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“Are you going to show me how we can get out of here, Lola?”

She gestured to the area they’d fallen through. The air undulated faintly, like a mirage shimmering in a desert, its temperature cooler than the rest. “Bruised,” she said.

“A bruise in the Veil,” Darien prompted. She managed a half-nod before whatever was keeping her from speaking halted the movement.

That explained where the creature in the library had come from. It seemed Tamika and Arthur were right—about everything.

This place—it looked just like the violet section on the color wheel. The Aether, Arthur had called it.

Loren took his hand, lacing her fingers with his. Together, they stepped through the Veil, their bodies melting into sparks of color.

A moment passed before they were back in the school. Darien could hear the security guards still making their rounds.

He took his phone out and shut it off, gesturing for Loren to do the same. She did so without delay, her fingers faintly trembling.

Darien took her into his arms for one last hug, fingers curling in her soft hair. “Gates at three p.m. tomorrow,” he whispered, breathing in the scent of her. Cedar smoke, honeysuckle, and peaches. That cedar smoke came from the Arcanum Well—he knew that now. “Do not leave the school until then. And don’t message me unless you’re in trouble.”

And then he left, looking over his shoulder as he went.

They both watched each other until they couldn’t anymore.

—

Ebonfield was always quiet, no matter the time of day. The district was located in the south-eastern side of Angelthene, where only the foolish and the daring wandered. It offered very little to see, aside from the stone wishing fountain that sat in the middle of a patch of flat land. The weathered rock was speckled with rain and mud, and there were smears of old blood on its surface, evidence of all the people who’d paid a visit over the centuries, some of them never coming back out again.

Dry grass crunched underfoot as Darien walked over to the fountain, leaving his car parked by two converging dirt roads. The place was as quiet as the last time he’d come here, the noise of the city smothered by a coating of magic beyond anyone’s comprehension. The Crossroads sometimes felt like they were trapped in time, constant and reliable and floating freely from the rest of the world. It all stemmed back to that old saying: betwixt and between.

When he reached the fountain, he circled it, stopping near the place where the bucket sat. There were rings of rust scattered across the stone, a result of how long the bucket had sat here.

He took a knife out of his pocket, snapped it open, and cut a line diagonally across his palm. He held that hand over the corroded bucket and squeezed his fingers into a fist.

Blood slid through his grip. It dripped into the pail, plinking against the hole-speckled bottom.

He jumped into a crouch on the stone ledge. With one swift punch, he sent the bucket into the dark depths…and waited.

Writhing shadows and curling mist swept in, carrying him into the spider’s habitat. When the mist dissipated, as quickly as it had come, he found himself in a dark and windowless room, the Widow watching from her usual resting place on the other side of the fountain. The place was cold and reeked of oil and sewer gas, the only light in the area coming from something he never could pinpoint.

“Darien Cassel,” the spider crooned. When she shifted her long legs, the light that didn’t have a source outlined the fine hairs covering her body. “What a pleasant surprise. I knew it was you the minute I tasted your blood. The absence of color, yet the sum of all, seen very seldom throughout history. A truly delicious treat. Truly delicious.”

“I feel like I should say thank you, but I’m going to skip that part. I’m in a hurry.”

“Then make your request.”

Asking a creature of the Crossroads a question always came with a hefty price. So, instead of asking the Widow a question, Darien planned on making an assumption—a move that would guarantee only one cost instead of two.

“I want to buy back Loren Calla’s freedom of speech. I want the spell—or whatever it is that is stopping her from speaking—lifted.”

The Widow blinked her many eyes. The atmosphere of the room shifted in a way that suggested she found his move to be bold and impressive. “I must say, this is a far easier request than your last.”

“What will it cost me?”

“I would like a taste.” That almost seemed too simple. Too cheap.

But Darien raised the blade to the clotted wound in his palm—

“Not blood,” the Widow said. “Though I meant what I said: it is a truly delicious treat. Instead, I would like to taste your aura. It shall give me a far stronger flavor than what your blood can provide.”

Darien considered her request. She waited with remarkable patience, not blinking or moving.