Chapter Thirty-Three Saylor
Chapter Thirty-Three
Saylor
For tonight. The fae prefer their mortals dressed appropriately. - B
I unzip the bag and stare at what’s inside.
“Holy shit,” I whisper to my empty room.
The centerpiece is a black corset dress crafted by someone who not only understands but worships the female form. The bodice
is made of black silk with intricate silver embroidery that catches light when I move. The corset laces up the front with
silver ribbon, pulling everything into a perfect hourglass silhouette. The skirt is layers of black tulle and silk that flow
to just above my knees, short enough to show off the thigh-high stockings with delicate lace tops.
The boots are black leather and lace up to mid-thigh, with silver buckles and a higher heel than I usually wear. They’re clearly
expensive, custom-made to fit perfectly, and designed to look both elegant and slightly dangerous.
But it’s the wings that make this costume look like it came from one of my dreams.
They’re massive black feathered wings that span at least six feet when fully extended. Each feather looks real, ranging from
deep black to hints of iridescent purple and blue that only show when light hits them just right. The wings attach to a harness
hidden beneath the corset, positioned so they look like they grow naturally from my shoulder blades. When I move, they respond
slightly, creating the illusion that they’re actually part of me.
The accessories complete the transformation.
A delicate silver circlet that looks like twisted thorns, dark eye makeup that makes my eyes look huge and mysterious, and silver jewelry that catches the light.
My hair falls in loose waves over my shoulders, contrasting perfectly with the black feathers.
I slip everything on, and when I look in the mirror, I see a dark angel, something powerful and hauntingly nightmarish. Something
that might grant your prayers or might drag you into beautiful darkness, depending on her mood.
Twenty minutes later, I’m making my way downstairs, the wings creating a dramatic silhouette against the walls.
Blue stands at the bottom of the staircase, and the sight of him stops me completely.
The plague doctor costume is flawless and absolutely terrifying. The long black leather coat reaches almost to his ankles,
fitted to emphasize his broad shoulders and lean build. The leather is aged and weathered, making it look authentic rather
than theatrical. Black leather gloves extend past his wrists, and his pants are tucked into tall black boots that look like
they could kick down doors without showing a scuff.
But it’s the mask that makes my breath catch. The plague doctor’s beak is longer than I expected, crafted from dark leather
that’s been treated to look centuries old. Dark glass lenses hide his eyes completely, giving him an inhuman appearance that
makes my skin crawl in the best possible way. The beak extends far enough that it completely changes the shape of his face,
making him look like some hybrid between man and bird of prey.
A black leather hat sits low on his head, and when he turns slightly, I catch the outline of his axe handle beneath the back
of his coat. The weapon is positioned along his spine, completely hidden by the flowing leather but obviously accessible if
needed.
He looks like Death’s personal surgeon. Like something that would haunt plague-ravaged cities and collect souls for processing.
“You look . . .” He stops, tilting his head to study me. “Terrifying.”
I laugh. “You look like you stepped out of a medieval nightmare.”
“And you look like a death angel.” There’s something satisfied in his observation, like he’s pleased with how we turned out.
“We match.” He offers me his arm, then pauses. “I should have mentioned—everyone dresses up for the Dryad’s Dance.”
“I figured that out from the costume.” I gesture at my wings. “But why? Is it just tradition?”
“Folklore. The story goes that during the Dryad’s Dance, when the barrier between realms grows thin, the fae use the opening
to lure humans back to their world.” Blue’s voice takes on the tone of someone reciting an old tale. “But if there are no
humans to be found—only other creatures, other magical beings—then there’s no one for them to trick.”
“So everyone pretends to be something else to avoid being kidnapped by fairies.”
“Exactly. Hide in plain sight.”
“Smart. I can work with that.”
He offers me his arm. “Ready?”
Outside, a black carriage waits in the circular drive, complete with two midnight-colored stallions that stepped out of a
fairy tale written in shadow and starlight. These aren’t ordinary horses—they’re magnificent creatures with coats so dark
they absorb light, their manes flowing like liquid silk in the evening breeze. Steam rises from their nostrils in the cool
air, and when they shift their weight, muscles ripple beneath their glossy coats like coiled steel ready to spring. Their
eyes are intelligent, almost knowing, and when one turns to study me, I swear I see recognition pass through those dark depths—like
it knows exactly what I am.
The driver perched on his seat wears a tall black hat and cape that billows dramatically in the wind, his face hidden in shadow.
The whole thing is so dramatically over the top that I stop walking.
“Seriously?” I stare at the carriage with its ornate silver details and lacquered black finish that reflects the estate’s
lights like a dark mirror. “We’re taking a carriage to a forest party?”
“Right for the occasion.”
“How far is this thing anyway?”
“Not far. But you’re wearing wings.” He helps me up into the carriage, careful not to crush the feathers. “And I thought you
might enjoy the entrance.”
I settle into the velvet seats, my wings spreading behind me.
The interior is sumptuous—black velvet cushions so soft they embrace me, silver trim that catches the moonlight filtering through the small windows, and enough space that my costume doesn’t feel cramped.
“You really don’t do anything halfway, do you? ”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
The driver clicks his tongue and the stallions begin moving, their hooves creating a steady rhythm on the gravel drive that
sounds like distant thunder. The carriage rocks gently as we make our way down the winding path toward the forest, and I have
to admit there’s something magical about arriving this way.
As we settle into the rhythm of the journey, Blue reaches across the space between us and takes my hand. The gesture is simple,
normal—something boyfriends do with their girlfriends on the way to parties. His fingers intertwine with mine, thumb tracing
gentle circles across my knuckles, and for a moment we’re just two people holding hands in a carriage.
It’s the first genuinely normal thing that’s happened between us.
Everything else has been wrapped in shadows and danger—kidnapping and murder, handcuffs and belt around my throat near suffocation,
passion that burns so hot it leaves marks. Even our tender moments carry an edge of darkness, a reminder that Blue is something
beautiful and terrible that I should probably run from but can’t bring myself to leave.
But this? This is what regular couples do. Exist in moments that don’t require wondering if someone’s going to end up dead
by morning.
The strange thing is, I’m not sure I want normal. The darkness that surrounds Blue isn’t what I’m enduring—it’s what I’m falling
into willingly. There’s an intoxication in loving a man who can kill without hesitation but touches me like I’m made of glass.
Who can teach me murder as casually as teaching someone to ride a bike. In being claimed by someone whose idea of romance
involves corpses and midnight flowers.
I study his profile in the carriage’s dim light—the perfect line of his bearded jaw beneath that plague doctor mask, the way
his free hand rests casually on his thigh, the controlled grace in everything he does. Even dressed as Death’s personal surgeon,
he’s the most attractive man I’ve ever seen.
Maybe especially because he’s dressed as Death’s personal surgeon.
“So this is how you normally travel to parties?” I ask, watching the trees pass by through the carriage window, his hand still warm in mine.
“Only the important ones.”
“And what makes this one important?” I adjust my wings so they don’t get destroyed against the seat back.
“You’re going.”
Jesus . . . this man may be perfect.
The Witchwood forest beyond Grimlock’s borders has been transformed into something that exists in the space between dreams
and reality.
Bioluminescent mushrooms line every path through the trees, their caps glowing with ethereal blue light that pulses gently,
creating the effect of a living constellation spread across the forest floor. The paths themselves seem to shift and change
as we walk, the mushroom lights leading us deeper into woods that feel primordial and wild.
String lights hang from every branch—tiny bulbs that twinkle and flicker in patterns that seem almost choreographed. They’re
strung at different heights, creating layers of light that weave between the trees. Some hang low enough to walk under, others
stretch high overhead, and the overall effect makes the forest feel like it’s been wrapped in captured starlight.
But it’s the death moths that make the scene truly otherworldly. Hundreds of them flutter through the air, their dark wings
marked with pale skull patterns that glow faintly in the mushroom light. They move in spirals around the string lights, creating
shifting shadows that dance across the forest floor. Some settle on tree branches, their wings spread to display the intricate
bone-white markings, while others drift between costumed guests like living omens that somehow make the celebration feel more
magical rather than sinister.