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Warnings from the Wicked.

“I know this book. It’s a collection of fables,” she says, tapping the parchment. “There’s a story in there about a character named Gwyn. Could that be the G. Halethorne he’s referring to?”

“How do you know so much about this book?” asks Carver, suspicion dripping from his tone. I cut him a steely glare, and he holds up his hands. “Relax. I’m just curious.”

“I’ve read Warnings from the Wicked a thousand times,” she says, grinning. “There’s a story in there called “Their Wicked Cage” about a very powerful sorceress named Gwyn and how the Fates trapped her for using necromancy. This could be the book he’s searching for.”

“You’re brilliant, love,” I say, and I can’t stop myself from whisking her into my arms and spinning her around the room. This bewitching, gorgeous, curious tiny monster of mine.

She’s giggling as I kiss her nose, her jaw, her lips.

“Get a room,” says Eivor.

“Just not one in my house!” Carver shouts over his shoulder as he slips from the living room.

Risna sighs. “Didn’t we literally have an entire conversation about why shouting isn’t necessary in a house full of vampires?”

I’m grinning as I set Rory back on her feet.

“It does make me wonder,” begins Eivor, “why would Riven want a book of fables? He can’t be that bored in the Fae Isles.”

“He mentioned it’ll be a gift,” I say reluctantly. “Perhaps he was telling the truth about that.” Hope flares through me as I turn to my mate. “So where’s the book, Rory?”

“About that,” she says nervously as Carver glides into the room with a bottle of blood and five wine glasses. “We’re going to have to pay my family home a little visit.”

Chapter 35

RORY

Eivor and Risna meet Quill, Carver, and me at the stables, their arms overflowing with crimson uniforms.

“The sizing might need to be illusioned to be more form fitting for us ladies,” says Risna as she shoves uniforms toward each of us, “but this should be enough.”

The five of us dress, and I can’t help but notice Risna wince as she eases out of her top. Her shoulder bears the mark of still healing silver poisoning, the same as Quill’s had that day in the baths. She catches me staring and lifts her good shoulder. “It’ll heal,” she says in a reassuring tone.

Once we’re dressed, we steal horses and ride to the manor. We dismount in the front yard, and I reach into my saddlebag for the fake letter and hand it to Quill.

Risna raps on the door. There’s a loud sigh and then heavy footsteps from the other side before the front door is wrenched open and Brutus’s severe face glowers at us. I bite back my grin at the sight of the lingering, crooked bump across his nose.

“King’s not here,” he snaps. “Go away.”

“I’m aware. I have a letter from him that must be read at once,” my mate says smoothly. “The king tasked me and my colleagues”—he gestures to the four of us crowded around him—“to search the manor for any further traces of information that will lead us to finding Adelphi’s Sacrifice and putting her down for good.”

“This again?” Brutus frowns as he takes the letter and breaks the wax seal bearing Father’s sigil. It’s an illusion, of course, along with the scrawl Quill helped mimic from the wanted posters strung up across the city. “We ransacked the place the night the bloodwhore disappeared.”

Beneath Quill’s unbothered demeanor, rage ripples at that word—bloodwhore. Even the kindred’s jaws clench simultaneously. Risna’s eyes are bright with the promise of death.

Brutus scans the page, his scowl deepening until he sweeps his gaze over the five of us and says, “I’ve never seen you around the city before.”

“You wouldn’t have,” I say, stepping around Quill. “Our specialty is to see, not be seen. We are renowned among the mortal kings in locating what others cannot.”

A loud crack of thunder rattles the ground we stand on as Quill adds tersely, “If there’s anything here that will help us locate wherever the bloodwhore is hiding or who helped her, we’ll find it.”

Brutus reluctantly steps aside.

The entire downstairs has been ransacked, all the way down to its floorboards. This manor used to be stunning, every decoration handpicked by my mother, and now it’s reduced to clustered furniture covered in white sheets, shredded paintings, and floorboards torn up and set back down hastily. The sight of Father’s and Vivvy’s desperation makes the blood in my stomach curdle, and I fake my breath, inhaling past the tightness in my chest. My hands clench and unclench into fists at my sides, and the urge to dig my nails into my skin is nearly overwhelming.

Quill’s gaze is sharp, his concern palpable.