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She screamed as its nails sank into her skin, screamed as a low rumble of hunger filled the room, screamed as the front door opened and closed with a boom, and my father fled into the night.

Wren raised his sword in the air, wielding it as high above his head as it could go, but he hesitated when my mother was pushed between them—like he was trying to decide if it was worth delaying the killing blow to catch her and pull her back. He decided against it, and his sword arced up and then down, where it connected with a gut-churning squelch against the caenim’s neck. He halted the sword before the blade kissed my mother, whose slim frame hung limply between its claws, and the beast’s head thumped onto the ground, rolling a few steps away.

Blood squirted into the air like the caenim’s body was a broken fire hydrant.

I charged forward, straight into the disgusting mist of gunk, and tried to catch my mother as the caenim toppled over, dragging her down with it.

The monster slumped on its side, leaking foul fluid onto the ground. I fell to my knees before it, shards of glass digging into my skin, and found that my mother was unconscious…but alive.

Her breathing was wet and raspy, her pyjamas stained with the caenim’s blood.

She’s injured. She’s injured again.

But I knew what to do. They’d told me what to do, showed me how to treat human wounds inflicted by human hands.

“Turn on the lights,” I ordered Wren.

My own hands were shaking as they hovered over the bony, grey-skinned arms wrapped around my mother. My voice was shaking, too.

Wren didn’t move, but suddenly the fluorescent light globe in the centre of the room flickered on above me.

A tortured sound escaped my lips.

Under the harsh light, the caenim’s skin was translucent, a clear casing over the grey waste beneath. Small, sharpbones protruded from its hands, which were locked around my mother’s torso, and blood—red, human blood—was leaking out of her wounds.

It had dug its claws deeply into her flesh.

My every sense told me not to touch the creature, dead or alive, but I ignored them and reached down to grasp its ghoulish fingers and pull themoutof her abdomen. I kept my other hand close, ready to apply pressure—

“Don’t.” Wren came up behind me, grinding his boots into the glass as he crouched down. His breath was warm against my neck as he said, “They’re plugging extremely deep wounds. She’ll bleed out instantly.”

Human wounds by human hands.

These weren’t quite human enough.

Tears streamed down my face, blurring my vision. “He didn’t have to do that,” I whispered furiously, flexing my fingers. A dry sob exploded from my chest, and then a feral, raw shriek.“He didn’t have to do that!”I panted through the violence clouding my thoughts.“He could have gone around the other way. He could have justleft…”

“He was trying to buy himself time,” Wren murmured grimly. “Who is he?”

I swallowed the lump in my throat—nearly choked on it. “My father.”

“No…” My mother’s eyelids fluttered but remained closed. Her voice was barely a wheeze. “He’s not.”

More tears raced down my cheeks, and I sucked in a sharp breath through my nose before wiping the sadness leaking out of it onto my sleeve. “No, I know,” I agreed, voice breaking. “I know.”

Her eyes flew open, bloodshot and swollen. “No,” she gasped, chest shuddering beneath the caenim’s arms. She pointed her gaze over my shoulder—to Wren. “Youdon’tknow.”

Dazed and confused, I looked at the face of the High Fae man leaning over my back. It was a picture of innocence marred by outrage.

“No,” he insisted. “Absolutely not.”

I was so distracted by my mother’s injuries and accusations that I didn’t hear my sister’s footfalls on the staircase until it was too late. She appeared in the doorway, blonde hair ruffled with sleep, clutching her favourite stuffed bear to her chest.

Brynn dropped the teddy on the ground when she screamed.

“Mama!”

Chapter seven