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L angdon woke at dusk as the black-out shades slid up to let in the last feeble rays of the setting sun.

He pushed the silk duvet down to his waist and folded his arms behind his head.

Above the four-poster bed, a handful of fae lights glowed on in iridescent shades of lavender and blue.

The colors within spiraled around each other in a slow, hypnotic dance.

At his side, Fleur stirred. Her attentiveness to his moods was one of her most attractive qualities.

She propped herself on a forearm and trailed a glitter-tipped nail down his naked chest. The duvet sloped across her hips, leaving her upper body bare except for the black star medallion that marked her as a priestess of the night.

“Good evening, my lord.” Her carmine lips curved, the dark eyes above watchful. One of her small, moon-pale breasts sported a nasty crescent where he’d bitten her earlier before taking her, hard and rough.

He’d been in a vile mood for months, dating to when his son Tyrus had disappeared, his body never found. But then, Fleur liked it rough. When he’d closed his teeth on her soft, delicate flesh, she’d merely sucked in a breath and, when he’d commanded her to beg, crawled in a most satisfactory way.

“Do you require anything?” Her hand slipped under the duvet to his half-hard cock.

A lock of shiny black hair had fallen over her shoulder. Looping it around his fingers, he tugged her closer. “You pleased me this morning, love.” He sank his teeth into her lower lip hard enough to draw blood.

She made a small sound, and then her eyes drifted shut. He felt her excitement, knew she wanted him. In her own way, Fleur loved him.

But right now, he wanted her distress. Because he was a night fae.

He released her and left the bed, strolling to the bathroom without a backward glance. He knew by the time he returned, she’d have ordered his breakfast and then left for her own lair. After all, he’d trained her himself.

After showering, he donned a black silk bathrobe embroidered with silver moons and stars.

His coffee, croissants and a bowl of hothouse peaches awaited him in the breakfast room, a small octagonal space off the living room.

Taking a seat at the linen-covered table, he unfolded his napkin and set it on his lap.

A flick of a finger and the silver coffeepot floated off the table to pour coffee into an eggshell-thin cup, followed by a dollop of cream from a pitcher. His croissants were still warm. He broke off a buttery piece and put it in his mouth.

The Baltimore alpha was cannier than Langdon had expected. Adric had managed to dance around the fact that an earth fada had killed Tyrus. But they both knew the truth.

Langdon sipped his coffee. Frankly, his middle son had needed killing.

He’d poisoned his older brother, and then sent assassins after Langdon’s half-human son, Silver.

Tyrus’s men would’ve also slain Merry Jones, the daughter Silver had had with an earth fada, if Rui do Mar hadn’t saved the child and taken her back to Rock Run.

Langdon had been furious with Tyrus. That he’d dare kill children of Langdon’s own body. If it had been anyone but his son—and only remaining heir—Langdon would’ve executed him on the spot. Instead, he’d banished Tyrus from New Moon, and set a protective spell on Merry’s quartz.

But his son hadn’t stopped there. He’d joined forces with an exiled Baltimore earth fada and tried to stir up trouble between Baltimore and the Rock Run Clan.

Which was why Tyrus was dead.

It had taken time for Langdon to unearth the truth. Adric had covered his tracks very, very well. But all trails led to Baltimore.

So Langdon had started to harry Adric, politely, relentlessly. The alpha hadn’t broken, but a few months after Tyrus’s disappearance, Langdon had finally Seen his son’s death.

But not at Adric’s hand, as he’d believed. No, it was Marjani Savonett who’d killed Tyrus.

Langdon knew damn well that his son had deserved it. Tyrus had come into Adric’s territory, looking to stir up trouble. Sent assassins after Adric’s people. Invaded Jace’s den and kidnapped him and his mate.

Still, Langdon couldn’t allow a fada to get away with murdering one of his sons.

Marjani Savonett had to die.

But Tyrus’s death had left Langdon with a problem. He had no heir of his direct bloodline, and to the fae, blood was everything.

Blood, and tradition.

Picking up the slim silver knife, he cut a peach into six perfect slices and ate them before calling his butler to clear the table.

He stood before a window, hands clasped behind his back.

Outside, his clan was emerging for the evening from their lairs.

They glided among the winter-bare trees like elongated shadows, their tall bodies clad in black, their eyes dark holes in pale faces.

The priests and priestesses wore shimmering silver—a dress, a shirt.

A few of the more fashion-forward had added a splash of crimson—a scarf, high heels, a pair of gloves.

The New Moon Court was in a lush old-growth forest in Tidewater Virginia, spread across a peninsula that jutted into the mouth of the Potomac River.

Each family or couple had their own home, built of granite or veined marble and set partly underground.

The few feet that showed above ground were narrow structures with fanciful carvings at the apex—moons and stars, vining flowers, snarling wolves, bats with wings spread wide.

English ivy ran rampant, crawling across the ground, over the roofs and up the towering trees.

To a human, it looked uncomfortably like a cemetery with above-ground tombs. To Langdon, it was home.

Tradition, he mused. His people had lived like this for thousands of years.

“Change is coming. The old traditions will be no more.”

At the last full moon ritual, the Goddess had spoken through Fleur. The priestess had stared straight at Langdon as she channeled the prophecy, making it clear to whom the message was directed.

Langdon had inclined his head.

Later, when Quade, the captain of his guards, had asked what the prophecy meant, he’d replied, truthfully enough, “We must see what the Goddess has in store.”

He glanced up at the immense oaks and tulip poplars that guarded the compound, their muscular branches stark against the dusky sky.

The New Moon fae had established their court in this backwater country centuries ago, carving out a mile-square territory in the forest. It was dark, isolated, and yet easily accessible to the Chesapeake Bay and from there, the Atlantic Ocean.

The indigenous peoples had been wise enough to give them a wide berth, and vice versa.

Langdon could still recall the arrival of the first European humans.

His grandfather had been prince then, with Langdon’s father the designated heir.

The old prince had enforced their traditions with an iron hand.

He’d arranged Langdon’s mating with a high-born French fae, a beautiful, submissive woman. Langdon had been happy enough with her.

But she’d presented him with two sons and then died of a sudden, mysterious illness. Langdon had suspected poison, but he had no proof. The fae had ways of making poisons that left no trace.

Langdon had still been a young man—a hundred-and-ten turns of the sun. Youthful enough to chafe at the restrictions put on him by his powerful family. He’d buried his French mate and then fought with his grandfather over some ridiculous thing.

Looking back, he’d been grieving, but he’d only known he was furious with both his grandfather and his father, who’d taken the old prince’s side.

So he’d left his sons with his parents and spent the next few decades traveling up and down the Americas disguised as a human folk healer.

If he could heal the patient, he did—and if not, he fed on the family’s misery.

It was in New Orleans that he’d encountered a dark-haired, golden-skinned human. Marie-Josana, a Creole singer who performed in the city’s opera houses and theaters. He’d fallen hard. Within days, he’d bought a house in the Garden District and settled down with his beautiful Josana.

He hadn’t mate-claimed her. The heir to the night fae throne couldn’t have a human mate. But he’d loved Josana with all the passion in his dark heart.

With her, he’d been the needy one.

An uncomfortable sensation, one he’d taken care never to repeat.

In the end, he and Josana must have mated on some basic, primal level, because he’d gotten her with child. Langdon had named the boy Quicksilver, since he had the Gift of wayfaring. Silver, for short.

Then Langdon’s father had died suddenly, and he’d been ordered home by the old prince to take his place as the heir. His grandfather knew about Josana and Silver, of course. Very little escaped the old man.

But he’d made it clear that no one else could know about Langdon’s half-blood son.

To this day, very few people knew about Langdon’s third son, and even fewer knew Silver had had a daughter with an earth fada. Langdon had kept Merry hidden. To the pureblood fae, she was a mongrel, an embarrassment. His grandfather had sneered at Langdon for letting his seed be diluted.

But Langdon had loved his youngest son, even if he was a half-blood. Silver had been educated at the best schools, and Langdon had set up a trust that made his son a rich man in the human world.

He scowled into the rapidly falling night.

Ironic, that of his three sons, the half-blood Silver had been the best. The oldest, Dorian, had been weak, and Tyrus a ruthless, power-hungry S.O.B.

Langdon had cursed the tradition that didn’t allow him to claim a half-blood as his heir. And then it was too late. Silver was dead.

But Silver’s mixed-blood daughter lived.

The table had been cleared. His butler Olivier waited until his assistant left with the dishes, and then appeared at his elbow in his usual perfectly pressed black pants, pristine white shirt and natty bow tie.

“Will you require anything else, my lord?”

“No.” Langdon dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

Crossing to an antique mahogany hutch, he removed a scrying mirror wrapped in soft cotton. He unwrapped the mirror and sat down again, the mirror cupped in his hands. The mirror was carved of pure obsidian, the edges beveled, a flowing white frame around the stone’s glossy black.

He gazed into the dark center. The shiny surface threw back his own reflection, his mouth a line of concentration.

He slowed his breath. The reflection blurred, transformed to dark-edged clouds that raced across the obsidian’s surface like a fast-approaching storm.

Change is coming. The old traditions will be no more.

Both Cleia and Dion had let Langdon believe his granddaughter was dead.

And Adric had told Langdon a flat-out lie, which must have made him deathly ill.

Langdon now knew differently. Merry was alive and still at Rock Run, as she’d been for the last seven turns of the sun. And soon, he’d bring her to Dark Moon to raise as his heir.

Centuries of tradition were about to be shattered. His grandfather would roll over in his grave.

Langdon’s mouth edged up.

He tightened his fingers around the mirror, drew deeply on his Gift.

“Show me Merry Jones.” He spoke her full name aloud to increase the power, his voice echoing in the small room.

On the mirror’s shiny black surface, clouds swirled and piled upon each other into a towering thunderhead—and then parted to reveal his granddaughter.