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“I—I still have a few hours left before my birthday,” I whisper.

Did I summon the Shadow King just by looking at my reflection? Stupid girl. You should have left the damn mirror up in your room.

The monster cocks his head to the side, and the certainty that he can actually see through his solid mask fills me with dread.

I sink my nails into my wrist to get a grip on my nerves. “Have you no tongue, Shadow King?”

“I wanted to spare you long, tearful goodbyes. The ticking of fate’s clock can drive a mortal mad,” a low, ethereal voice answers.

I roll my shoulders back with as much confidence as I can muster. “And why would our goodbyes be tearful? I’m not leaving them forever. I shall see them again in two weeks.”

A wicked chuckle falls off his lips. “A lot can happen in two weeks.”

The sentiment echoes Isaac’s earlier claim, and shivers crawl up my spine. “You will not corrupt me.”

“Me? Probably not,” the faceless king snickers.

The husky response resonates deep in my soul, a dark lullaby composed especially for me. I tremble as he inches closer, but I will not cower at my destiny, so I dig my heels deeper in the autumn leaves not to flee. His mesmerizing shadows sting in a way I’ve never felt before—a mix between the buzzing I get in my fingers when they’re numb, and the snap of a fire burn. Esme called it the bite of power, a calling card for Fae to proclaim their level of skill. She said experienced magic users could play with the strength of their bite, dampening or deepening it to appear more or less powerful as a ruse.

My demon is all shadows over shade, his power so formidable that it drums in my head like a living pulse.

“Have you ever glimpsed at the worlds beyond the sceawere?” he asks.

“Sceawere?” Does he plan to humiliate me for my lack of knowledge of Faerie?

“It’s the gateway between worlds. The proper name for what you call ‘mirror.’”

I grip the piece of reflective glass in my pocket and wrench it out. “You mean this?”

His top lip curls in disgust. “No.”

Darkness swarms around him, startling me. The small mirror slips between my fingers, but I catch it before it reaches the ground and flatten it to my chest.

“That scrap of metal isn’t worthy of the name. Come.” He spins on his heels and heads for the corner of the gardens.

Shadows gather on our path, the guards oblivious to our presence as we cross the hallway to the king’s quarters.

“Are you taking me to my father?” I ask.

The Shadow King remains silent as he veers toward a section of the summer house I’ve never visited. We head down a round stairwell to the basement, and I skitter in his wake.

The acrid scent of mildew spices the air of the uninhabited…dungeon? Metallic bars run vertically at the front of a few rusted cells, and moss fills the cracks of what looks to be an ancient, dilapidated prison. Judging by the thick layer of dust and grime on the paved stones, no one has stepped foot in here for decades. The only footprints visible are ours—mine and the ones I can only assume my captor made when he came in to collect me.

At the back of the cold, humid room, a worn-out mirror stands a few inches shorter than the monster at my side. Murky glass reflects our silhouettes, and I hold my breath. I’ve never seen a mirror besides the tiny one in my pocket, but seeing one this big…it’s more than forbidden. It’s impossible.

“Since you’re not trained in the ways of the sceawere, you have to wear this.” The masked king pries a long piece of black silk from his pocket.

“But mortals can’t travel through mirrors,” I whisper, suddenly terrified. Only monsters can travel through glass, at least according to the books I’ve read.

“You bear the dark seed, do you not,” he purrs, the end of the sentence not rising in question, like the answer is both obvious and laughable. “You are Penelope Emanuelle Darcy, eldest daughter of Phillip Fredric Darcy, the current king of Demeter.”

“Yes,” I say with regret.

I really, really wish I wasn’t.

Still, the ceremonial way he whispers my whole name casts a nefarious spell over me, and I step closer without meaning to. I’m sure I’ve heard his voice before, calling out to me in the dead of night. In sweaty dreams that haunt me long after they’re gone.

He ties the scrap of fabric around my head, blinding me, and I can’t resist the urge to hike it up my brow. My instincts scream at me not to let that demon out of my sight. Not for a second.