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“I told you that one day, you would meet your end at the tip of my blades.”

I lifted my chin, meeting her icy blue eyes. “I told you that if you mean to kill someone, do it.”

“I can protect myself.” She dug the blade in harder for emphasis, until I could feel my skin splitting, scent the droplet of my own blood that decorated the tip of her dagger.

“My beast compels me to protect my mate.” I knew she’d hate it. But it was also the truth.

“I can deal with your beast just fine,” she purred, her voice turning guttural. “But the male? The terrestrial? You had better control yourself, and stop trying to control me. Or I will kill them both and be done with it.”

I almost believed she’d do it. The gleam in her eyes… I hadn’t seen that unhinged sparkle since before the Tower of Myda. When she spoke of avenging Arthur.

But I’d caught the word, the one she’d said twice—control.

That was what this was really about.

And she was right. I could protect her without making her decisions for her. I had to—or I would lose her. And quite possibly a limb—or worse.

Beneath my foot, the human writhed off the ground, arching in pain. “I want your help.”

Both our gazes snapped back.

For a moment, we were both silent, trying to remember what I’d even asked.

Veyka recovered first, nudged my foot off of him, pouting out as she considered the man. “With what?”

His face clouded with pain, even with my foot gone, but only for a moment.

“My sister has been taken by a powerful fae lord who resides here in the human realm. I want your help to get her back,” he said, breathless but calm.

Veyka rolled her eyes, saying exactly what I was thinking. “We don’t have time for fae lords and human problems. I have my own kingdom to worry about.” She cut her gaze to me. “How can we ensure he doesn’t follow us?”

“Kill him.”

One side of her mouth lifted in a milder version of her usual wicked smile. But just as I thought she was about to open her mouth and tell me to do it, her expression shifted. Her eyes drifted back to the ruined village.

Where she’d run headfirst, desperate to save the villagers.

Where she’d been attacked by one of those mad humans taken by the darkness.

I watched as something else took over her eyes—they shifted, setting in determination. She turned back to our captive.

“Percival St. Pierre,” she said, turning the name over in her mouth. “You knew how to kill the… human taken by darkness.”

This time, there was no pain in his expression as he spoke. “In my homeland, we call them nightwalkers.”

A thousand questions swam in my mind. But Veyka held the young man’s gaze, so I let her speak.

“You are familiar with this darkness?” she asked.

Percival inclined his head, shaggy black hair falling forward over his brow. “All humans are familiar with it. It used to be rare. But in the last few years… the last few months…” He nodded over Veyka’s shoulder. “Things like this happen.”

I watched her stiffen. She tried to still the tensing of her muscles, to stop the prisoner from realizing, but she failed. I saw the tick in his cheek. This human was clever. He had to be, if he’d managed to follow us for weeks and avoid even my beast. But cleverness without loyalty was dangerous.

“This…” She didn’t have to turn to the village or raise her hand for all of us to know what she meant. “This was caused by the nightwalkers?”

Percival inclined his head.

Osheen’s gravelly voice cut in. He was standing halfway between the tree line and the village, but his fae hearing was more than ample to follow the conversation. “How is that even possible? Humans don’t have magic. Even if they did, the nightwalkers we’ve heard of are mad. They are devourers, not arsonists.”