“You don’t need to take care of me,” I said. Or tried to, at least—the words slurred together more than I wanted to admit.
Finn’s answer was soft as ever, but there was a lining of steel in his voice. “Yes, I do.”
I tried to look at him. I couldn’t seem to open my eyes, though. After a few attempts, I gave up and mumbled, eyes still closed, “Why?”
But the werewolf didn’t respond this time. Or maybe he did, and I fell asleep too soon.
I was so drunk that I couldn’t find the dreamscape. That didn’t stop the nightmares from finding me, though. They shrieked and cackled their way through my head like hyenas. Every bad thing that had happened to me. To my family. Then I heard the melancholy chime of an old clock, marking the Witching Hour. I saw an empty crossroads, the ground lit by a single streetlight. Ian O’Connell stood there, smiling. The badge on his chest gleamed.
When I tried to run, I sat upright with a frantic gasp.
It took several seconds to realize I was at the loft. Ian was gone, and the crossroads had been replaced by four walls and a wooden floor.
I didn’t know that I was awake, at first. I searched the room wildly, expecting to see one of the shadowy figures that had chased me all night. Fende and his branding iron, a minotaur and its ax, Gwyn and her sword. Nothing moved. Panting, I started to swing my legs to the floor. In doing so, my gaze fell onto the cover of Moby Dick—I was never going to finish that wretched book—and the sight of the title calmed me. My heartbeat slowed.
Dreams, I thought. They were all just dreams.
Oliver had been guarding me for so long that I’d forgotten how it felt, recovering from a nightmare. As I got comfortable again, I finally noticed glowing eyes in the dim corner. Finn. Some tension left me at the realization. I knew I should probably lecture him for spending the night in a chair, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Not when I was so grateful to see him there, solid and reassuring.
“You only pretended to drink that beer, didn’t you?” I said, sinking onto the pillow. For the second time that night, I didn’t hear Finn’s answer, if it ever came.
The next time I awoke, he was gone and Lyari sat in the corner instead. Sunlight poured through the window and shone on the faerie like a spotlight.
Once again, I was jarred at the sight of her without armor. That was how I knew I wasn’t dreaming anymore; I would never conjure Lyari Paynore and make her look so… ordinary. My Right Hand wore a pink cotton shirt with quarter sleeves, and dark blue jeans covered in knee-high boots. Her hair was scraped back into a low ponytail. Had she gone back to Court for her clothes? Where was she keeping her belongings now that she’d been banished? God, I’d upended Lyari’s entire life, and I hadn’t even given a thought to setting up a room for her.
I opened my mouth to ask her where she’d slept, but she spoke first. “What do you dream about?”
It wasn’t like her to ask questions, especially personal ones. Something about Lyari’s expression made my own questions fade. I studied her, then rubbed the sleep out of my eyes. “Last night? Just your run of the mill nightmares,” I answered blearily. “Every other night? That’s a very complicated answer, and I’m too hungover for it today.”
“There’s water on the nightstand.”
Startled, I turned my head to look. She was right—a tall glass rested next to the alarm clock, bubbles clinging to the inside of it. The tiny pockets of air glowed in a slant of sunlight. I reached over, picked it up, and downed the entire thing. My gulps were loud in the stillness.
As I drank, Lyari started talking again. “Before I left Court, my mother berated me for lending you her journals. She was quite… agitated about it. I got the impression there’s something she doesn’t want anyone to see.”
Even though Lyari didn’t ask the question outright, I heard it tucked within her words. Did you find something? There was no point in hiding this truth, either—she would hear my heartbeat or detect some other tic. I nodded, wiping my damp chin with the back of my wrist. “I did read a passage that echoed the same sentiments. On the page, Kindreth mentions that she should burn the journal after she’d written the spell down.”
“The spell?” Lyari repeated. There was a frown in her voice.
Shit. I hadn’t actually decided whether to tell anyone else about what I’d done to Gil. But Lyari was bound to find out sooner or later, especially since Laurie knew. He’d probably mention it at the worst possible moment, just to make a situation more entertaining for himself. Raising my gaze to Lyari’s, I nodded hesitantly. I was still clutching the empty glass. “It’s very similar to the vows of fealty you pay the Unseelie rulers. A way to bind another creature to you. Except this spell is a little more… intense.”
“Have you done it? Bound someone to you?” she asked. When I nodded again, she almost seemed impressed. “Who?”
“Gil. I did it just after he was turned. To save my own life. Incredibly selfish, I know.”
Lyari’s brow wrinkled. “Selfish?”
“For taking his choice from him,” I clarified, finally leaning over to put the glass back on the nightstand. “For forcing my will upon his.”
The faerie’s expression cleared, and she shook her head. “It’s not selfish to survive, Your Majesty.”
It was ironic that Lyari didn’t like Laurie; they were of similar minds when it came to life and death. I tried to think of his exact words. When you are in a room with a murderer, there are only two kinds of people. One is the killer. The other is the murdered. Which one would you rather be, at any given time?
Before I could respond to Lyari, Emma shouted a goodbye from across the loft. The front door slammed. Thinking she’d gone, I opened my mouth, but then Emma appeared in the doorway. She wore an overstuffed coat, a thick scarf, and a fluffy winter hat, all of which made it difficult to see her face. “Goodness, I almost forgot!” the old woman blurted. “This must’ve been slipped beneath the door while everyone was sleeping. Strangest thing, it was all the way by the island. I tucked it away before Matthew or Hello could do any damage.”
She waddled closer to toss an envelope onto my lap. The moment I laid eyes on it, I went still, and it felt like the air thickened with dread. The wax seal was out of place in this modern setting. It was the sort of thing only a faerie would use.
Moving slowly, I lifted the flap and pulled two tickets out, along with a folded piece of paper. I glanced at the tickets first, frowning when I saw there was no information on them. They were unlike anything I’d ever seen before. Instead of paper, they were made of a bronze-colored foil, with an intricate design rising from it. I unfolded the letter next.
National Theatre Munich. December 15th at 7:30 p.m. GMT.
There was no signature or further information. Following a random, flitting instinct, I lifted the paper to my nose and sniffed.
Belanor’s cologne clung to it.
My spine stiffened. Emma said something, the words full of worry, but I couldn’t think straight enough to reassure her. Her voice barely penetrated the tornado of thoughts surrounding me. Had Belanor awoken, then? Did he know I was here? There had been a prickle of magic when I picked up the envelope. A witch’s spell, probably. Belanor probably didn’t know where I was, not for certain, but that wouldn’t stop a spell from delivering his invitation. That was why Emma had found it on the floor.