Page 25

Sapphire

Her honored guests.

It sets me on edge—there’s something too nice about the way she’s greeting us—but at least it’s better than killing us on the spot.

“And who might you be, travelers who have found your way to my shores?” Circe asks, watching us closely.

Before I can get a word out, Riven steps forward. He’s all cool confidence, chest out, voice low and even.

“I’m Prince Riven Draevor of the Winter and Summer Courts.” His tone leaves no doubt, and Circe’s gaze lingers on him like she’s never seen a fae prince in her life.

Maybe she hasn’t.

Maybe she’s been stuck on this island alone for hundreds of years? I remember learning in school about a goddess whose name starts with a C who was stuck on an island alone, but I don’t think her name was Circe.

Plus, Circe’s a sorceress. Some sort of witch, judging by her command over fire. Not a goddess.

“And you?” Circe asks me, snapping me back into focus.

“Sapphire Hayes,” I say quickly, and the tide moves toward me, prepared to put out Circe’s fire in a giant wave if she tries anything.

“Sapphire’s being modest,” Riven breaks in, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he glances at me. “She’s actually Princess Sapphire Hayes Fairmont Solandriel Draevor of the Summer Court, the Winter Court, the New York Vampire Clan, and the star touched warrior of Celeste.”

Heat surges beneath my skin. “Riven?—”

“Oh,” he continues, as if I never spoke, “she’s also my wife.”

I glare at him, waves crashing with more force against the shore, wind blowing around me. Because while I wish I could say I’m not Riven’s wife, the mark around my finger claims otherwise.

Circe studies us both, her eyes landing on me. “A winter and summer fae bound in marriage?” she says. “How unexpected. And, from the anger in your eyes, I’m assuming unwanted.”

“It was a political arrangement,” I say, my gaze quickly moving to stare down Riven. “Nothing more.”

Icicles form along the blade of his sword, which he’s lowered in a gesture of peace, but kept just high enough to show he’ll attack if provoked.

Circe, however, remains focused on me.

“Marriage is such a tedious, antiquated concept anyway,” she says, waving Riven off as she steps closer to me, the air around us warming. “Now, on to more important matters—you claim to be chosen by Celeste?”

“It’s not a claim,” I reply, lifting my chin slightly. “It’s the truth.”

“Prove it,” she challenges, flames dancing along her fingertips. “Show me what makes you worthy of a goddess’s blessing.”

I glance at Riven, who sheathes his sword and gives me a subtle nod.

So, taking a deep breath, I center myself, feeling the push and pull of the waves against the sand and the wind blowing softly around my shoulders.

Then, I focus on a spot behind Circe, and project.

I arrive just in time to see that Riven has already moved swiftly, catching my physical form before it hits the ground.

My heart pounds as I notice how tenderly he’s holding me, and it’s not in a good way. It’s in a frustrated way. Because he always does this. He always thinks I can’t take a fall.

And he’s making me look weak in front of a sorceress who’s asking me to show her how powerful I am.

It’s humiliating.

“Release me,” I tell him, and there must be something in my tone that tells him to not argue with me, because he does as asked—although he stays next to my unconscious form afterward.

“Astral projection,” Circe finally says, the flames receding from her hands. “True star magic.”

“I’m indestructible in this form,” I explain to her, turning my attention back to Riven. “Show her.”

Hesitation crosses his eyes, but then he rushes toward me, cold steel passing clean through my projected form.

“Impressive.” Circe glances back at my physical body, her eyebrows knitting together as she studies it. “Does your true form always remain this vulnerable while you’re in your projected state?”

“Yes. But if I can see where I’m heading, I can project there—no matter the distance.”

I hold her gaze, annoyed that the first thing she did was call out my weakness.

“Fascinating,” she says, and from her small smile, it seems like she’s impressed. “Now, return to yourself, Star Touched. You’ve made your point.”

I snap back to my physical form, inhaling sharply as consciousness floods back into my body. But the familiar disorientation passes quickly, and I push myself up from the sand, brushing off the grains clinging to my clothes.

“She’s also our navigator,” Riven says, moving to stand next to me. His closeness makes me bristle, but I don’t step away, not wanting to reveal more to Circe about our strained marriage than she already knows. “She can read the stars. It’s how we found your island.”

“The stars speak to me,” I add, looking up at the night sky where the Algol Star pulses with light. “Like a compass.”

Circe follows my gaze upward, her expression thoughtful.

“The Demon Star,” she muses. “An interesting guide to choose. It speaks of transformation through pain—and through death.”

Something about the way she says it makes me shiver, even though it’s not cold on her island.

“Now, come,” she says, gesturing toward a path that winds through the trees. “We’ll further discuss what brings two fae royals to my shores over a meal in my palace.”

She doesn’t wait for our answer before striding forward, her purple gown sweeping behind her.

“A generous offer,” Riven says, stopping her in her path. “However, I’ve already had a handful of herbs that have sadly ruined my appetite.”

Circe takes a deep breath, then turns to face us. “Moly,” she says flatly, her voice hardening. “You’ve eaten moly.”

“Yes,” Riven confirms, glancing at the forest. “A precaution—not an insult.”

Circe laughs, the sound unexpectedly light. “Well, at least you’re honest about your distrust, Winter Prince,” she says. “Most men hide their protections while secretly swallowing their safeguards. But you’re no mortal. And yet, you still sought the herb’s protection.”

“A good habit to have,” he says smoothly. “I assume you know what it does?”

“Intimately.” She waves a hand as if brushing away a distant memory. “Once, long ago, I met another who thought to protect himself from my magic with moly. A sailor with a silver tongue and too much wit for his own good.”

“Odysseus.” Riven keeps his eyes locked on hers, refusing to look at me.

Anger flares inside me, the waves crashing harder against the shore.

Because Riven knew. He must have figured it out the moment he saw the herb in the trunk. And he didn’t bother sharing this critical piece of information with me.

The realization is more painful than his ice-covered sword would have been if I hadn’t been in my projected form when he ran it through my chest.

“Odysseus was far less forthright about his intentions,” Circe continues, seemingly oblivious to my internal struggle. “Now tell me—how did you get the herb?”

“A messenger gave it to us,” I break in, not in the mood to listen to Riven speak anymore. “She found us before we left the mortal realm. She also told us to tell you that we seek no path, no descent—only the wisdom of those once forged in flesh.”

Circe stills, her amusement fading.

“The wisdom of the dead,” she says, as if testing the words on her tongue. “A dangerous pursuit.”

I tense. “What does that mean?”

“Since you were chosen by a goddess, I see no reason to drag this out,” she says, fire dancing along her fingertips again. “And since neither of you seem inclined to partake in a meal, we can skip the pleasantries.”

Riven folds his arms. “Meaning…?”

“Meaning,” she says, arching a brow, “that you didn’t come here for food or hospitality. You came seeking answers. And you’ll find them by speaking with spirits from the Underworld. After all, the dead know far more than the living. And unlike the living, they have no reason to lie.”

The words send an icy prickle down my spine.

Riven looks unfazed.

Of course, he does. Since he was already aware of the moly and what it would do, he likely already figured out what the riddle meant, too. And then proceeded to not tell me.

I turn back to Circe, unable to keep looking at Riven without blasting a gust of wind at him to knock his smug self onto the sand.

“Will you help us?” I ask the sorceress, keeping my voice steady through the anger brewing inside me.

“I have no interest in angering the star goddess. So yes, I will help you,” she says, and then she goes on to list the ingredients we’ll need—the majority of which we already have.

They’re the ones the cloaked girl gave us, which I proceed to explain to Circe.

“The only thing we don’t have is the blood,” I finish. “She didn’t give us anything to sacrifice.”

Which is likely a good thing, since there’s basically a one hundred percent chance that I would have given in to the hunger and feasted on the animal before we arrived at the island.

“Not to worry,” Circe says, her golden eyes gleaming in the firelight. “There are plenty of pigs here for the sacrifice. Now, we have no time to waste. Follow me, and we’ll head to the location where we’ll conduct the ritual.”