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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

ROOK

My throat throttles at her words, stealing my breath away. Blood stains the gold where she must have been resting, waiting for me to return. It was foolish of me to imagine this ending any other way.

Foolish of me to hope.

“Shift into a dragon,” I say, already fearing the worst.

Shivering, she hugs herself, looking more vulnerable than ever. “I can’t.”

"You tried?"

"Of course I tried." Her eyes gleam with sorrow. “It’s as if that part of me is locked away without a key.”

Scaldric was right again, despite being a useless idiot. I would bet gold on that fucker lurking around here, lying in wait for Pyrah. She's all but defenseless without the ability to become a dragon.

“We wasted time,” I say, glowering. “We should have been ready.”

“This has never happened to me before.” She glances at her red fingertips as if still disbelieving her own body's weaknesses. “What do I do? Find some rags? I don’t even have my own clothes.”

“I should have bought you some sooner.” Instead of lusting over her while she was naked. I succumbed to my own worst tendencies instead of taking care of her like a decent man. “I can still help.”

“How?”

“Bleeding is bleeding. I have bandages.”

“Bandages? Rook, I’m not wounded.”

I give her a long look. “Are you in pain?”

“Yes, but?—”

“Don’t argue with me, woman. You aren’t even standing up straight.”

Wincing, she rubs her belly again. “You win. I surrender.”

“Good.”

My pack waits at the edge of the cave. I crouch down and rummage through it. Besides the bandages, my supplies are limited. I find a clump of dried bog moss, useful for treating injuries, though I remember that human women also use it to stanch their monthly bleeding.

I left most of my things with my horse, Bolt, locked away in the stable outside Netherhaven. I need to go back and ride Bolt here, but it’s a long way to the city without taking a portal.

“What if Scaldric comes back?” Pyrah asks.

"I will kill him.” Despite the anger simmering inside me, my voice sounds deadly calm, and I speak nothing but the truth. “Don’t try to convince me to spare his life twice.”

I bring her the bandages, moss, and some of my spare clothes. She slips on one of my shirts, which falls to her knees.

“You have no undergarments, do you?” she asks.

“Unfortunately not.”

“That was never a problem until now.” She stares at the bandages and bog moss, then laughs, a broken kind of sound. “What should I do with these? I have never had to do this before."

“We may need to get creative.”

“Sometimes I hate being female. This couldn’t get any more mortifying.”

Keeping my face blank, I tilt my head. “Would you prefer some privacy?”

"It doesn't matter. I don't care.” The glittering in her eyes spills over into tears. “I can’t turn into a dragon."

“I'm sorry.” My words make her cry harder, though I don't understand why. Her pain echoes inside me. I touch her cheek with my thumb and rub away one of her tears. “Pyrah, lirithel .”

“ Lirithel ?” She stumbles over the word. “Is that demonic?”

“Umbric, the common language of the Underworld.”

“What does it mean?”

“Roughly translated, it’s an endearment that means ‘my dream.’”

She stares at me as if spellbound. “Rook.” Tears keep rolling down her cheeks. “I don’t deserve you.”

"That's not true."

The words rasp out of me. She couldn't be more wrong. Of all the beings in the Overworld and the Underworld, she's the one who deserves every scrap of care I can offer, though I'm still learning how to give it. I drag her into an embrace, her cheek pressed against my chest.

“I don’t want to get blood on you," she protests.

I shake my head at her concern, which is sweet but misguided. “I have been far bloodier during battle.”

“True.” She laughs through her tears. “Will you help me?”

“Without question.”

Together, we fashion the bandages and moss into a makeshift undergarment. It's enough to keep her comfortable for tonight.

I glance at the piles of gleaming treasure in her cave. “Where do you sleep?”

“Curled up on the gold.” Her cheeks flush pink as if she’s embarrassed by this confession. “I don’t need a bed when I’m a dragon.”

How did she survive without me? A little comfort won’t hurt her.

I sigh. “I will be your pillow tonight.”

After unbuckling my armor, I unbutton my shirt and tug it over my head.

She can’t resist glancing at my bare chest, though temptation wasn’t my intent.

I have nothing but a blanket to spread on the cold, hard stone, since I left my bedroll in the stable with Bolt.

This will have to do. I lie down, wait for Pyrah to follow me, and tuck her into the crook of my arm.

“Why have you never spoken Umbric to me before?” she asks.

“It’s a crime in Chymeria.”

“Was that Queen Dulcamara’s command?”

“For this, she can’t be blamed.” I frown. “It has been a crime since the time of my great-grandfather, King Thorin the Great, son of King Mallex the Wrong. He didn’t want demons in his kingdom.”

She’s silent for a moment. “Sometimes I forget you have royal blood. You’re the descendant of kings. The Gray Prince.”

“I’m not royalty.”

“Rook, there’s no other heir to the throne. Just you and your sister, and there’s a prophecy with your name on it.”

I hum low in my throat, a neutral noise, before falling silent. It’s dark outside the cave, and it has started to rain. Its whispering fills the night. The rich, sweet smell of wet earth drifts inside.

I never thought I would find such peace.

Pyrah shivers. “I’m cold.” She burrows deeper under the blanket.

“Let me keep you warm.”

She huddles against me as if she wants to steal my heat. “Do demons dream?”

“Of course.” I tuck the blanket closer around her body. “An incubus hunts for prey in the dreams of others, but we also have dreams of our own.”

“What do you dream about?”

I pause, pondering her question. I don’t wish to tell her about my nightmares. “On good or bad nights?”

“Good.”

“You,” I confess. “ Lirithel is more than simply an endearment.”

“Are these dreams filthy?”

“On occasion. Though not always, despite my incubus nature."

She’s silent for a long moment. “And on bad nights?”

I hesitate, not wanting to burden her with my darkest thoughts. But her question hangs in the air, demanding an answer.

"On bad nights," I say, "I dream of my father."

"Nightmares?"

My words roughen with remembered pain. "He hurt me. Often."

"Why?"

I don't often delve into this darkness, for the fear that it might swallow me whole. My shadow wings unfurl, an involuntary reaction that betrays my distress. I'm unable to will them away.

"Sometimes he had a reason," I admit. "Sometimes he had none at all."

Pyrah embraces me tighter, as if she can shield me from my own memories, from the shadows within myself. The protective love in her touch means more than words ever could.

"You never deserved what he did to you," she whispers.

Relief floods through me. I had expected her to question me, but she's giving me the space to heal and the gift of silence.

"Thank you." My voice comes out rough.

My shadow wings fade away as the tension ebbs from my muscles. Here in the darkness of her cave, with the hush of rain and her warmth pressed against me, I feel something unfamiliar.

It takes me a moment to name it as safety .

We’re silent for some time, while neither one of us is asleep yet. The rain falls harder outside, drumming against the ground. The steady rhythm isn’t enough to lull me into slumber. I'm still distracted by what lies ahead of us. My mind gnaws at the future like a dog with a bone.

“Lark will return by midnight,” I say.

“What if she doesn’t?”

“Then I will find her in Netherhaven.” I don’t mention my fears out loud, as if that will prevent them from coming true. Lark could be captured or hurt.

“Don’t go.”

“Pyrah.” My arms tighten around her. “If I do go, I will return. I promise.”

It’s not a promise I intend to break, but an undercurrent of dread flows through my veins.

Scaldric won’t stop until he has captured her.

Queen Dulcamara won’t stop until she has defeated us both.

Snow drifts down upon Hexfall in the night, the castle returned to its former glory. Despite the winter chill, the cursed roses in the Thornwood still bloom everlasting. Their red petals splash the white like blood.

The statue of King Mallex the Wrong wears a mantle of icicles. I walk across the snow-blanketed courtyard of the castle and enter the throne room. The ruined throne gleams in black marble, still cracked down the middle, but the unraveling tapestries and shattered windows have been replaced.

This does not surprise me, though I don’t know why. I wander through the castle and climb upstairs to a bedchamber, the room furnished with royal luxury. In the fireplace, cheerful flames crackle.

Pyrah sits in a chair by the window and watches the falling snow. When she sees me, she smiles. She’s holding a baby to her breast.

A baby with pale skin, a soft wisp of white hair, and the nubs of horns.

Our baby.

I know that the baby is a girl. I have a daughter.

I drop to my knees and reach out to the baby. With the back of my knuckle, I stroke one of her pudgy little fists. When she opens her eyes, they glint a strange yet beautiful violet, unlike the blue eyes of her mother or the red of her father.

What is her name? How old is she?

Why have I forgotten?

The perfection of this winter night shatters beneath my skepticism.

I jolt awake. My chest aches as if it has been carved out and left hollow. A profound sense of loss fills the void inside me.

I glance down at Pyrah, who’s still asleep in my arms. She’s snoring, quietly, the sound reminiscent of a bumblebee. I spoke the truth when I said I dreamed of her, but I can’t confess this dream of having a baby with her.

It’s an impossible future. Glimpsing it brings me nothing but pain.