Chapter 39
I twirled the ring around on my finger as I weighed the decision I’d already made.
I’d use it. Force Deception to divulge all the information I could and learn the inner workings of Bethesda’s plan.
As soon as I had what I wanted? I’d take him out.
That’d leave one less Lore in the mix and rattle their queen—me stripping her of her lover.
With one move, I would remind her she wasn’t the only one with powerful allies on her side.
I pressed the ring to Leeran’s neck, looking him dead in the eyes. “Tell me your name.”
His pupils dilated the same way Famine’s had. In a monotone voice he responded, “Deception.”
“And what is your relationship with Bethesda?”
His lip twitched. “I serve the Queen of Lore. My life is hers to command.”
Figured as much. But hearing it confessed so blatantly shook me more than I cared to admit. I recentered myself, aware of the spell’s waning hold. I had to make my questions count before—well, I’d face that part soon enough. “The bloodstone, why does Bethesda want it?”
“To enact the Shadow Rite.”
My skin crawled. “What’s the Shadow Rite?”
“The ritual will absorb the veil between worlds.”
The veil between worlds as in … Oh, Gods! The image of Fate, back against the torn fabric in the sky, replayed in vivid color. My heart fell into my toes. “You mean … release this world into the mortal world?”
A wicked grin crossed his face. “Yes.”
The potential bloodbath played through my mind at rapid speed. I heaved a breath, pushing light up against the rising terror inside me. My eyes scanned his, and I took stock of his widening pupils. I was running out of time. “The stone: What role does it play? How does she aim to use it?”
“With enough sacrifice, the stone will become the key, replacing and inevitably devouring the living one. Then the door between realms will respond to her alone.”
“The living one?”
Again, he grinned, his grip on me tightening. “You, my love.”
I thrashed from his hold. Shit, he’d pushed through faster than Famine!
“You lying little bitch,” he seethed.
His facade fell away to reveal his true form: scales the color of rust encompassed his whole body, and his eyes blinked horizontally. A snake: both literally and metaphorically.
“You let me believe you really cared for me,” he mocked, reptilian tongue slurping against his teeth.
He dared a step closer, his hooved feet clacking against the now deteriorated meadow.
In its wake, I found myself in the last place I aimed to be …
the Odious Forest. Worse, I could sense Bethesda’s approach as the Ethereal magic within me bubbled up in response to the Baneful magic within her.
Warring sides. But I’d no idea how to wield mine accurately yet.
If she were to show, I’d have no way of winning this fight, not if I had to face Deception too. I’d be outnumbered.
Shit, shit, shit.
“Try as you might,” he continued, head cocked to the side in a predatory display, “you will never stop the Shadow Rite. The stone will be returned. The veil will be torn. And you will die.”
He lunged, and I threw my hands up. Fire poured from my fingertips but missed him entirely, and I crumbled to the ground under his weight.
His jaws snapped above my face, my hands planted against his throat, pushing, fighting.
He bit closer, hovering above me like a promise of death, his hands slashing at my chest and the stone buried there.
With each strike my flesh tore and a scream rose up.
His motive was suddenly clear: He wanted to separate me from my talisman, from the one thing that could save me.
I focused inward, begging all my magics to aid me as one, to come to my rescue.
“Help me,” I shrieked into the open air. In a giant blast, a wall of wind, light, and vengeance tore from my mouth, casting Deception into the forest in a heap.
The earth rattled below my feet once. Then again. And again. My eyes lifted to the sky, to the flock of birds overhead cast into flight. No, not—the Fright tore from the forest’s outskirts, the human faces on the tree trunks to my right screaming in terror. Could it get any worse?
Then, sure as shit, it did.
Bethesda emerged, fog swirling about her cloak. I didn’t waste my chance and bolted into the forest. Survive—all I had to do was survive, wake up, and I could plan my revenge; return with renewed strength, if I lived.
Over root, rock, and mud I fought my way through the darkness.
The light magic inside illuminated my way, which would have been helpful if I’d had the slightest clue where the hell I was going.
All the while Bethesda’s song carried through the woods behind.
Haunting. Taunting. Ahead, a path opened up, a fork at its mouth.
Left? No. Right? Steps closed in behind. Damn it. Which way?
“This way,” my omnipotent helper called, only nearer somehow. Almost as if—
“Fey.” The voice radiated mere steps ahead at the tree line. “Get out of there!”
The Fright broke through the trees, limbs snapping at its shoulders, and I dove into the bushes. A soft hand latched around my wrist and before I could catch a glimpse, the world went white.
“You stay the fuck back,” Cillian shouted, pulling me from sleep.
I rubbed my eyes and tore from my bed, a million different things whirling through my mind, but not one prepared me for what I was about to see.
There—with a knife to her throat thanks to Cillian—stood a lavender-haired woman, her rich tan skin alive with glistening magic. Dress woven together by patches of mismatched fabrics that hugged her plump frame flawlessly, she surveyed the room, forehead taut but unafraid.
In an unmissable Italian accent, she said, “I told you, I’m only here—”
“I don’t give a shit, save your breath,” Cillian snarled.
She chuckled, throat bobbing against the blade. “That’s quite the temper you’ve got there. I tell you what, some things never change.”
“Yeah, that tends to happen when somebody threatens the woman I love.” He pressed the blade closer, her skin puckering under the pressure.
Her voice, it was so … familiar. And then it hit me, hard—my helper in the Shroud, she was here, in the flesh. I stepped forward, rubbed Cillian’s arm, and looked him dead in the eye. “It’s okay, I don’t think she means us any harm.”
His lips thinned. “You know her?”
“Yes, she knows me,” the woman said with an arch of her upper lip. “At least I hope she does after saving her life countless times.”
I surveyed the beads and feathers woven in her hair and—despite having never seen her face—the more I looked, the more familiar it grew. Like a distant memory. I turned back to Cillian. “Her voice: I know her voice. She saved me in the Odious Forest. Twice, actually.”
“Four times.” The wild woman grinned in spite of the blade to her throat. “Don’t forget the Misery and Wendigo encounters.”
Cillian’s gaze shot to mine, but he kept his knife aimed. “You took on Misery? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Not to mention the Fright,” the woman added.
“Another Fright?” He gawked.
“Yeah, and she would have died without me.” She laughed.
“She’s not wrong,” I confirmed. “Also Deception and Bethesda … they’d almost caught up to me. If it weren’t for her, I’d—well, I don’t know where I’d be right now.”
Cillian looked from me to her and back again, then to my bedroom mantel, attention landing on the scented candle there.
He loosened his grip and started toward it, but kept his knife pointed in her direction. “You stay right there.”
Candle in hand, he leaned down, cracking its glass case on the fireplace tiles.
Careful to avoid the shards, he snatched a shattered wax chunk, pulled the throw rug back, and began to scribble on the wooden floorboards.
Once he appeared satisfied with his creation, he rolled the desk chair over the symbol scribed on the floor: a cross encased in a wide circle.
The chair legs fit perfectly in its borders.
“You,” he said and pointed the dagger at the woman. “Sit. Now.”
The woman did as she was told, plopping down in the chair with little concern.
“What is that?” I asked, stepping to his side.
“A truth spell,” Cillian explained. “If she’s hiding anything, I intend to find out.”
She grumbled, rolling her neck. “I’m not. Like I said, I’m here to help.”
“Good, then you’ll have no problem answering my questions, will you?” Cillian flashed a sarcastic smile.
Something told me this was going to be good.
Honestly, it was probably the incredibly gorgeous man wielding a knife on my behalf, but …
regardless of the reason, I wasn’t about to miss a second of it.
I leaned against the fireplace, tension settling at the base of my neck.
Man, Deception had tackled me harder than I’d realized.
I rolled my shoulders. As soon as this was handled, I’d stretch it out.
Maybe trek down to the nurse’s office and snatch an Icy Hot patch.
For the time being though, I focused on Cillian.
He circled the woman a few times and sized her up, hunching down into her sight line. “What’s your name?”
“Come now,” she tsked. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember me, pretty boy?”
“I’ve never seen you before in my life.” His eyebrows pinched as he looked closer. Harder.
She snickered, a gold molar glistening in the firelight. “Maybe not in this body, but you have. Napoli market, Mrs. Esposito’s biscotti cart, somebody got a case of the sticky fingers. Ring any bells?”
A spark flashed in his eyes as he stood, pinching his chin. “What kind of biscotti?”
“Cherry. Your favorite.”
“Hmm …” He took a second to think before leaning back down. “Where did I spend my time?”
She leaned forward to meet him, a grin at her cheeks, and my stomach did a somersault.
Lightheadedness, mixed with this unexplainable feeling of …
of … wait a damn minute! Was I jealous? No.
That was ridiculous! I knew Cillian cared about me.
Hell, the man had hundreds of years of tattoos marking our lives together on his chest!
Whatever was between them, it wasn’t romantic.
Couldn’t be. I pinched my left shoulder, the pressure from my neck settling there in a knot.
“In Naples?” she asked. “Are we talking about your favorite hideout?”
He crossed his arms, expression more relaxed than before. “You tell me.”
The edge of her mouth ticked up. “Museo Cappella Sansevero. The hopeless romantic in you always did appreciate a dramatic setting. You refused to convert, so you’d take to the nearby roof and peer in as you sketched.”
Okay, now I was jealous. I stepped forward. “What is she talking about, Cillian?”
He didn’t look at me. “What was my favorite piece?”
“Trick question,” she responded. “It’s a tie between the muraled ceiling, the Glory of Paradise, and the Veiled Truth monument. You never could decide.”
He circled about. “What was my occupation?”
“Thief.”
“Family?”
“None,” she said, sadness prominent in her tone.
He took a step back, rubbed his neck. “Who was I with?”
“Serenity.” She turned and jogged her head to me. “And Fiorenza.”
His expression softened as he whispered, “Gianna?”
“In the flesh, fratello.”
In a burst of laughter and energy, Cillian scuffed out the symbol, lifted her into his arms, and spun her about. “Holy hell, sorella! You’re alive? But … how?”
She giggled, now firmly back on her feet. “You and I have a lot to catch up on.”
I closed the gap between us to look her over, the passages from the journal coming back to me. Gianna: Fiorenza’s best friend. My best friend.
Only, she wasn’t. My best friend was—I swallowed the lump in my throat.
I refocused on Gianna, the one who’d warned me about falling in love too quickly.
The one mentioned in literally every entry in Fiorenza’s journal.
I shifted on my feet, trying to recall her as I had Cillian and Celine, but I couldn’t focus on anything except the sudden onset of nausea.
A coughing fit tore through me. I covered my mouth, bent over my knees, felt the moisture in my palms before I smelled the iron.
Cillian raced to my side. “Are you okay?”
I pulled my shaky hands back, extended them for him to see what I already knew: blood.
An ungodly amount of blood.