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For a moment, she felt a surge of the fear that sometimes came without warning, and had ever since the battle in Idris. It was a feeling as if she were falling into a massive black hole, a feeling that made her throat ache and her heart pound until she thought she might die.

It’s not the same sword, she told herself. She knew this Phaesphoros had come from Thule. But she couldn’t rid her mind of the memory of Sebastian, stalking the halls of the Institute with the blade in his hand. She’d been eight then, but the memory was clear as water.

Not now, she prayed. She couldn’t fall apart in front of Ash. She imagined herself taking her feelings, wrapping them up, stuffing them down into the dark hole at the bottom of her consciousness. Sometimes that worked.

“Is everything all right?” Ash asked, before his gaze fell on Phaesphoros. “I should have put that damn blade away,” he muttered, half to himself.

Dru forced herself to smile. Her heart was still pounding but the sense that she was falling was fading. “I know this sword,” she said. “Phaesphoros. It is a famous blade.”

“It was my father’s. Not this very one, but its twin in this world,” he said.

“And in this world,” Dru said, raising her sword, “it was also destroyed.”

Ash swung his blade. Dru parried, their swords clashing. He was well trained, she thought, as they circled the practice space, but he wasn’t careful enough. Perhaps a life of fighting only people who were loyal to him hadn’t taught him he needed to be.

She ducked the next blow, throwing herself onto her back and kicking out with her feet, swiping his legs from under him. He fell, clumsy and unprepared, but the Agility rune kicked in quickly—he landed on one hand and sprang back up onto his feet. He laughed as Dru sprang up as well, facing him.

“Amazing,” he said. “I see why you like to use these. Shall we go again?”

“Whatever you like. It’s your choice. Only—”

He tilted his head to the side. He was sweaty from practice, his pale hair hanging in damp tendrils. “What?”

She decided to risk a question. “When I am done training you,” she said. “What happens to me? Do I go home?”

“It may take some time to train me.”

“Time passes,” Dru said.

His eyes darkened. “When we have finished,” he said, “I am sure my mother will duly reward you. You will not be a prisoner here forever.”

He really knows how to talk like a faerie, Dru thought. Not being a prisoner anymore could also mean dead. He didn’t need to speak so obliquely; just like Mark and Helen, any half faerie had the ability to lie. She reminded herself not to trust Ash, not even in little things. Though his power didn’t work on her—and why didn’t it work on her?—he was still charming. Convincing. Dangerous.

“Thank you for the reassurance,” she said. “You understand why I would fear for my safety here.”

The darkness didn’t leave his eyes. “You’ll be safe enough,” he said, and went to put his sword away. Over his shoulder, he said, “I think that’s enough training for today. I’ll get Elara. She can bring you back to your room.”

—

Kit and Ty followed Ragnor out of the alley, their boots splashing in shallow puddles of rainwater.

Kit was fairly sure he knew where the three of them were: on one of the narrow streets that rayed out around the Seven Dials roundabout in West London, just adjacent to the theater district. They were glamoured, and the pedestrians hurrying by on the pavement either didn’t see them at all, or didn’t notice anything unusual about a seven-foot-tall green man with horns.

Across the street was a dingy yellow-painted diner with a battered neon sign buzzing overhead. Speedy’s Café. Rain hammered at the broad windows that faced the street, running down the glass in thin silver streams.

Inside, the diner smelled of burned toast and frying potatoes. It was a typical British lunch café, with dull green walls and Formica-topped tables marked with brown rings where coffee mugs had rested. A battered jukebox stood in the corner, silent, and the only other patron in the place was a single man in a rain slicker, hunched over a plate of overboiled beans.

The group of three sat down at a table with cracked vinyl seats. A menu hung on the wall, offering bangers and mash, balti curry, and spag bol—Mina’s favorite. Kit wasn’t hungry, though. His stomach still felt as if he’d been punched in the guts by an iron fist.

When the waitress, an elderly woman whose gray hair seemed to have been permed to her head like a steel helmet, shuffled over, Ragnor ordered three coffees and a plate of chips. After she’d gone, Ragnor leaned forward, his voice lowering to an urgent rasp.

“They’re alive,” he said. “Your family, Kit. They’re still alive.”

Kit sucked in a deep lungful of air, realizing in that moment how long it had been since he’d taken a real breath. He clutched his coffee mug so tightly he could feel the heat burning his skin.

“How do you know?” Kit demanded. He could sense Ty, in the seat next to his, his backpack looped over the back of his chair just like Kit’s was. A certain steadiness radiated from him, and he was laser focused on the conversation.

It felt good to know he was there. Kit decided not to examine that feeling.