Chapter 43
Syneca
If your nose itches, you’ll soon kiss a fool. If your chin itches, you’ll kiss a stranger. If your whole face itches, a Fury has marked you for attention—cancel your plans.
We turned as one, and the city stole every word from our mouths, gleaming like a blade forged from midnight.
Everything was impossibly black. Obsidian.
Every surface carved from the same volcanic glass, polished to a mirror’s shine that subtly reflected the glistening purple from the Erelith.
As if the shining stone absorbed most of its light.
The streets stretched ahead in perfect lines.
Black, glimmering cobblestones fitting so seamlessly they might’ve been one piece, rather than thousands.
Buildings rose on either side of the long street before us, their walls smooth and dark, every window perfectly clear. Perfectly clean.
The eerie chimes from a clocktower looming on our left stole all my attention. Its face glowed with numbers that seemed crafted from captured starlight. And at the far end of the road, a castle stood silhouetted against the wall of flame that encircled everything.
Fountains dotted the intersections, obsidian water frozen mid-splash, the stone shaped to look like liquid caught in suspension.
And floating throughout Dyssara, at varying heights, were chalices of the same black glass, each one holding a flicker of the Erelith flame.
They drifted lazily through the air, casting everything in shades of plum and lavender.
Statues lined the streets, but they weren’t normal monuments.
These were people, frozen mid-scream or mid-dance, expressions too vivid to be stone, too still to be alive.
And the people. The people were... strange.
They moved through the streets in dark, elegant coats that swept the polished ground, high collars brushing their jaws, brass fastenings catching the firelight.
Every hem was sharp, every stitch deliberate.
They smiled. All of them smiled with teeth too white and eyes too bright.
Lucy would have loved this. Would have been tracking every detail, noting the fashion, the architecture, the way people moved. She’d have had some sarcastic comment about the formal wear, probably something about how well the clothing here fit, compared to Calder’s stolen pants.
But Lucy was gone.
A sprite whizzed past my head, giggling, its wings leaving trails of silver that smelled like burnt sugar. More followed, darting between buildings in games I couldn’t follow.
“Stay close,” Wickett said, and his hand found the small of my back.
The touch sent unwanted heat through me. His palm was warm even through my coat, possessive in a way that should have annoyed me but didn’t. I could feel each finger, the pressure just firm enough to guide without forcing.
I didn’t step away. But there was guilt there.
Always guilt in everything I did. He had no idea he was flirting with his enemy.
And every step we took reminded me I was going to have to cut this off if he wouldn’t agree to stop hunting my best friend.
If we could find her—and I knew we had to be close—we could end this.
But letting the Phoenix go free would go against everything Wickett Veyne had ever learned to be.
We walked through the streets cautiously, only our boots clicking against the cobblestones, despite the hordes of people wandering through the city.
I scanned for black hair and green eyes.
For a smile that wasn’t strange but rather felt like home.
I listened for that contagious laugh, scanned every face for just a hint of recognition.
I was hunting. Desperately. While my mind raced with thoughts on what to do if I saw her first. How to catch her eye without alerting the others.
What sign could I give Calder to separate us if needed?
We’d walked in determined, but with absolutely no plan, and I’d only now realized how fucking foolish that was.
The air smelled faintly of smoke and something sweet and cloying that made my stomach turn.
I hadn’t had a proper meal in days. None of us had.
Calder kept his hand near his blade, clearly ignoring the woman’s warning about bloodshed, but at least he was getting the same uncomfortable feeling about this city as I was.
The Oracle moved between Wickett and Riot, Corvus unusually silent on her shoulder as she fell slightly behind them.
It was the first time I’d seen her seek protection, even subtly.
People passed in their elegant coats and too-bright smiles, parting around us without a word.
Their footsteps made no sound. A woman walked past with a long-haired hound on a leash encrusted with jewels.
But there was not a click of claws, not a jingle of chain.
Just silent movement through the flickering firelight.
Wickett’s hand never left my back. Every few steps he’d adjust, steering me around a group of children in miniature formal wear, pulling me closer when a cart rattled past, his thumb occasionally stroking small circles against my spine that made my breath catch.
“You’re being very... protective,” I whispered, trying to sound annoyed and failing.
“The city’s dangerous.” His voice was low, meant only for me. “And you have a habit of attracting trouble.”
“I have a habit of attracting trouble?”
“Yes.” His hand slid slightly lower. Still appropriate. But barely. “Eyes up, little witch. Stay focused.”
As if I could with his hands on me.
A woman glided past, her coat a deep burgundy that made her skin look impossibly pale in comparison. She turned as she passed, catching my eye, and smiled.
My heart stopped.
She had fangs. And her eyes, completely black, no white, no iris, just endless pools of dark that swallowed light and gave nothing back.
Vitoria’s nymph form.
Except... no. Wrong height. Wrong build. Wrong eye color. And Vitoria’s smile had never been quite that predatory. The woman held my gaze for a beat too long, still smiling.
“Don’t stare,” Calder muttered.
Too late. She’d noticed. And winked at me before disappearing into a building with a sign that was labeled with runic symbols rather than words. I forced myself to breathe normally. Not Vitoria. Just another nymph in a city apparently full of them.
“You okay?” Wickett asked.
“Fine. I just thought—” I shook my head.
“Nothing. Let’s keep moving. But we should keep a distance between us.
If she’s here and sees your hand on me—” I didn’t finish the sentence.
Didn’t have to. But I wasn’t pulling away.
Wasn’t doing anything except staring at his mouth and remembering exactly how it felt against mine.
His voice dropped lower, rougher, impossibly quiet. “It will be fine.”
“You’re very sure of yourself.”
“I’m sure of you.” He released me, but slowly, his hands trailing away like he was reluctant to break contact. “Come on. We’re drawing attention.”
He was right. Several of the elegantly dressed citizens were watching the Venatori with open curiosity. Some smiled. Others looked... knowing.
“This place is—” Pip started, drawing my mind away from Wickett Veyne.
“Haunted,” I finished. “This place is haunted.”
She nodded, swooping closer to Calder. “I was going to say unsettling, but yeah, haunted works.”
We passed a plaza where obsidian benches curved in perfect arcs around a central fountain, its frozen spray catching the light from a handful of floating chalices that drifted overhead.
Witches haggled with vendors over ingredients I recognized and some I didn’t, their stalls draped in dark velvet that pooled on the polished stone.
Witches just got to live here. Completely unbothered about hiding who they were. No hunters in sight. No fear. Just... coexistence, like the rest of the world’s rules didn’t apply to Dyssara.
Maybe they didn’t.
As we stepped around a group of children playing with what looked like animated bones, Wickett took command. “We need to find the inn. Get our bearings before we start asking questions.”
“Asking questions seems like a good way to get noticed,” Calder pointed out.
The Oracle’s voice was quiet but certain. “We’ve already been noticed. The city knows we’re here. Knows what we seek. I don’t believe there will be much hiding in Dyssara.”
A woman appeared so suddenly I nearly walked right into her. She materialized from between two buildings, clipboard in hand, glasses perched on her nose, dressed in layers of mismatched fabric that somehow looked deliberate.
“You’re late,” she announced, looking at her clipboard as if we had personally offended her.
“Late for what?” I asked.
“Your arrival, obviously.” She adjusted her glasses with theatrical precision. “Dallying through the city. Very inconsiderate. The Master doesn’t appreciate tardiness.”
“We didn’t dally,” Pip protested, throwing her arms over her chest. “We didn’t even turn down one of your creepy streets. Who are you anyway?”
The woman made an exaggerated checkmark on her clipboard. “Nosy.”
“Well, listen, Nosy—”
“Pip,” I gasped. “I don’t think that’s her name.”
“But—”
“—Follow me to the hotel. Immediately.” She turned on her heel, clearly expecting obedience. “You have a meeting with the Master as soon as he summons you.”
We exchanged glances. Calder shrugged.
“I’m still going to call her Nosy,” Pip whispered.
Every few steps, something would happen that required Wickett to touch me.
My boot slipped on the polished stone; his hand steadied me.
A man in an elegant coat passed too close with that unsettling smile.
Wickett pulled me against his side. When we had to pass beneath a statue frozen mid-scream, its stone fingers reaching down as if to grab us, his hand moved to the back of my neck, guiding me through, and I felt that touch all the way down to my toes.
“You’re enjoying this,” I muttered.