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“You tried.” The male smiled. A vicious, sickening smile that made my stomach turn. “But no one can die in Avalon.”

She didn’t want to ask. I watched her mouth form the single word, the pain of it etched in every feature. “How?”

“I opened a rift.”

The battle scenarios running through my mind dissolved to nothing.

The male’s smile was growing. He was laughing. “Come now, Veyka. You did not think you were the only one who could access the void.”

A snap of his fingers. A shimmer. And a woman suddenly appeared from nowhere.

My heart throbbed in my chest. A rift—she’d stepped through a rift.

One glance—that was all it took to realize who she was. The same mahogany skin, though hers was marred with scars. The same long, dark hair. She was softly curved, her body similar to Veyka’s but shorter, less muscular.

Human.

A white crystal hung around her neck.

“Diana,” Percival croaked.

The sister. The fae lord. Pieces were sliding into place. But this male was known to Veyka. Someone she thought she’d killed, but had lived. An elemental, then.

One more minute. I’d give her one more minute to make the kill, and then I’d shift.

He dragged the woman closer. Her hands were bound.

Closer—so he could rub himself against her, drag his nose through her dark hair and breathe in her scent.

Awareness began to awaken within me.

“It took practice, of course. And using the witch’s considerable gifts. It is not a true void power… not like yours, Veyka. But it is enough. For now.”

Witch. The young woman was not human—she was a witch. That meant Percival—

Lyrena’s body hit the ground hard.

The knife Percival shoved beneath her goldstone armor, right through her back and straight into her kidney, did its work well.

Too well. Lyrena spurted blood. It was everywhere. Thick, rich fae blood. It only flowed like that for the gravest of injuries. We had to get her back to safety, somewhere Isolde could work. One look at the golden knight, and my battlefield experience told me that only the gifted healer would be able to save her.

Veyka was fast, but just this once, Percival was faster.

He darted away, toward the male, his hands upraised. Veyka’s dagger still clenched in one palm—still dripping with Lyrena’s blood.

“You are a witch too,” Veyka hissed.

It all made sense—painful, excruciating sense.

He’d only been willing to answer our questions when we’d had him pinned down with the immediate threat of death. I couldn’t remember the conversations exactly, but I’d wager Eilean Gayl that each time, he’d answered exactly three questions truthfully.

Fuck.

Veyka didn’t move. Her eyes darted between Lyrena, Percival, and the male.

“Her fae blood will not save her,” the male said casually. “Not here. All magic has a cost. The cost of immortality in Avalon is that here, in this clearing, no healing can happen.”

He smiled again—brutal. Cunning. Worse than any expression I’d ever seen on my own face, reflected back in the mirror.