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CHAPTER FOUR

ROOK

If you want to hide so well it’s impossible to find you, you need magic. Luckily, my twin sister is a sorceress. Lark lives in a cottage on the outskirts of the Thornwood, not far from Hexfall.

Only fools wander through the Thornwood on foot. Monsters devour any travelers who stray from the Emperor’s Road, which cuts through the cursed forest like a scar.

Nothing but rumors told by humans afraid of monsters like me.

Nevertheless, I would rather not walk the distance. I left my horse, Bolt, at a stable outside of Netherhaven, and I haven’t returned for her yet. She’s safer there for the time being, and deserves a warm stall and decent hay.

Besides, why ride a horse when you can ride a dragon?

Pyrah shifts into her draconic form and carries me high over the Thornwood. I stretch out one of my hands, slicing the wind. My shoulder blades tense, my shadow wings still hidden, though I’m not incubus enough to be capable of flight.

Following my directions, Pyrah lands in a woodland glade. Her claws sink into a pelt of moss. Mist thickens the air, making it impossible to see through the swirling white vapor. I vault down to the ground.

“Lark?” I shout my sister’s name. “It’s me, Rook. I’ve come with Pyrah.”

The mist ripples from some inner disturbance. It turns ragged and clears from the air. In its absence, a cottage is revealed.

Built from round stones taken from the river nearby, the cottage looks like part of the forest. Overgrown by moss, it shimmers with morning dew. A few ferns and a mushroom or two have taken root between cracks in the stones. Blue-white smoke uncurls from the chimney.

When I rap on the door, it swings open under my knuckles.

“Come in,” Lark says, from somewhere inside.

There’s no chance in hell a dragon would fit inside the cottage, so Pyrah shifts into a woman.

She’s naked, of course, and she shivers.

I unbuckle my pack and toss her my cloak, a shirt, and a pair of trousers.

I need to buy her clothes. She claims she never needed them before, living alone in the wilderness, since she rarely shifted into a woman.

I can’t blame her, considering how many dragonslayers have hunted her down.

I hold open the door for Pyrah before following her into the cottage.

It looks bigger on the inside and holds a surprising quantity of things.

Books overflow from shelves alongside bottled potions and crystals.

A fire crackles in the hearth. It smells damn good here, like drying lavender, woodsmoke, and baking bread.

Lark kneels by the hearth. She’s half-demon, like me, courtesy of our succubus mother.

Her silver skin glints in the firelight, and most of her bruises have healed.

Black horns jut from her pale hair, one of them broken.

My hands curl into fists. I’m a shit brother sometimes, since I haven’t worked up the courage to ask her how it happened.

Must have been during her time in the dungeon.

Lark prods the embers with a poker before she stands, dusting the ashes from her hands on her apron. “Back so soon?” It hasn’t been long since we brought her home.

I lean against the wall with my arms crossed. “We need your help.” My voice sounds calm. Emotionless, even.

“Why?” She glances between us.

“A golden dragon by the name of Scaldric. That fucker won’t leave Pyrah alone. He thinks she belongs to him, and that he can force her to marry him and become his mate. He has the blessing of Queen Dulcamara.”

Lark’s shoulders stiffen. “The queen has a dragon?”

“Apparently.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Magic. Can you hide Pyrah’s cave with an enchantment?”

“Maybe.”

Lark bends over the hearth again and, with the poker, lifts the lid from a cast-iron skillet. A delicious aroma rises from the bread baking inside. My mouth waters at the smell.

“Hungry?” she asks.

Yes, but I shake my head. “Lark. We aren’t here for breakfast.”

“Breakfast first. Never do magic on an empty stomach.”

I peel away from the wall. “So, you will help us?”

“I can’t let a dragon bite off your head.” She glances at Pyrah. “No offense.”

“None taken.” Pyrah puts on an innocent face. “I never wanted to bite off Rook’s head.”

“That’s a lie,” I deadpan.

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t.” Lark looks into the embers of the fire, her gaze faraway. “While I was in the Forgotten Tower, I kept dreaming about hot bread from the oven, slathered with melting butter.”

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. It’s such a simple luxury to have butter on bread, and yet she was denied it for so long.

I stand by my sister. My hand drops to her shoulder, a gentle reassurance. “Are you all right?”

“Well enough.” But her smile looks brittle. “They fed me gruel cooked with rancid oats at the Forgotten Tower. Never want to see another bowl of that slop for the rest of my life.”

“How long were you locked away?” Pyrah asks.

Lark’s hand tightens around the poker, her knuckles whitening. “Too long.”

“Seven weeks,” I say, though it pains me to admit it.

“How awful,” Pyrah mutters. “I can’t even imagine. The thought of being locked in a dungeon for seven weeks, with no room to shift into a dragon, curdles my stomach. I’m sorry, I should have helped you get out of there sooner.”

Lark shakes her head. “You don’t have to apologize. You didn’t know.”

“I didn’t,” Pyrah admits. “Rook captured me and chained me in aellurium. He didn’t free me or explain himself until later.”

“Allow me to elaborate.” I clear my throat. “I had no choice. She would have burned me to ashes like the dragonslayers before me. There was very little chance of me strolling into her cave and politely asking her for help.”

Pyrah arches an eyebrow. “You’re not wrong.”

Fighting a smile, Lark turns her attention back to the bread. The skillet must be too hot to touch, but she grabs the handle without flinching. Pyrah stares at her, clearly surprised, while she carries it to a battle-scarred table.

Lark catches her staring. “It’s a simple spell.” When she lifts her hands, blue sparks fly from her fingertips. “Frost magic.”

Pyrah whistles low under her breath. “I’ve been on the wrong end of frost magic before. It can be very powerful.”

“Or extremely delicate.”

The bread comes out of the skillet, its crust a rich, golden brown. Lark dusts off her hands, the magic disappearing from her fingers, and takes a knife. She cuts us each a thick slice. Delicious steam wafts into the air.

“Butter?” she asks. “Jam?”

“Yes, please,” Pyrah says, begging with her eyes.

I sit backward on a chair and drape my arms over the furniture. It’s rare for me to feel so relaxed, instead of always on edge and ready to fight. The warmth and safety of the cottage shields us from the outside world.

Lark butters the bread and slathers it with a generous amount of red jam. She slides our plates toward us. “Eat.”

“Thank you,” Pyrah says.

I take a bite of the soft bread. The jam tastes like strawberries. Sweet and tart, it reminds me of sunshine.

“Good?” Lark asks.

Pyrah nods vigorously, her mouth full. Her enthusiasm makes me smile.

We eat in silence, the fire crackling and popping in the hearth. It’s a cheerful sound, unlike the destruction of dragonfire. That memory has been echoing in my head ever since we battled Scaldric in the temple at Netherhaven.

I shake my head to clear it. “Wild strawberries?” I ask about the jam.

“Yes,” Lark says. “Winter strawberries from the Thornwood. I found them while looking for mushrooms.”

The crumbs turn dry in my mouth. “Be careful.”

“Rook, I know more about mushrooms than you do.”

“I don’t mean mushrooms. Are you sure you should be wandering around?”

Blithely, Lark licks the knife clean of jam. “The Thornwood isn’t that dangerous.”

I growl under my breath. “The whole kingdom of Chymeria is dangerous.”

Pyrah tears off some bread with her teeth, chews for a moment, then swallows. “Scaldric. Queen Dulcamara. All her knights and sorceresses and any mercenaries who want the bounties on our heads. Am I forgetting anyone?”

I snort. “Anyone else needs to get in line.”

“We’re safe here,” Lark says. “My magic will protect us. Not even dire wolves can sniff us out through the spell around my cottage.”

Pyrah glances at me, an unmistakable gleam of hope in her eyes. This enchantment could transform her cave into a sanctuary. Undoubtedly, her home hasn’t been this safe in years.

I reach under the table and give her hand a squeeze. I’m here. I will protect you.

“I never found those mushrooms,” Lark muses. “Moonlight chanterelles.”

“Are they rare?” Pyrah asks.

Lark’s eyes always glow when she talks about fungi. My sister has a strange obsession with them. “They grow under only the most ancient oaks, deep within the Thornwood, which makes them almost impossible to find. But you can’t make proper miranollen without them.”

“Miranollen?”

“Mushroom dumplings,” I say, since I remember them well. “Our mother brought the recipe with her from the Underworld. It was one of our favorite foods as children.”

Lark laughs. “Remember how we always fought over the last dumpling?”

I smile. “Mum threatened to never make miranollen again.”

“Will you cook them for me?” Pyrah gazes into my eyes with such innocent yearning, it’s impossible to resist. “I’ve never eaten any demonic food before.”

I frown. “We shouldn’t gallivant deeper into the Thornwood just for mushroom dumplings.”

“Please? I want to know more about you, Rook.”

My defenses start crumbling. “I’m happy to enlighten you.”

“And this would be the perfect opportunity for a lesson.”

“God, woman.” I let out a sigh before admitting defeat. “I surrender.”

Lark smirks at me. “That was fast. I thought you had more fortitude than that, brother.”

“I have found my undoing,” I deadpan, and I speak the truth.

“Stand here for a second, Pyrah,” Lark says.