Page 34 of Summer’s Fae (Gravenshade Vows #1)

Summer

T he next morning when Landolin finally lets me out of my room, I get my first look at the City of Shades—Dorthadas, as he calls it. And it’s nothing like the Emerald Court Wyn described while we hiked up Mount Cúig, with its glowing black-and-green stone and bursts of bright, playful magic.

This place is stripped bare. Grim, gray, and gloomy. Still beautiful, sure, but the kind of beauty you find in ruins or on dark, stormy days spent alone with a sad book in front of a roaring fire.

Honestly, I kind of like it, which isn’t surprising for a girl who lives with ghosts and calls a haunted house her home.

Many of the castle’s inner walls are made of trees grown so close together they’ve fused into dark, living barriers—surviving on magic instead of fresh air or light. My footsteps echo through the corridor as I trail my hand along one, and it shudders beneath my touch .

“ Whoa .” I jerk back. “Do you always do that or am I just special?” I say to no one, because I’m lonely and bored and apparently talk to walls now.

“That depends,” rumbles a voice near my ear.

I spin, and there he is, looming directly over my right shoulder. Landolin. Dressed in black velvet and leather, hands calmly clasped behind his back, eyes giving nothing away.

“I thought you were walking quite a distance behind me.”

“I was, but I enjoy creeping up on humans,” he says without a trace of a smile.

Makes sense. Leader of the Wild Hunt and all that.

“The castle walls are old,” he continues. “And like most living entities, they enjoy being touched.”

“Ew. I feel like I’ve been violated.”

“Technically, you were violating them .”

A chill creeps down my neck. I hate it when the villain has a point.

I’ve never seen a tree, let alone a wall, react that way.

Not even in Lake Grenlynn, and the Bywater’s a notoriously spooky place.

I still can’t believe I’m in Faery, surrounded by myth and magic—and that’s saying something, coming from a girl whose second-best friend is the sad ghost of a Victorian-era kitchen maid.

Which reminds me… I still haven’t seen any ghosts in my room or the castle’s corridors, and that seems off.

The Shade castle must be thousands of years old.

You’d think at least one tortured soul would be loitering around, howling pitifully.

Maybe they’re all on strike. Or maybe they took one look at me and bailed.

“Do you have ghosts here? Spirits of the dead?” I ask .

Landolin stops short, his black eyes locking on mine with unsettling focus. A flicker of something like interest crosses his expression, but he doesn’t answer. Then without a word, he pivots and strides off down the hallway, coat tails flapping.

I hesitate, but my room is the last place I want to be right now, so I jog to fall in beside him. We climb a never-ending spiral staircase, passing servants with cold eyes and faces that almost look human, more so than Phaedra, at least.

Finally, we come to a landing, and the Shade Prince uses both hands to tug a pair of wall sconces—both flickering greenish-blue instead of warm gold. A wooden door shimmers into view, then slides open to reveal a broad terrace overlooking the town.

I step from the tower into the open air and march to the stone railing as the full impact of the view hits me. The city unfurls below, bathed in a grim daylight no brighter than a cloudy dawn.

Buildings carved from dark stone rise along winding streets that sprawl toward shadow-soaked hills and a forest so dense and still it looks painted onto the horizon.

The light is weak, the air smoky, and the city extends so far I can’t tell where the land ends and the dull sky begins.

Much like the castle, it’s lovely, if you like your beauty eerie and unsettling.

The city hums with activity. Not the familiar sound of cars and trains, but faint, hollow chimes and the rattle of cartwheels rumbling over hard stone. The occasional noise that could be an owl, or something more sinister, hoots in the distance.

From the direction of the woods, hoofbeats echo, slow and rhythmic, like multiple hearts beating together. It’s not loud, exactly, but it’s constant, a low background drone that makes my skin crawl and my brain whisper, no thank you . Stay away .

“By ghosts, I assume you mean wraiths. Lost spirits,” Landolin says beside me, jolting me from my morbid thoughts.

Well that came out of nowhere. Did he really wait fifteen minutes to dignify my question with an answer?

“Yeah. Dead people’s energy,” I say. “What’s left of souls too traumatized or stubborn to let go of their lives after death. Do you have them here?”

“A few. We’d like more. We’re interested in… how shall I put it? Reanimation, if you like.”

“Of the dead?”

Brushing a lock of hair from his eyes, he nods. “Have you dabbled?” He watches me closely and crosses his arms.

I think of Zylah and her menagerie of stuffed roadkill in our basement. My polite but persistent distaste for them. “In necromancy? No. Never.”

Something like disappointment flashes over his features. “Shame,” he says, his shadows curling around his wrist resting on the balustrade. His mouth hardens. “You may find you soon develop an interest.”

Another shiver raises the hairs on the back of my neck, and a disturbingly low horn blows from across the valley.

“Is that the Wild Hunt out there?” I ask, pointing at the hills. “I thought they only rode at night.”

“Essentially, it’s always night here. And it will remain that way until…” He clamps his jaw and turns his face to the side, obviously kicking himself for nearly revealing some deep, dark Shade Court secret.

“I’d like to see more of the castle, if you’ll allow it. I don’t remember anything from my time here, but maybe if I wander around, something will click. ”

“A useless quarry. You won’t remember it.

The thrall spell was cast deep, but it would’ve waned a little during your time with the Merit’s and then Wynter’s court.

You may have some memories of Talamh Cúig.

Not that you’ll have the opportunity to visit that dreary place again.

It’s beautiful, I suppose. All that glowing stone and clean air.

No wonder Wyn’s so soft.” Then he winces, his hands tightening into fists.

I wonder what he was picturing to get that lie out? Wyn’s lips? His earlobes? They’re about the only squishy things on his body.

My stomach sinks. If that’s not confirmation that Landolin’s planning to keep me here forever, I don’t know what is. In other words, I live here now. Lucky me.

“Landolin, why am I here? I’m just an average human. What’s the point?”

“I told you—we need you. Didn’t you ever read your mother’s stories? For centuries, humans have played vital roles in the fae realms. My father never should have sold you to the Merits. I’ll explain everything in time. But know this, for now, you’re safe.”

“Oh, great. That’s comforting. Why did your father let me go if I’m so necessary?”

“You were on loan. Wynter’s sister should never have interfered and returned you to the Earth Realm. But it doesn’t matter now. Wherever you moved, the Hunt would’ve found you eventually once the Merit Queen’s concealment spell was broken. This time, as a bonus, you’ve come of age.”

“I’m twenty-five. You’re a few years late.”

He chuckles. “Better late than never. Come, I’ll show you more of the castle.”

Landolin leads me through a parade of unsettling wonders.

A hall of statues that move their poses when I touch them, a courtyard of rambling black-petaled vines, glistening with a silver sheen under the sunless sky, a library where the books float about the room at random, whizzing past my face as if taunting me to pluck one from the air.

The halls are dim and close, lit by floating silver orbs that flicker as if they can barely be bothered and might sputter out at any moment.

The polished stone floor slopes at odd angles and bone-white arches rise overhead like rows of glistening ribs, the air carrying smoke and the sweet tang of incense.

We pass rooms where rich drapes hang heavy over tall windows, and in one, hooded servants set a long dining table with polished black cutlery, moving with an eerie, deliberate grace.

In another, a pair of wild-haired fae play a game with glowing pieces that hover slightly above the surface of the board.

When we reach a grand door decorated with bones and tiny skulls, Landolin won’t let me peek behind it, muttering the words, “Shadow casters. Can’t be disturbed.”

The castle is grand in a dark, grotesque way. Many hallways seem to lead nowhere. Windows look out onto layers of fog, and flickering bursts of light reveal seven pale, pastel moons strung across the sky in a rainbow arc.

More than once I see movement behind half-closed doors, creatures that peer out before scurrying away, as if they’re afraid their prince will scold them.

The courtiers we pass stare with hostile curiosity. Some smile aggressively. Some only scowl. One offers me a handful of glossy white berries, and Landolin shouts something in a guttural language, then squashes them under his boot. Poisonous, no doubt .

One woman has a face like cracked porcelain, her lips inked black and tiny sparks swirling in her eyes, like stars.

A tall figure draped in a strange combination of layers of moss and fishing netting stands in a doorway, unmoving, antlers scraping against the arch above his head.

I wonder if he’s wearing a type of headdress or if the antlers are part of the faery’s body.

Other fae vanish the moment I glance their way, slipping into shadows, seemingly dissolving between cracks in the floor like some of the unfriendly ghosts I see haunting Lake Grenlynn.