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With a wink, she waves me along.

What the— I wrap an arm around Cece’s shoulders to keep her close and follow the only nightmare I ever weaved through the labyrinths of the sceawere. If others follow in our wake, I don’t catch a glimpse of them.

The runaway bride immobilizes in front of one of the blackened mirror shards. Before I can think of something to say, she plants both palms on my back and gives me a powerful push. I fall forward with Cece in tow.

The sceawere spits us out on the training balcony. The buffet table where I grabbed so many meals is still in its usual spot, full of rotten fruits. Flies and the smell of decay waft through the night air.

I don’t want to draw attention to our arrival, but the balcony is empty, so I whisper to Cece, “You can open your eyes now.”

She blinks and draws a sharp intake of breath. “Are we in Faerie?”

“Yes.”

The full moon is slowly creeping towards the top of the sky, and I wipe the sweat from my brow. What if it’s already too late? But, Morrigan wouldn’t let it reach its peak before sealing Damian’s fate.

“Stay right here.” I leave Cece behind and crawl toward the railing to glance at the gardens below. Through the tiny slivers in the metallic patterns, I see the hunters and James are all lined up under the shadow of the Hawthorn, facing in my direction.

Lori is among them, standing in the first row without her mask. Her fists are bound behind her back with white, slightly transparent silk, and she’s standing way too stiff—clearly under some kind of spell.

But the petrified audience isn’t the most shocking sight about the gardens. I glance up and see a handful of dreamcatcher spiders have weaved a thick, giant web under the Hawthorn’s canopy. The eight-legged monsters hang from transparent strings above the wedding party, and I flatten myself to the floor even more, remembering how they rely on movement to attack.

Garlands of white flowers and strings of lanterns hang alongside the spiders, the sight of the decorations filling me with pure hatred.

She was so confident in her victory that she decorated.

Damian and Morrigan stand on the big flat rock that serves as an altar in front of their witnesses, and the sight of them holding hands steals my breath. Somehow, I’ve managed to crash the ceremony exactly as it starts.

Cece crawls over to me on her hands and knees. “But—That’s Esme!” she hiccups in surprise, and I cover her mouth with my palm to muffle the sound.

I lower my voice as much as I can, my hardened gaze fixed on Morrigan’s wedding dress. “It’s a long story.”

Chapter 43

Dark Vows

The devious woman who only pretended to care for Cece and me is wearing a short but gorgeous purple and black dress, looking nothing like the governess I’ve come to know. Intricate lace covers her arms and neck, the hem finishing right above her knees. The color contrasts nicely with her creamy thighs, and her hair falls around her face in glossy, youthful curls.

One is wearing a black evening coat, and the tailored ensemble fits him like a glove. I don’t know why it bugs me so much, given the truth of the circumstances, but they look perfect together.

Cut from the same shadow cloth.

But it’s the golden matching crowns laying on top of their heads that boil my blood.

The other three Damians are all there, too, standing to the side with their backs to me, the way groomsmen do at most weddings.

“Let’s proceed with the vows,” a sprite says. His loud, ceremonial pitch is easily recognizable. It belongs to the sprite who usually announces the king’s arrival.

My pulse swirls at my temples. Vows? Mother help me, there’s not much time left to stop this wedding.

“Nell! Something’s coming!” Cece says on a rushed whisper.

I turn around in time to catch a glimpse of Baka hiding at the foot of the stairwell. The blue sprite clutches a crossbow with her tiny, wrinkled hands as she tip-toes up the first step.

“Don’t worry. She’s a friend.”

I turn my attention back to the spiders, but none of them seems to have spotted Baka—or Cece and me. At least not yet. In fact, they look perfectly complacent. Almost…happy.

On the altar, Morrigan’s red lips twist in a genuine smile. The smile of a woman who’s about to marry the love of her life.