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Had the lights lining the descent always been this far apart?

“Stop it,” she whispered to herself. And yet she peered down, down, down. Into a black darker than anything she’d ever beheld.

That wasn’t true. She’d seen that darkness before, the night Hybern had torn apart her very existence. The very first night she’d met Azriel—or rather, had been found by him. Saved. Yes, the darkness had been there that night, too.

She knew the feel, the weight, the taste of that darkness. She knew its sounds—the terrified screams of children, the defiant roar of a sister ordering her not to tell that commander anything, the wet thump of a head falling to the kitchen floor, then the cruel laugh of a male—

Something warmed at her thigh, turquoise light glimmering in the corner of her vision.

Gwyn staggered back from the railing, from the darkness, fingers fumbling for the Invoking Stone in her pocket. It was glowing, and warm to the touch in a way that had nothing to do with its proximity to her flesh.

You are here, the stone seemed to affirm, you are safe. The past cannot harm you.

Gwyn shook her head. She was inclined to disagree.

The Blood Rite had shown her one thing only, she’d decided: that the world was full of hate, and perhaps she did not want anything to do with it. Not only the Illyrian males who had hunted and tormented her and Emerie and Nesta—but what she had found in herself when they did. The ease with which she’d killed the one male. Hurt the others. How much she’d enjoyed it.

She’d been a fool to think her Valkyrie training was merely for educational purposes. She’d been learning how to kill all those months, Mother damn her. In her mind, she’d dismissed it as theories and practice. She’d read about the Valkyries’ efficient killing methods, but none of it had been real. None of it had really sunk in until the initial slash of her blade into that male’s flesh. Until she’d felt the warmth of his blood, felt his bones reverberating against the knife, felt herself marveling at how easily skin and muscle could split apart.

And as if that wasn’t enough, she’d taken his clothes when she was done. Discarded her blood-splattered, torn nightgown, peeled the leathers from his cooling body, and slid into them like some sort of parasite. She’d burned those leathers the moment she’d returned after the Rite.

It was better—safer—for her to be here. Even with Bryaxis lurking below the library.

Gwyn shoved the stone back into her pocket. It continued to glow, spilling muffled blue light down the ramp, but she ignored it. The thing had already caused her enough trouble tonight. Then she closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in deep, holding the breath, and then slowly releasing it. Mind-Stilling on the go.

She took another breath, focusing on the expansion of her ribs, the tautness in her torso.

I am the rock against which the surf crashes. Nothing can break me.

The words settled something deep in her, and before she’d finished exhaling, she was walking again, this time making a point not to look to her right, to the darkness at the very heart of the library.

But even as Gwyn descended, even as she mercifully reached the dormitory and curled up in her narrow bed, she was convinced she heard that darkness laughing. Like it knew the truth.

Like it knew it wasn’t the only monster down here.

CHAPTER

22

Nesta

The Autumn Equinox had been the day from hell. If it was supposed to have been a celebration of the balance between light and dark, Nesta was inclined to believe that the dark part had hogged more than its fair share.

It was different from the glorious dark of the Night Court. Different from the star-flecked darkness currently pouring off that court’s High Lord.

She sat in the chair across from his desk, his formal study barely lit despite the early-morning hour. She’d crawled from Elain’s bed when Feyre did, minutes ago, hoping to steal some sleep in her own room for an hour or two, only for Rhys to say into her mind, My study. Now.

She was so exhausted, so hollow, that she didn’t bother to snap a response about not ordering her around.

So here they were. Just the two of them. A cup of tea steamed on the desk in front of her. The cup in front of Rhys didn’t steam—it wasn’t tea inside.

“What do you want?” Nesta said at last, too tired to bother trying to sound nice.

She hadn’t been alone with Rhys in days, since he’d hauled her out of the ocean and she’d puked up seawater all over this very rug. Then, his eyes had been alight with alarm and dismay.

Now, those eyes were as dark as she’d ever seen them. Not one star shone.

Ataraxia thumped onto the desk. The Mask, the Harp, and the Crown clattered beside it a moment later. Then the other blade she had Made. And finally, shining an unholy black, Gwydion.