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“That is where you are mistaken, Princess,” Mal whispered, his voice dropping so low it was almost swallowed by the coastal wind. “You think you are preparing for a duel against a rival warrior. You think the heir of More Alora is coming to test his steel against yours.”

A cold, uneasy knot tightened in the pit of my stomach. “What are you talking about?”

“I know the heir,” Mal rasped, his eyes burning with a dark, sinister intelligence that sent a violent shiver straight down my spine. “The heir of More Alora isn’t coming to win a duel, Tauriel. He doesn’t care about the crown, and he doesn’t fear dragon fire.”

Mal leaned in even closer, his breath warm against my cheek, delivering a line that made the blood in my veins turn instantly to ice:

“He knows what you carry in your blood. He knows about the dual mark. And he isn’t coming to kill you, Tauriel... he’s coming to feed you to the void—to claim your Remnikai.”

FORTY-SIX

Dax and I both woke to the deep and utterly pathetic sound of violent heaving echoing from directly across the hall.

I sat up in bed, blinking through the damp morning mist that had crept under the door of the motel room, a breathless laugh escaping my throat. I didn’t need a single thread of my father’s foresight to map exactly what was happening.

It was Manem.

After the sheer, ungodly fortress of chocolate bars, powdered donuts, and high-fructose corn syrup he had aggressively consumed the previous night, his ancient Fae biology had finally collapsed under the weight of processed sugar.

“Sounds like the Commander’s grand military strategy didn’t account for the Hershey clan,” Dax muttered from the tweed couch, rubbing his eyes as he swung his legs onto the musty carpet, his black-and-silver high-tops squeaking against the floorboards.

We dressed quickly, pulling on our jeans and leather jackets before slipping out into the freezing, salt-crusted outdoor walkway. The fog was thick, clinging to the seafoam-green railings as we crossed the narrow corridor and knocked on the wood panel of Room 15.

The door swung open a second later.

Caspian stood in the threshold, completely shirtless.

The pale morning light caught the stark, jagged lines of dark ink curling over his broad chest and muscular forearms. His dark hair fell messy around his sharp jaw, and the heavy heat of him hit the chilly air instantly. His eyes locked onto mine, burning with a sudden, unspoken longing that made the raw memory of his mouth against my neck flare white-hot in my veins.

Behind him, the bathroom door was wide open. The terrifying head of the Black Guard was currently hunched completely over the porcelain toilet bowl, suffering profoundly.

“I am cursed,” Manem groaned between violent heaves, his deep baritone voice muffled by the ceramic. He gripped the edge of the seat like a battle shield, muttering curses into the drain. “The mortals... they have poisoned the dark bricks. I will never... never consume chocolate again. It is a weapon of the Void.”

I stepped past Caspian into the room, my gaze automatically scanning the mess of crumpled wrappers and neon-orange chip bags on the double beds.

Mal was nowhere to be seen.

The laminate dresser where he had been leaning the night before sat empty, his dark presence missing from the cramped space. Caspian saw me searching the corners, the muscles in his bare shoulders tightening into a rigid posture as his eyes narrowed.

“He went for a walk,” Caspian said, his gravelly voice dropping into a flat, controlled register. “He left before dawn broke. He claims he will return.”

The underlying tension among the three of us flared instantly. A volatile current I desperately needed to outrun, especially after the dark warning Mal had whispered to me by the vending machine last night.

“Dax and I are going to walk back to the gas station up the road,” I announced, grabbing the blue debit card from the nightstand. “We need to grab some mortal medicine to help Manem’s stomach before his sugar crash turns into a total liability.”

“I am vigilant!” Manem yelled weakly from the porcelain bowl, followed immediately by another hollow heave.

“You’re pathetic,” Dax corrected with a wolfish smirk, waving a hand as we stepped back out into the mist.

The walk to the Chevron was quick, the biting wind off the ocean surf finally clearing the last remnants of sleep and Caspian’s touch from my head.

We walked through the sliding glass doors, grabbed two bottles of bright pink bismuth liquid and a box of chewable antacids, and slid the plastic debit card through the reader smoothly before heading back down the gravel shoulder toward the lodge.

When we pushed the door to Room 15 open again, Mal was already standing inside.

He had returned from the fog. His dark crewneck sweater slightly damp from the coastal mist, his hazel eyes sharp and focused as he looked past us to Caspian.

“I found it,” Mal said smoothly, his deep voice cutting straight through the smell of stale grease and cocoa. “Two miles north along the main strip line. A tavern. It has a wooden sign shaped like a fish tail with a woman’s torso. The Nauti Mermaid.”