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I nodded.

“Well, my grandfather was one of them. Before humans made peace with the vampires, of course. That’s why the blade is curved like that, you see. To penetrate a vampire’s hard skin. He gave this blade to my father before he died, and my father gave it to me when I turned eighteen.”

“Apollo,” I sighed, truly bemused. “I cannot take this.”

He shrugged. “Sure you can. You have more honor in your little finger than I have in my entire body. It’s a disgrace that I still carry it, really.”

He didn’t allow me to ponder the words, let alone respond. He veered around and continued down the path, his tall, dark silhouette looking like an unyielding pillar amid the saggy trees.

I sucked in a breath and scrambled after him. “Are there vampires in this forest?’

“No.”

“Have you ever seen a vampire?”

“Yes.”

“After the treaty?”

He scowled at me. “I’m only twenty-seven.”

“Right,” I panted, struggling to match his long strides. “Are they as beautiful as the stories say?”

Apollo visibly tensed—lips tight, jaw clenched, eyes dark. “They’re bloodsucking, high-handed wankers.”

“As opposed to being a heartless, high-handed wanker?”

“You’re just desperate for me to gag you, aren’t you, darling?” he grunted.

I smiled. “Why are you displeased?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re displeased I think vampires are beautiful,” I remarked, and it was a keen observation indeed, for that poor little vein on his forehead was ready to pop.

“And why would I be displeased with your preferences?” he bit out.

“Maybe you want my neck all to yourself,” I taunted.

“The only thing I want from your neck is to return it home safely. I made a promise to you, Nepheli. This means something to me, okay? Now, come on. We’re late as it is.”

I didn’t pester him too much for the rest of our journey. But I did catch myself thinking that for a heartless, inconsiderate, conceited delinquent, Apollo Zayra would make a brilliant king one day.

12

Apollo

The moment we reached the familiar, poppy-kissed glade, I recognized all the telltale signs of Agathe’s presence in Walder’s cottage.

Walder’s little haven in the very heart of the Dragonfly was seemingly unchanged, boasting ivy-clad stone walls, a pink gabled roof covered with wild wisteria, an arched green door with incoherent swirling patterns for a touch of whimsy, and flower-bursting window boxes in the most exuberant colors imaginable. Despite the lack of glaring evidence, I knew Agathe was here by simply breathing in the sweetened air and feeling the particularly mirthful grass with my fingertips. The golden specks of dust, which always rose high after sundown in dense mist-like clusters over the entire forest, wafted left and right with a bit more vibrancy than usual. A scene so discreetly enchanting that I thought only a Curiosity could fully appreciate it.

Nepheli was beaming indeed. Her earlier worries and fears dissipated, only for her relentless curiosity to emerge stronger than ever.

It wasn’t the first time I caught her glowing like that. The glow was as pale as the moon, and I didn’t believe she was aware of it. But I had noticed. It was impossible not to notice, and not only because this woman was practically a walking star. Nepheli was just… nice to look at, I supposed. Her face was a collection of interesting features. The soft arch of her silver brows. The fullness of her mouth. The little slope of her nose. The wild opalescence of her hair and the way her pretty blue eyes sparkled as she stretched her throat to the sky and squinted against the starlight, oblivious to how the blazing horizon tried but failed to compare to her beauty.

Our journey had been easy after our little mishap in Fairyland. She’d asked questions, and I’d evaded them. I’d made crude jokes, and she’d scoffed at them, glaring at me the way she did, all dignity and umbrage.

I was strangely aware of her body next to mine now as we crossed the garden, past the trellis and the rosebushes and the quaint little chairs around the metal oval table at which Walder liked to take his breakfast. I was fixed on the swishing of her skirts, the tide of her breathing, and that red-purple mark on her elegant neck that taunted me with its dramatic obviousness.