Page 94
If there’s trouble up here, I want to see it coming.
Forty-Nine
FIADH
The top of the stairs opens into a room that couldn’t be less like the swampy apothecary below. It’s warm, and the air smells like old wax and cardamom. Shelves line every wall, but these are clean, dusted, and it’s clear there’s nothing for sale here. Instead, they’re packed with what appears to be personal stuff—carved animals no bigger than a thumb, glass globes painted with curling letters in a language I can’t read, and folded letters sealed in wax so thick it could stop a bullet. One entire shelf is just candlesticks, each carved and burned halfway, then abandoned, wax frozen in mid-drip.
This place belongs to a practitioner… maybe even a hybrid witch. Nice.
There’s a display case at eye level, and it’s the only thing behind glass. It contains a single insect wing that’s iridescent, moth-patterned, and so perfect it might’ve been cut from the body of a living thing five seconds ago. The colors shift as I stare at it, and I’m hit with a memory I don’t recognize. My mind sees a moth, the size of a bird, slamming into the kitchen window on my sixteenth birthday. My magic thrums up my spine in response, as if it recognizes the shape, but the logical part of my brain is screaming that it’s not the kitchen from my parents’ house.
When I turn, there’s a woman in the center of the room who moves between the shelves with the deliberate grace of someone who owns the place and everything in it. She’s tall, even by Fae standards, but there’s nothing sharp about her like the Midnight folks I’ve met so far. She wears a black dress with bell sleeves, and her hair is a pale, shimmery silver that sways every time she tilts her head to study a shelf. She doesn’t turn when I notice her; she just keeps humming some slow, haunting tune that tangles with the light from the amber orbs floating overhead.
I freeze because something about the sound makes my nerves vibrate. Khol steps up beside me, his hand ready at his side, as he flicks his tongue out. It’s a tiny movement, so fast I wouldn’t notice if I didn’t know to look for it—a flicker to scent the air like a predator testing for prey. His jaw goes rigid, and I glance up at him.
He nods once, almost imperceptibly, before he demands, “Who and what the fuck are you, lady?”
Always ready to jump into the fray, especially if he thinks someone will harm me or the others.
The woman turns calmly, unbothered by his harsh tone. I notice her eyes are the same color as the moth's wing—a weird, depthless gray-green, with a shimmer that flickers with every pulse of the overhead lights. She smiles and glides closer, but stops well out of reach.
“You may call me Calyx,” she says. Her voice is velvety, and the accent is definitely not modern Fae as far as I can tell. “As for what I am… that depends on who’s asking. You are here for something you need?”
It’s not a question, just a statement of fact. I rake my gaze over her, noting the small moth’s wings that unfold behind her shoulders. She certainly looks like someone from Faerie, but not a species I can pin down. It’s unsettling, which is a feat in a world of tricky, pointy-eared beings who want to own part of you if possible. I’m no expert, but there’s something… off… about her.
“We’re here for magical supplies, and maybe information, if anyone has it. The rest of my family is downstairs,” I say, trying to seem unbothered by the creepy, doll-like behavior the woman exhibits.
She bows her head a little. “You may take what you require from the shop. No charge, but you must hurry. Others will come if you linger, and that is not good for anyone.” She glances at the stairs, as if she’s expecting an army to invade at any moment.
“Who are you? What bargain do we implicitly accept if we take the supplies you’ve generously offered?” I ask. Rev and Dezi have taught me enough to look at every tooth in a horse’s mouth in Faerie, and despite the inauspicious looks of this chick, I do not trust anyone here to have our best interests at heart.
Calyx tilts her head. “I serve my own ends, but the stag is my charge. You followed its path here, and so you receive my hospitality.” Her smile sharpens, showing very sharp and scary teeth now. “That boon is not for the rest of your tour, you know.”
Huh? What’s not for the tour? Fuck, I hate old ass Riddler Fae.
Before I can ask what that means, the air in the room ripples with power. The moth wings on her back dissolve into motes of light, and the amber orbs on them pulse so brightly I have to squint. Calyx’s outline blurs; it doesn’t fade, but collapses like a shadow folding into itself. For a heartbeat, there’s nothing where she stood. Then the room is full of light, and standing in the exact center is the feystag.
It’s not a projection, but the real thing, with its antlers pressed against the ceiling and coat so pale it looks like moonlight given bones. Its eyes are mirrors, and the hooves hover a quarter inch above the hardwood. When it lowers its head toward me, every hair on my body rises in response.
Son of a bitch, this shithead has been following us somehow, yet it let us struggle to find whatever it wants.
I growl in frustration as I stumble back into Khol, who’s so startled he hisses. Fidget goes berserk in my hair, chittering and flapping so wildly I have to slap a hand to my scalp to keep him from launching into orbit. The sound of our panic brings Revelin, Tiernan, and Dezi up the stairs at a dead run. They barely fit in the doorway, and the sight of the stag in the middle of the parlor freezes them both.
For a long second, no one moves. The stag stares, impassive and uncannily patient, as if it’s used to people reacting like idiots to its arrival.
Dezi recovers first, his voice soft but sharp. “You’re not in Briarvale waiting for your request.”
The stag inclines its head, acknowledging his statement. It doesn’t speak, but the air vibrates with intent, and somehow I know it’s listening.
“Okay, am I the only one who isn’t sure if this is real or just a really good illusion? I’m gonna roll with it, but I’m sus and I want it on the record.” The prince gives the creature a wide berth as he crosses his arms over his chest, glaring at the creature. “Are we in trouble, or is this the kind of visit where you save us from the next disaster?”
His response is a low sound—not quite a deer’s snort, more like a cello’s G string. I understand it, somehow, as a laugh. That’s odd, but since Fidget is now sitting in my hair calmly as he peeps out, I suppose it’s not weird that I feel like I get what the damn thing is saying.
I set my jaw, still flushed with adrenaline from the shock. “Why are you here? We didn’t finish the damn quest. We’ve gotten hung up here, so I haven’t even gotten to punch a bad guy in a stupid cave like I’m searching for the Holy Grail. You’re two courts too early, buddy.”
Shaking its head in a slow side-to-side, I feel like the stag is trying to correct my assumption. Its gaze slides to the shelf with the moth wing, and the air in the room thickens with energy that tingles over my skin. I feel it in my hands, my wrists, my tattoos, and all the way down to my boots.
This must be important, otherwise the tatts wouldn’t be reacting.
