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A rivulet of sweat drips down my cheek. “Stop.”

The darkness bounds into the surrounding rooms, and the shouts are beginning to build. If I don’t end this now, I won’t be a fairy that wields magic; I’ll be magic that wields a fairy.

Control yourself, Desmond!

“Stop!” I roar.

The billowing darkness freezes. Then, all at once, it rushes back into my body, slamming against me like a leviathan.

I fall to my knees, choking on the magic.

By the time I catch my breath, the darkness clears. All that’s left of the bath house’s inhabitants are sparkling piles of ash where fairies once stood and a dozen mortals. Slowly, the slaves lift their heads, taking me in, their bodies shaking.

Several fae from nearby rooms rush in. When they see me, they stop in their tracks, their eyes taking everything in. If they want to kill me, I’m not sure at this point that I could stop them. But they don’t try to kill me. Instead, one by one, they bend their knees and bow their heads.

I stare at them with no little amount of wonder and fear.

… They respect power …

And suddenly, the powerless boy from Arestys is powerless no more.

Chapter 4

A Mortal Mate

252 years ago

I stare atmy first tattoo beneath the bright, colorful lights of one of Barbos’s seedier pubs. The angel gazes down my arm, her expression caught somewhere between mournful and serene.

Right at this moment my mood echoes hers. I rub my eyes.

“So you’re officially a brother now?” Gladia, the barmaid who works here, slides a beer over to me, peering at the ink.

I’ve officially been one for two years now, but getting a tattoo is akin to marrying into the organization. My skin is now a testament to my loyalties, for better or for worse.

And I’m not sure how I feel about that.

Farther than ever from my revenge …

“Whereareyour brothers?” the barmaid asks.

Shaking down one of the king’s officials.

I lean forward. “I could tell you,” my eyes drop to Gladia’s lips, “but then it would cost you.”

Her eyes heat. “I’m willing to pay …”

An hour later I’m pulling on my pants. Below us I can hear the muffled sounds from the bar.

Gladia props her head up on the pillows. “Leaving so soon, Eurion?”

It’s been two years since I’ve adopted a fake name—all the better to evade my father with—but I still sometimes forget that I’m Eurion Nova and not Desmond Flynn.

Gladia reaches for me, and it’s all I can do not to shake her touch off.

“I need to go.”

Needmight not be the right word, but the women I bed don’t often want to hear the right words. Like the fact that Gladia is nothing more than a warm body. Or that I won’t think of her again until the next time I see her.