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YVESWICH, STATE OF KER

Funny how the one Crossroads Darien always swore he would never visit would be the first he’d stumble into by accident.

“You’re the Basilisk,” Darien said, watching as that mass of scales continuously shifted around the room, never a head or tail showing. Just the horrifyingly large body, bony plates gleaming with a strange black light.

“And you,” the creature replied, that hideous voice still coming from somewhere way up high, “are Darien Randal Slade.”

“It’s Darien Cassel now,” he said, his left hand forming a fist at his side, knuckles cracking as he squeezed.

“You can rid yourself of a name, but you cannot rid yourself of your blood. Your history. Your father is in you. You will never be rid of him.”

“Is that what you specialize in?” Darien drawled, tipping back his head to peer up at that swirling darkness, so reminiscent of a black hole. “Insults?”

“I specialize in truths. I operate much the same as a mirror. Mirrors do not lie, and neither do my words. It is not my fault if you refuse to accept yourself as you are, Darien Slade. Self-love eludes you, and should you continue to let it, it shall be your downfall.” How fitting. How fucking fitting, given the conversation he’d just had with Loren.

What he wouldn’t give to turn back the clock and bite his tongue about fate. If he hadn’t slipped up and let that secret out, he never would have fought with her or his sister.

“I appreciate the warning,” Darien said, blood simmering in his veins, “but I’ve got places to be. Is there something you want from me?”

A brief spell of silence descended. Darien sensed the creature was amused by his daring. “I would like to propose a trade.” The statement was a hiss that came from everywhere all at once, followed by a quick, unsteady burst of sound—a rattling.

This was a fucking pit viper. The biggest, most vicious of all serpent kings.

Darien felt a prickle of fear, but fought it like he always did, his reply immediate and firm. “No.” The cavern clapped back the word with a series of echoes, and those echoes were succeeded by another rattling. A warning.

“It would be wise to hear my offer before you decline,” the Basilisk said, its words dripping with malice.

“You feast on memories,” Darien said. “You rot the brain from the inside. I have no interest in making a trade with you when it’ll only destroy me in worse ways.”

“Do you not wish to be free of your mother’s death? The pain. The suffering…” Something akin to a sigh raked through the room, skittering up the length of Darien’s spine—another sound that came from everywhere. Where the fuck was the head? “So much suffering, Darien Slade. Just a poor, helpless child you were.” The Basilisk tsked. “It need not hurt anymore. I can take away the pain.”

“Fuck no,” he said again, the retort echoing even louder than before.

“Very well,” the serpent breathed. The temperature dropped again, cooling the bodysuit and turning his breath into ghosts. Darien hadn’t even realized it had spiked. “I shall let you go. But…I wish to give you a premonition first.”

“Let’s hear it then.” He wanted this over with. Figured the snake would give him the same prediction as the Pale Man.

He was not expecting something worse.

“Should you outlast the Pale Man’s prediction,” the Basilisk began, “your road will still end in death. Beware the girl you love. Sometimes the strongest of us are broken by the people we least expect.”

He clenched his teeth so hard, his jaw popped. “Are you telling me not to trust the woman I love?”

“I tell you to be vigilant. Had she come with you tonight, I would have given her the same warning. The course of a person’s life is a swift and ever-changing river; different decisions lead to different paths.” Darien had held onto this truth since the moment the Widow had revealed to him that Loren would not live past the age of twenty-one. There had to be a way to defeat that ugly prediction—to save her from such a young death. And he was certain there was a way to change it; the Pale Man’s prediction was enough of a hint. If Loren died, Darien died—such was the deal he’d made with the Widow. But the Pale Man had said that Darien would have to die so she could live—a different road, one he was intent on setting foot on. “Yours and Liliana’s, however,” the Basilisk continued, “are painted in blood. Who pulls the knife and lands the mark remains to be seen.”

Darien bristled. “I would never hurt her.” His words rang through the cavern like a struck bell.

“This is my warning, Darien Slade. Are you accusing me of being dishonest?”

“Actually, I prefer the term ‘full of shit’,” he spat. The blade hummed at his back, the adamant emitting the same strange light as the snake’s scales, limning the edges of his bodysuit in faint shades of fluorescent. “That’s what creatures like you are made of: Fucking shit.”

The mass of scales shifted faster. Darkness fell in a heavy shroud, the bioluminescent insects winking out. “Do you wish to take that back, Darien Slade?” the Basilisk challenged, a hiss skittering over the walls.

“Actually, I wish to kill you.” The sword sang as Darien drew it with his left hand. “And I wish for you to stop calling me ‘Slade’.”

In the thick darkness just beyond the Crossroads, Roman stared at the bulk of scales covering the arched doorway. Chest so tight he couldn’t draw a full breath, he thought only of his cousin. Trapped on the other side with no way out. If the Basilisk had blocked this entrance, it had sure as shit blocked the other.

“He’ll be fine,” Tanner panted, glancing between Roman and the serpent, the hacker’s body as visibly tense as Roman’s, “right?”