The greenhouse tower isn’t as tightly warded as Seren’s private quarters, but nobody should be here without permission. A familiar chill trembles in the air. The figment of Winter? No, that’s not quite it.
Seren last felt this chill from the augray.
Harmony darts from the darkness and scurries up Seren’s body. He holds her to his chest, protectiveness surging. His other hand tightens around the dagger he doesn’t know how to wield.
He wishes Nevander were here.
“Who are you?” Seren demands, unraveling a thread of empathy. He can’t wield a knife, but he can determine whether this man is friend or foe.
The man turns, dark brows furrowing in a bone-white face. A scar glitters across his left cheekbone. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
Seren recoils. Pain and hate and an empty yearning, shattered apart and sewn together. Seren’s barely touched the stranger’s mind, and the maelstrom is searing cold. Like nobody he’s felt before.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Seren says, backing away. Hanging vines brush his shoulders. Harmony wriggles from his grasp, into a planter by the wall of windows. Seren adjusts his grip on the knife. He can’t fight, but he has another plan.
The man stands still, only his gaze in pursuit. A slight smile does nothing to soften his bladelike features. “Whose shirt is that?”
“None of your business,” Seren snaps, and smashes his knife hilt backwards.
A shriek hums at the edge of hearing. The window is too sturdy to shatter. Just a spiderweb of fractures. But the wards surge against the assault.
The stranger laughs like broken glass, then vanishes.
Seren presses against the greenhouse wall, eyes straining for any glimmer of magic. The stranger could still be here, glamoured into invisibility. If Seren was powerful enough, he could see him.
Haelwen could see through most glamours. Seren is only a pale echo of her.
Lanterns flare to life as footsteps pound the stairs. Mustardseed arrives sword in hand, more serious than Seren’s ever seen him.
“The wards are strong. Is something wrong?”
More footsteps, and Nevander storms into the greenhouse. Pale green wings tuck behind him. Haste flushes his fine features. Only then does Seren sag in relief.
Nevander arrows to his side. “Are you hurt?”
“Someone was here,” Seren says, stumbling from the greenery. “He’s gone now. Did you see anyone leave?”
Mustardseed stations himself at the doorway. “Nobody came, and nobody left. Of any clues I am bereft.”
“Who was it?” Nevander asks, taking Seren’s hand. A wing curls around protectively, and gentle fingers loosen Seren’s grip on the knife.
Seren inhales. A soft, intoxicating musk clings to Nevander’s sleek feathers.
“I don’t know,” Seren starts, except that’s barely true. One name has haunted him since his arrival. “Black hair, black eyes, and a scar.” Seren touches his face. “He felt like the augray.”
“Midnight.” Tension rustles Nevander’s wings. “Wait in my haven.”
The next instant, cool morning air replaces Nevander’s grasp. A copse of strange gray trees presides over wispy silver flowers. Beyond is a muted morning sky. It seems almost solid at the edges. Like the distant clouds are painted on a nearby wall.
Soft earth clings underfoot. Mist swirls between the flowers. A rope and wood swing hangs from a sturdy branch.
Seren’s frightened pulse slows with a nostalgic melancholy. Touching his wrist, where Nevander’s touch still burns, he leans against the nearest tree.
The past few moments have passed so quickly. Seren half expects to blink and find himself still on the balcony, talking to the honeysuckles. Chasing Harmony. Judging Mustardseed’s rhymes. Making friends before the loneliness of being hidden away.
This is why Haelwen sent him to Wymond. Because the dark-eyed fae stole Seren’s brothers, and Seren could have been next.
“Sorry for intruding,” Seren says, but the trees don’t answer. They’re just figments, because this is a haven.
