Page 31

Summer

W hen I wake, I’m not snuggled against Wyn’s solid, warm body. There’s no sweet-smelling, mossy mattress beneath me, cushioning my butt.

Nope.

Instead, I’m lying across a crimson velvet couch, covered by a heavy blanket. I’m not sure if it’s wool or silk, but it’s softer than anything I’ve ever felt in my life.

Despite the crackle and heat emanating from a nearby fire, a full-body chill runs over me as I open my eyes and gingerly look around.

I’m in a bedroom. Quite a luxurious one, too.

The high ceiling is ribbed with what looks like rows of blackened bones arching into the gloom above. A bed framed by towering posts and hung with black velvet drapes sits against a deep burgundy wall, and silver threads in the dark-blue bedcovers sparkle in the firelight.

Is this Wyn’s bedroom? Am I in the City of Talamh Cúig?

“Wyn?” I call out, rubbing my pounding temples .

No answer. I’m alone.

I slowly sit up, my bare feet landing on dark, polished marble that feels so good against my hot skin.

A minute ago, I was shivering. Maybe I’m sick and running a fever.

I consider lying down cheek-first on the floor and absorbing its glorious coolness into my body, but then think better of it. This place doesn’t feel anything like the Bright Court Wyn told me about. If I was at the Emerald Keep, I’d remember arriving. And I probably wouldn’t feel like shit.

Dread curls tight in my gut. Something’s wrong. I know it. Automatically, I start counting in my head—a self-soothing habit I’ve had since I nearly drowned in the lake behind our house when I was nine.

25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32 .

A shadow flickers across the ceiling. I’ve seen magic like that before… the other night, when the Hunt showed up at Gravenshade Hall.

That’s when reality hits me like a sledgehammer. Landolin must’ve taken me to his home, the Shade Court, Wyn had called it. So, instead of resting, I’d do better to figure out exactly where I am and how the hell to get out of here.

Poor Wyn. He must be so worried, boiling with rage that I got taken again. I only wish I could remember how. I hope he’s safe and not doing anything stupid, like charging through Faery in wolf form, teeth bared, and tearing everything in sight apart.

Now that I’m upright and not seeing double, I take a stroll around the room. Maybe there’s a mild-mannered ghost or two hanging around, ready to be recruited into espionage .

The fireplace mantle is the only bright thing in the room, ornate and carved from gleaming silver stone that resembles hematite. Even the light visible outside the open, arched window is a wan gray—the kind that feels peaceful, but also a little gloomy.

Opposite the bed is a wall made of smoky-gray glass. It reflects a hazy view of the room, and I get the creepy feeling that someone on the other side is staring back at me. Just in case, I give them my middle finger and a defiant, raised eyebrow.

If I’m some kind of prisoner, I refuse to show fear. Standing up to bullies is rule one. My counseling course hasn’t covered fae psychopaths yet.

There’s a wardrobe that’s three times taller than me, a desk beneath the window, a bathing room behind a scrolled door, even a bookshelf that I hope contains stories like the ones Zylah (and me) love to read. But sadly, no friendly ghouls to speak of.

Are dark romance books a thing in Faery? I certainly hope so.

Thick, smoky shadows gather over the mirrored wall, concentrate in the shape of raven wings that beat the air, then Landolin steps out from the middle of them, dressed in black and indigo blue.

Forgetting my plan to stand my ground, I stumble backward until my spine hits the row of shelves beside the bed. “Shame. I was hoping you’d be a friendly ghost, not a kidnapping asshole.”

A leather-bound book tumbles to the floor, and Landolin swoops in and sweeps it up, turning the cover over on his palm.

“Careful, I like this one. A fine tale of the Wild Hunt’s exploits as written by mother dearest. Not my mother, of course, yours .

It’s not entirely accurate. But she knew things that a mortal shouldn’t. Or couldn’t. Why is that, I wonder?”

As he leans forward and tucks the book away, my gaze follows the upward arc of his hand and lands on what looks like a skull fixed above the bed. Its antlers stretch halfway across the wall and remind me of who Landolin is—the leader of the actual fucking Wild Hunt.

From what I remember in Mom’s books, the Hunt isn’t to be messed with. An ancient force of spectral riders, bound by blood and shadow, they’re neither alive nor dead, existing in an in-between, liminal form, their sole purpose to ride and hunt at their master’s command.

That same master who is currently grinning down at me with glee.

The stag’s skull serves as a warning. To take care, watch my mouth, and keep my eyes peeled for clues on how to get out of here. Then I have to somehow find Wyn so we can both return to Zylah and Gravenshade Hall.

Faery isn’t a safe place, and I’ll need to convince Wyn to come home with me. Maybe Zy can get him job at the vet clinic. He should be good with animals. Especially dogs. Since he kind of is one.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity hell-fuck. How am I going to get myself out of this mess?

“Well?” says Landolin, snapping me out of my anxious spiral. “Nothing to say to me? You must have questions.”

He’s not wrong. I have about a thousand of them. “Is this still the same night you took me from Wyn’s camp?”

“Not nighttime—it’s late morning. In this court, we live in the gloaming no matter the time of day. And you’ve only spent one night asleep on that sofa, looking dead to the realms, neither waking for food nor water. I was beginning to think you might never open your eyes.”

Landolin drags a length of hair off my sweaty cheek and slides it behind my ear, taking his sweet time and boring gold-flecked, black eyes into mine, as if he’s hoping he might make me swoon and divulge some intimate secret.

Well, buddy, that’s not happening. He’s not my type at all. I like sexy sweethearts with grass-green eyes and tough exteriors. Wolfish guys—wink, wink.

Zylah, on the other hand, would have no trouble throwing herself off a cliff for this evil Gothic-fever-dream prince, wrapped in muscle-hugging black leather.

Is Landolin hotter than a food truck’s secret sauce at five a.m. on the longest night of your life? Handsomer than the arrogant college jock your friends warned you about? Yes. And, hell yes.

But I like my men pettable, and sporting freckles and dimples, not sharp teeth and bitter smiles.

Landolin runs a palm over the vines and irises on my left arm, pouting unhappily. “These used to glow with magic when you were last in my realm.”

“What? Did you give me these tattoos?”

“Not me. The shadow mages. Poor pet,” he says, pinching my chin so hard my eyes water. “You look lost, confused. But you’ve always been a lonely, sad-eyed doe, haven’t you?”

Zylah’s face flashes in my mind. Bright smile, cat-eye glasses, and auburn hair twisted into space buns that she hides her scalpels in. Landolin is wrong. I’m not alone. Zy has always had my back.

“Did you shoot Wyn with an arrow in the woods while he was in wolf form?” I ask .

“Of course. I was just fucking with him. He’d do the same to me given the opportunity. And he would have healed fine without your intervention. No real harm was meant. Wynter knows this.”

My skin chills as he pats my cheek. “Cheer up. I know just the thing to lift your spirits. I’m sure you’d love to learn the details of a certain full-moon night in the Earth Realm eight years ago,” he continues, linking his arm through mine and ushering me in front of the mirrored wall.

My heart seizes in my chest, then pounds against my ribs in staccato bursts. I know exactly what he’s referring to—the night my parents died. The night I possibly lost my mind and killed them.

“What night?” I whisper, feigning ignorance. “What are you talking about?”

Moving behind me, one arm winds around my waist, his other hand holds my chin in place, forcing me to stare at our mirrored reflection.

“All these years, you’ve imagined yourself to be a murderess. A pretty moon flower believing she’s a weed to be torn from the ground before it destroys everything around her.”

Despite my best efforts not to cry, a single tear tracks down my face. I wipe it away and glare at Landolin’s smug image in the mirror.

“Hush now. The time for fretting is over. The truth must be revealed. Look into the glass. No matter what, do not close your eyes. Don’t even blink. You’ll want to remember every moment.”

The mirror’s surface ripples like a windswept silver lake, and a chill crawls down my spine. Landolin’s feral gaze fixes on my face as images emerge from the blur of smoke-tinged light, clear and sharp, like I’m watching the scene on a flat-screen TV.

A girl stands in Gravenshade’s kitchen. Me—at the bench beside the cooker, slicing and dicing tomatoes, busy making pizza.

Dread pools in my stomach, and I try to twist away from the sight. For years, I’ve longed to find out what happened to my parents, but now I’m terrified Landolin’s vision might confirm my worst nightmares—that I’m a violent lunatic. A murderous freak.

The prince’s grip tightens, gold shimmering in his cruel gaze like mica in polished obsidian stones. “Pay attention, Summer.”

In the mirror, a tall shadow steps into my kitchen. Landolin Ravenseeker.

“What the hell? You were there!”

A deep chuckle sounds in my ear. “When fresh flowers are plucked from the human realm, the leader of the Hunt is always present.”

“So this was all about stealing a human. Why? Why choose me? I don’t have any special talents or hidden powers. I’m attractive enough—if you like dark hair and too much eyeliner—but nothing compared to the kind of supernatural beauty I’m sure fae are used to.”

I choose to omit the fact I sometimes see and communicate with the dead. Where Landolin is concerned, it’s probably best to proceed on a need-to-know basis.

“My father’s instructions cannot be ignored,” he says.

“They follow the whims of his Shade Mages. Sometimes, their decrees seem odd, but there is always reason to be found in their madness. And as King Moiron’s heir and the Master of the Hunt, it’s my duty to see his wishes fulfilled, not to question them.

” He strokes from my earlobe to my collarbone.

“In your case, the work of your mother, Sorcha Astellia, on the Celtic myths drew attention at court. That’s probably how the mages initially found you and took an interest.”

Great. Thanks Mom for getting me kidnapped. Twice .

“That still doesn’t explain why you want me here at your court.”

He gives a lazy shrug. “All will be revealed in time.”

Whatever this is, I wish he’d just say it—rip the bandage off, plunge the knife in. The not-knowing is eating me alive. My heart’s pounding so loud I swear he can hear it, but I keep my face blank. I have to. I can’t fall apart. Not yet.

“Did I kill my parents?” I ask. “Did you somehow make me do it?”