Page 94 of As Above, So Below

It’s a beautiful piece.

Swirling silver inlay against the dark wood on the lid, silver clasps and hinges—the box alone is a piece of art.

Butwhowould send me such a thing?

Perhaps something Artemise needs me to have for this upcoming eclipse celebration? The man said it came in the post—whatever in the hells that means.

With pursed lips, my fingers graze over the lid, the highly polished wood barely discernible from the gleaming silver against my fingertips. It lacks any defensive magic—it doesn’t resonate under my touch nor is there the familiar thrum of magic in my chest.

It’s a harmless ornate box.

Giving it a quick shake, no movement rattles from within. I find the latch and prise it open, lifting the lid.

My brows raise.

A black-bladed dagger rests in a bed of dark red velvet.

Immediately, my brows settle into a scowl.

Ryc.

It has to be.

The dagger, darker than midnight itself, acts like a vortex, consuming all the light touching it. It’s not a material I recognize. Clearly not steel—flicking a nail against the flat of the blade it rings, a deep vibrating sound—clearly not entirely silver either.

Tracing my finger along the flat of the blade, it’s oddly cool to the touch. Shifting the box, a rounded and polished moonstone embedded into the pommel shines with iridescent hues in the sun. The black leather wrapped handle shows signs of wear—this blade isn’t new.

Yet the beauty of the dagger is almost obscene.

Opening the box fully to withdraw the dagger, a small folded and sealed note falls out from behind the leather straps secured insidethe lid.

Picking it up, I slip a finger under the seal, breaking it open. Unfolding it, I read.

Adventure carefully, little witch. — Ryc

I knew it.

I fucking knew it.

I should have never spent that morning with him. Not only does he plague my thoughts, he haunts my dreams, and now he’s sending me gifts. I can’t say for sure how things work in the living realm, but gifts in the hells never come without strings.

Whatever this is between us, it’s too much, too fast—too distracting.

My shadows vibrate, voicing their disagreement. The near sentient innate thrives when I’m distressed. It becomes emboldened, like a mortal after a night with too much heady wine. And much like a drunken mortal, it’s best to ignore its suggestions. Listening only makes a bad situation worse.

Folding the note, I sigh.

I couldn’t have asked for a better suited candidate to offer a contract. As much as part of me wants to slip away into the shadows and vanish, never see Ryc again, I can’t. I need him.

I don’t think I can find anyone else before the eclipse. At least, not anyone else I believe can stand their ground against Kassil. There’s some hidden darkness about Ryc that leads me to believe he’s an older fae—but I don’t know if that’s because the depth of whatever lies between usfeelsancient, or if he actually is an elder fae.

If I offer him and he accepts, he’ll be bound in service to me until death. But, in my haste to leave the other day, I never managed to learn enough about him to evenbeginconsidering what to offer him. I’ve no power, no wealth, no influence.

I’ve nothing of the usual nature Netharis offers mortals.

Gods, the perfect fae is going to slip through my fingers because I have nothing to give him in return. Would he protect the daughter of Celesta on honor alone?

A demon wouldn’t.