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I grumble, “Fucking open, you motherfucker.”

“Turn it the other way,” a male voice instructs.

The blood in my veins spikes. With reptilian speed, I strike toward that voice and lash my free arm in the male’s direction. My hand clamps like a manacle around his neck, ramming him into a neighboring tree trunk.

“Mortal,” I hiss.

“Please,” the man chokes while squirming like a pinned insect. “I’m h-here to h-help you.”

“A mortal who lies.”

“I can o-open that lock.”

My lips curl. “I do not make bargains.”

“Turn the lock the other w-way,” he gags. “Then pump t-twice like a lever.”

The instructions stay my hand. Cove’s words rush in like the tide, her directions returning to me more distinctly.

Turn the lock to the left. Then pump twice like a lever.

My lady had assembled this key herself. No one outside of our band has seen it or knows how it functions. Or perhaps it’s merely a replica of many, but something about the man’s words uttered verbatim loosens my grip on his jugular.

His pulse taps against my palm, the beat stronger and steadier than I’d given him credit for. When mortals lie, their heartbeat changes pace, unlike with this one. Despite his aged baritone—likely a male in his fiftieth year—the human’s intonation is robust, akin to a trained muscle.

It is the tone of a man equal parts nerve, endurance, and sympathy. The compilation reminds me of three other mortal figures I know.

My eyes slit. I make my choice.

With my other hand, I wrench the device from the keyhole, lift the object to his neck, and trace the wands down to his stomach. “Tell me how you know about this key.”

The man wheezes, “Because I’ve used t-the s-same one before.”

“If you are lying, I will gut you like a trout.”

“If I’m t-telling the truth, you will ap-apologize for that.”

The combination of bravado and civility reminds me of Cove. My mouth to twitches in hostile amusement. “Again. How do you know of this key?”

“Because…” In that single word, a newfangled emotion toughens his voice. The mortal’s words grow thorns. “Because it belonged to my daughter.”

24

My fingers snap open. They do so with a quick click of muscle and bone, the man’s confession driving needles into my fingers and severing the choke hold. The mortal thuds to the grass, emits a guttural sound, and audibly clutches his throat while hacking.

I go still, listening to his fingers massage the area. The pressure of his words is immediate, water breaking through bedrock. I feel them yank my features into a different shape, from malevolent distrust to repentant disgrace.

Over the years, I have trained my eyes well. Only twice have I been so overcome that I’ve failed to suppress their blinding magic. The first incident had been with Cove in The Shiver of Sharks. The second episode had been with Juniper, when I heard the embryo inside her womb.

Thank Fables, this present moment won’t be a third time. The shock doesn’t outweigh my restraint. Otherwise, my eyes would have flung gold at him.

Nevertheless, I feel the orbs widen—a novelty, for they’re more accustomed to narrowing.

Because it belonged to my daughter.

That solitary declaration haunts the space between us. This is Cove’s father.

She had described him to me—darker skin than mine, more like Cypress; hair threaded with silver filaments; and a baritone like my own—yet not with any distinguishing particulars my senses would have registered. Especially not under these circumstances.