it have shattered one of the queen’s relics?”
George looks to Ez. “Surely, something of that nature would work for our rose. Where can we find the raw material?”
