Page 3

Turning back is not an option—not for me, not for any of us. We’ve come too far to turn back now, and I’ll be damned if I let some power-hungry assholes keep me from the truth. So I square my shoulders, take a deep breath, and prepare myself for the battles ahead. Three more chances to unravel the secrets of our parents’ disappearance and figure out who the hell is controlling the evil beasts and why.

Bring it on, bitches. Fiadh Morgenstern is ready to rumble.

Two

DEZI

The road hums beneath us—a soft, rhythmic thrumming that mingles with the rustling leaves outside the bus windows. I sit half-reclined in the plush booths aboard our absurdly enchanted tour bus, watching the world change.

Harvest Court fades behind us, its endless autumn charm—golden trees, cozy cottages, the scent of hearth smoke—already a ghost in the rearview. Quaint, nostalgic... and hiding secrets even the Prince wouldn’t have expected.

Faerie has always been like that, and I doubt Revelin has been allowed out of his gilded cage enough to find out.

I allow myself a brief, indulgent moment to appreciate the season’s embrace: amber and russet hues, the smell of crisp apples, the soft crackle of fires. People believe only humans can acknowledge nostalgia, but that is not true. Even demons and vampires like myself with centuries of life can look back wistfully—that’s why Louie stayed stuck in the past for so long. Nostalgia can be a dangerous path for those with lifespans as long as ours.

Ahead, the road stretches like a ribbon, pulling us toward the Midnight Court—the true jewel of Faerie, where beauty and terror walk hand-in-hand, cloaked in glamour and menace. I feel the call of the darker Court tugging at the ancient parts of me. It promises nights where mortal rules dissolve into glittering decadence and predatory games. It’s been ages since I was in Faerie, as I told the others, but Midnight was always my favorite.

Very little changes in realms such as Faerie—evolution is kept at bay purposefully to preserve the culture and charm of their homeland.

The bus rattles gently, a beast of modern sorcery and vintage nostalgia. Around me, the band of misfits I’ve somehow become responsible for clusters with varying degrees of focus and irritation. If you’d asked me a couple of months, or even years ago, if I’d find myself in this sort of situation, I would have laughed you out of my club. I believed my past precluded such a thing, and my trauma would have prevented it if Fate had not.

Fiadh, my witchling mate, is curled up at the center table, poring over the ancient book we salvaged from the cave. Her streaked hair falls in her face, the tilt of her head betraying both stubborn determination and frustration. I catch the glint in her eye—the fiery curiosity that drives her to uncover every secret inked onto the pages. She is a storm held barely at bay, all wild magic and bone-deep distrust, and I find myself impossibly fond of her surly presence.

We are winning her over slowly, and I’m pleased with all of them for figuring out how to do so—together.

Tiernan, our loyal bodyguard, scours logistics with the precision of a battlefield general. His mind hums in tune with the task: safeguarding Prince Revelin and the rest of us from threats both mundane and magical. His icy snow leopard eyes flick from the windows to the route maps sprawled across his tablet, tracking potential dangers before we even smell them.

Before we were thrown together in this family, I honestly never noticed him when he came to the club with the prince. Now, I’m not surprised the company he runs is doing well enough to have royal contracts like that; the man is solid as a rock despite his very chilled-out temperament.

Khol is unreadable as a mountain while he leans back against the booth wall, staring at his phone. The quiet is not unusual for him, but since our trip to Briarvale, he seems determined to keep his promise to his twin about checking in with home.

His thoughts aren’t flowing like water from his lips—probably because they’re tangled up between the Bedia empire and his concern that Khorinea, Amethyst, and all the other poisonous creatures will be slithering around court politics in Midnight. The slight tightening of his jaw is the only betrayal of the battles raging in his mind. I’d offer to help, but I think the basilisk needs to learn how to balance his responsibilities to his twin while holding boundaries.

Yes, this is more caring about others than I’ve done in centuries, but if I’m tied to these people, I want the best for us all.

Then there’s Revelin—our radiant, exasperating Fae prince/rockstar. He lounges in his seat next to Fi, oscillating between a royal’s confidence and a boy’s nervous energy. His mind must be racing ahead to the two concerts we’re barreling toward: one for the people and one for the Midnight Court itself. Two stages, two audiences, two risks—each more dangerous than the last. After all, we were attacked at the last one, then again at the damn charity ball. He’ll have plenty of publicity events lined up as well as his personal school tours, so I don’t blame him for worrying about what will befall us on the second stop of this long-ass tour.

I close my eyes briefly and listen—to the indistinct murmur of their muttering, the soft crackle of magical wards layered into the bus’s frame, the distant heartbeat of Faerie itself.

This journey is the kind of razor-edge I’ve always enjoyed—until I found this new coven of people that I’m growing too fond of to lose.

The bus rolls on like a dark ship sailing through a world shifting minute by minute. Gone are the golden fields and whimsical villages… no, the landscape beyond sharpens, growing leaner and more guarded. Stone walls loom higher, and iron gates flash between thickets of shadowed trees. Even the sky feels heavier here—smeared with lavender bruises where twilight clings long past its welcome. This is the threshold where Harvest’s gentle fantasy ends and the true game begins.

Midnight is one of the two most dangerous courts because it holds half of the Unseelie.

Beside me, Fiadh scowls at the book, frustrated at the secrets it won’t give up. She mutters curses under her breath about school tours, formal outfits, rigid protocols, and everything else she can think of. I savor the sight of her rebellion, even as I hope for the most traditional Court ensemble possible. Whether she likes it or not, she’ll be forced to wear it for the Court’s approval at some event. I simply love seeing all facets of her, and the trend of Faerie royalty pushing her comfort zone is also good for her growth.

Don’t judge me—a little conflict and rebellion make for spicier games.

“Witchling, didn’t anyone ever tell you that your face could freeze with that frown on it?” I say lazily, letting just enough velvet into my voice to needle her pride. “You’d still be the most beautiful woman around, but it would scare everyone away within seconds.”

She shoots me a glare sharp enough to flay a lesser man. I only chuckle. She won’t admit it yet, but part of her thrills at the challenge. “I’d like that, and you know it, fang face.”

Tiernan looks up from where he’s been outlining security plans with grim precision. His low voice is a constant thrum, a tether keeping the wilder spirits of our little family anchored. The leopard is practical and efficient, but also one of the best at cajoling our shared mate. “Now, Knuckles. We can’t frighten off everyone. It would make our secret mission harder and would definitely make Rev’s job harder. I don’t think that’s really what you want.”

Khol nods, but he’s still brooding about whatever bullshit his minions are giving him. The snakelet is definitely used to his twin mopping up the nonsense, and he’s struggling with an onslaught of dumb things, most likely. Still, he’s listening, and he’s not being grumpy with our saucy mate, so I’m okay with his disgruntled posture.

However, the wildcard is Revelin as he paces in tight, restless loops in the aisle. He’s muttering about set lists, audience flow, and the symbolism of the last concert. His fingers pluck invisible guitar strings midair, each imagined note a prayer for success—and survival. He wants this to go even better than the Harvest concerts, obviously, but I’m not sure if that’s because of the attacks or because there’s something important about Midnight.