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I let the bus cradle me as I observe them all, quietly allowing them to vent all their emotions. They won’t be able to do so as easily when we’re faced with the Court and his fans, so it seems like a good plan to allow them to get it out of their system here.

And it doesn’t bother me—I’m used to fiery people like Louie stomping about.

These beings are my coven now, some in ways older than blood and infinitely more complicated. Like any ancient vampire, I know that the more beautiful the performance, the sharper the blade hidden beneath the velvet is. They’re emotional and reactive, yes, but I can mould us into a fearsome quintet that people will not cross. I just need time to help them get past the traumas or ties to things that no longer serve them. Someone should have done so long before I came into their lives, but I will pick up the slack.

I glance out the window, noting that we’re passing through the outskirts of another village, this one clearly wealthier than the last. Wrought-iron fences snarl around sprawling estates, their windows gleaming like eyes watching our passage. Magic clings to the stones here—thicker, more dangerous. Even the trees seem to lean closer to the road, whispering warnings only I can hear.

Fiadh leans over the book now, scowling at the coded pages. She mutters about ‘pointless secrecy methods’ again, but her fingers trace the sigils with something dangerously close to reverence. I smile faintly because I know that she’s also enjoying our treasure hunt, and she’s certainly enjoying being in Faerie—enough that it’s piqued my interest. She can protest all she wants about being here, but if any one Court can seduce her spirit, it will be this one.

Thankfully, I’m going to be there to make use of their infamous records and library so that when the moment comes, and the truth is revealed, I’m ready.

That’s how my kind survived for centuries, after all.

The farther we drive, the sharper the world becomes. Lamplight villages like in Harvest are long gone, and in their place rise the distant gleams of manor houses surrounded by high metal gates as far as the eye can see. Twisted woods crowd the road, thick with mist that sparkles faintly with trapped magic.

Even the light shifts—no longer warm gold, but a soft, eerie silver, as if moonlight has soaked into the very soil. The bus hums through it, a beast of old magic stitched to modern steel, utterly unfazed. The enchantments—woven together from a dozen old bloodlines in Revelin’s family—keep most curious eyes from truly seeing us.

Not that the Midnight Court would allow us entry without it reaching the Court—they are expecting Revelin, and it will be a circus, I’m certain.

At the next crossroads, we pause. Tiernan insists on hopping out to inspect the bus for any issues, and I roll my eyes. It’s magical, but if it makes him feel better, why should I complain? Khol joins him, stalking the perimeter as he stretches his legs. My witchling crosses her arms and glares at nothing in particular, then gets up to raid the refrigerator.

I merely watch in amusement, sipping the blood I’d retrieved a bit ago as Revelin tries to channel his nerves into productive energy by obsessing over minor tweaks to his shows. No amount of preparation will truly brace him—or any of us—for what awaits inside the Midnight Court.

I humor them.

Let them have their carefully rehearsed illusions of control; it comforts those who have hyper energy brimming from their souls. I don’t spend energy I don’t need to on this sort of frenetic behavior. It’s a decision people regret when they are surprised with unexpected problems, and my time on this planet has taught me those come more often than not.

Once Tiernan is done checking everything, the bus roars to life again. The whole family is now paying attention, so Fiadh has us review the book’s next chapters. No one has figured out the next bit of code, but Fiadh found maps, ceremonial etiquette... and of course, the protocols for attending a Midnight Court gathering.

That tells me that we’re on the track to find something there while we’re on the tour stops, but not what or where, or even how it connects. I’m pondering that when Fiadh huffs in outrage at the full-body formal wear required.

“Robes? Jewelry? Heels? Again?” she spits the word like it personally insulted her ancestors. “For fuck’s sake. I can’t catch a break in this damn realm.”

I lean back with a slow, satisfied smile. “Tradition is important here, witchling. Even rebellion must dress properly before it’s allowed inside the dance—and we have no choice but to go to whatever they throw for our prince. You know that.”

Tiernan shoots me a long-suffering look, but he says nothing. He knows better than to argue with Fi when she’s winding up for a fit, but we can’t let her sulk for long. She has to comply, and he knows it.

My knowledge of what Fae do when they feel disrespected is intimate, and Revelin may not want to tell her, but I will if I have to. I prefer her not to have that kind of bias going into other courts, especially the prince’s home territory, so I’ve kept silent on the matter. But Tier and Khol must support me in keeping her calm about the various sacrifices she has to make, so it’s easier.

Revelin interjects, his anxiety clearing as he takes over without my asking. He talks about costumes, pageantry, stage presence—as if showmanship alone could guard us against the thousand invisible blades waiting in every polite smile. He’s distracting her while educating her, and I appreciate it, so I lean back to let him work.

My new coven is young, strong, and wild, but so painfully breakable.

The Prince may share my immortality, but his upbringing has left him behaving about the same age as the rest of them. It limits us, but I don’t want it to change because they’re so incandescently alive. Every peak and valley of their emotions and how they approach the world reminds me of the first coven I had… before things went poorly, of course.

I don’t want to lose them, so if I have to be the boss outside of the bedroom as well, I will.

Outside, the last of the sunset bleeds away, leaving only the velvet crush of true night. The road narrows, and the air grows colder as we get closer to our destination.

I will be ready for whatever greets us there.

The first true glimpse of the Midnight Court seizes the breath from even my ancient lungs.

Sprawling towers carved of obsidian and glass rise against a sky stitched with unfamiliar constellations. Pathways paved with crushed diamonds wind through manicured gardens full of flora that shimmers under a silver moon that never wanes. Massive gates, wrought from bone and something older still, loom ahead, wide enough to admit armies—or swallow them whole. The air itself hums, alive with layered wards, glamour spells, and the heavy scent of too-sweet blossoms.

The beauty of death and rebirth lives in Midnight, while the tragedy lives in Reaping.

Fiadh leans forward against the bus window, her scowl momentarily forgotten as raw awe flashes across her face. She catches me watching her and immediately schools her features back into something appropriately disdainful. I allow myself a private smile.