Cliff
20 Hours earlier (Between chapters 27 and 28 )
Islammed back my whiskey, barely feeling the sting of it at this point. Sloshing the bottle, I found that more of it was gone than I was proud of, but it wasn’t as if there was anyone with me on the balcony to disappoint. No one I could hurt. I had earned my isolated bender after the shit I’d endured tonight, hadn’t I?
Sighing, I set the bottle down and peered at the spread of sketches before me. There had been a blank-paged journal in the desk drawer of my guest room. I couldn’t begin to wrap my mind around how this place worked. Would the borrowed book and pencil vanish into thin air the moment I stepped off the premises?
Fuck if I knew.
Flipping to a new page, I let my pencil scrape across the paper with fast, unthinking strokes. Cold mountain air madethe pages quiver slightly, smelling of spruce and fresh snow and…something sweeter. Probably an effect of the gemstone-alternated forestry surrounding the cabin now. It was still a welcome reprieve from the suffocating perfume of the gala.
I wasn’t trying to draw anything in particular, but a woman’s figure slowly took shape across the page: Sylvia, donning that shimmery gown from when the shapeshifter had mocked me by taking her form. Angling my hand, I scowled in concentration as I shaded the tousled hair that fell just over her shoulders. I hated to admit how much the image had haunted me.
Sylvia, ahuman.
Illusion or not, until that moment, Sylvia’s transformation had felt like this impossible, intangible thing. A dream that would never come to pass. But now, the shapeshifter’s cruel tease was like a precursor of what would come. Tomorrow, she would be attempting the spell with the help of Delilah and Tristan.
What would it be like, having her in the car beside us, not as some outcast fairy, but truly as one ofus?
I kept warning her she might be disappointed—being human had been pretty shitty over the years for me—but Sylvia would hear none of it. Stubborn to the end.
After considering the sketch for another moment, I added the gauzy, cicada-like outlines of her wings at her back: how I’d first met her, and how she’d always remain in my mind. Fierce, delicate, and far too trusting for her own good.
After refilling my glass and taking another gulp, I turned my attention to the blank page on the other side. Cages and monstrous forms took shape in my mind—familiar, nightmarish forms, but I resisted the urge to unleash them on the page. My hand moved before my mind caught up with a different idea. Feminine curves cloaked in gossamer fabric and a slitted skirt, opalescent wings, and long hair that tumbled to her waist.
I paused, unsure what had possessed me to drawZia,of all people. I guessed I did have her to thank for my hand not smarting like a motherfucker from that cat bite. Even the bruises across my torso were healed, something Sylvia had always been incapable of doing, even at her best.
My pencil scratched again, accentuating the curve of her eyes: long-lashed and kind. Kinder than I deserved, given the things I’d said.
And pretty—the color of the ocean.
A soft stirring came behind me. At first, I thought it was the wind, but I had come to recognize the cadence of fairy wings humming in flight by now. A diminutive figure slipped past the glass door, silhouetted by the warm ambient glow inside. She was halfway across the deck before she spotted me and came to a sharp halt midair.
“Shit, you scared me!” Zia gasped, clasping her hands over her mouth.
I slammed the sketchbook shut.
“Hey. Sorry,” I grunted, straightening in the deck chair. Guess I’d been so still and morbid in the dark that I’d blended in with the furniture.
“No, I didn’t mean to intrude. I was just coming for some fresh air.” Zia held up her hands, already adjusting her flight as she considered returning inside.
My heart tugged for her. After being caged as a prisoner for over a week, I could understand how she wanted to steal away to the open air. Hell, sheneededthat. I’d been restrained and eye-to-eye with death enough times to get it—reallyget it. That need to reassure yourself that freedom wasn’t an illusion. The sting of the cold burning your throat. A little pain to confirm you were still alive.
A gravely chuckle escaped me as I glanced at the half-empty bottle by my feet. “Not interrupting much.”
Even in the dim illumination, I caught how her expression pinched when she noticed the whiskey.Good. She could stop wasting her energy pretending I wasn’t a pathetic, reeking mess.
I gazed back out at the fir trees—lush and green, bursting with strange, luminous flowers that snaked up their trunks. Zia’s wingbeats drifted closer.
“Drinking alone is bad luck where I come from,” she said, landing on the balcony rail.
I couldn’t mask my shock in time to hide it from her, particularly when her wings folded against her back and she settled into a seated position.
“The rest of the crew is inside, burning through Lee’s collection of French reds,” I told her.
“I know.” Zia held up a fairy-sized goblet brimming with wine. That coy smile on her lips made me stumble over my words. It was like she had a playbook for how to disarm me, and she took great joy in doing so.
“You gonna bully me into stripping for more healing?” I got the satisfaction of making her squirm, but only a little.
