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Cassian easily heaved himself up, then settled into the plank, wings folding gracefully across his broad back. “Want me to work you into the dirt?”

Az snorted and hauled himself back into position. He didn’t deserve his brother’s kindness, didn’t deserve this offer of normalcy to help him work through everything that warred in his mind. Didn’t deserve a lick of it. And yet . . .

“Yes, please.”

The exercise helped. Not entirely, but by the time Cassian was through with him, Azriel was so exhausted it took all his focus to reach his room.

Cassian swaggered down the steps as if barely winded. Bastard. Apparently, he’d told the others he was going to Windhaven for the day, and still intended to. But in addition to Cassian’s preternatural strength, his brother was also an unnaturally good male—so he’d come here first to check on Az.

As he washed and dressed, Az kept thinking about how he didn’t deserve Cassian’s kindness. Especially as he dropped onto the sofa in his room at the House of Wind and willed his worthless shadows to disperse into the city, to hunt. And ten minutes later, summoned by those shadows, Erebos appeared.

Certain spies were suited for certain tasks. Certain deeds. Nuala and Cerridwen were best for political intrigue, for listening and waiting and blending in.

Erebos was a terror that made people start talking. The sort of creature that children dreaded lurking under their beds. And, more often than not, Erebos did—under their parents’ beds, anyway.

There were some nightmares that had given the Night Court its fearsome reputation, after all. And who better than Az to wield them?

Crafted from pure shadow, yet not wholly shadow, Erebos had no discernable features. Though a lanky humanoid in shape, he bore no mouth, no nose—only golden eyes that simmered like hot coals.

Shadow-men, the humans had once called Erebos’s people, millennia ago—shadow-thing was a better term, Az thought. Beings that traveled in shadow and darkness, and fed on the fears both inspired. Beings that liked to toy with their prey, drawing out that delicious terror for as long as possible.

Az didn’t enjoy dealing with Erebos—Mor had been telling him to get rid of the abomination for years now—but the creature was effective. Skilled, even. Able to resist his urge to feed on targets, while utilizing his horrific stalking instincts to glean as much information as possible.

And, given his people’s ancient worship of shadowsingers, totally loyal to Azriel.

Erebos had been the one to find Az, centuries ago. Drawn by the darkness in him, Erebos had unequivocally pledged his lifelong services to Az and this court. An unsavory ally, perhaps, but one who had uses.

And for this task, Erebos was precisely who—what—Az needed.

Az’s shadows seemed to recoil to the corners of the room, as if seeking any crack or crevice to escape through. To avoid being in Erebos’s presence. The power of the Siphons atop Az’s hands felt distant somehow—like it wanted to be far away, too. Even Bryaxis hadn’t done that, he realized with no small amount of distaste. His own shadows and Bryaxis’s were made of something different than what Erebos bore—what the shadow-thing was crafted from.

“Yes?” Erebos hissed, a splotch of solid, impenetrable black against the glare of the morning sun. The creature bowed low at the waist.

Suppressing a cringe at the way the word slithered over his skin, Az sighed, scrubbing his face. His arms ached just from the movement. But his sore body was the least of his concerns.

“Any news from Koschei’s castle or lake?” Az had ordered Erebos there months ago.

“Nothing,” Erebos said, sounding for all the world like he was bored. “I cannot get close enough to learn anything interesting.”

“Station one of your underlings to watch it, then,” Az said tightly. Erebos had shadows that worked for him, much like Az’s own shadows. The similarities were too unnerving to dwell on often, but the differences at least proved useful. Erebos could leave them behind—pieces of himself, the shadow-thing had once called them—to report back to him. “I have a different task for you.”

“Oh?”

Az might have ruined any chance of help from Lucien, but he had to ensure that the male wasn’t going to do anything that would threaten this court. The Mother knew they already had one major threat within it.

“Go to the human lands,” Az ordered, “and follow Lucien Vanserra. Where he goes, you go. Any movement out of the ordinary, you report back to me. He makes contact with the Autumn Court, you tell me immediately. Understood?”

Erebos’s golden eyes flickered with twin flames of delight. “The lordling of Autumn will be an interesting target.”

“Not target,” Az warned. “Don’t touch him.”

He could have sworn Erebos pouted. Az’s shadows clung to the corners of the room, more repulsed than terrified.

The creature’s eyes slid toward them, slitting with pleasure—like he was well aware of their disgust. But he bowed again to Azriel. “As you will it, Shadowsinger.” When Erebos straightened, he pointed to Azriel’s side, darkness rippling off his finger. “Where is your blade? The one that sings.”

Azriel knew he meant Truth-Teller. It was at the town house, still in the corner he’d chucked it into. Where it would remain forever. But Erebos’s comment was intriguing enough that he found himself asking, “What do you hear when it’s around, exactly?”

Erebos cocked his shadowy head, serpentine in his movement. “A dirge. A lament. A scream.” All the more reason to ignore the blade. To never draw it again. Erebos shuddered with pleasure. “A Song of Songs.”