Page 38

Summer

“ A re you going to tell me where we’re headed?” I ask.

“Depends. Would you like to know?”

I sigh. “Of course I would.”

“To the throne room,” Irren replies, not slowing his pace. “Where Landolin is waiting.”

“Wonderful,” I mutter. “Maybe today he’ll actually form a sentence that makes sense to me.”

Still no reaction.

I glance at the curved blade hanging from his belt—nothing like any weapon I’d recognize from the human world. Its black edge is jagged, as if chipped from obsidian, and the hilt is wrapped in something that looks suspiciously like hair. Hopefully not human.

“That’s a strange knife you’re wearing,” I say.

A muscle ticks in his jaw. “It’s a hornblade.”

“Nice. And does every member of the Hunt wear one, or just the charming ones?”

“Only the second in command.”

“I see. What does it do best… call the riders forth or slice up your enemies?”

His mouth twitches, but it’s more of a grimace than a smile. “Both equally,” he says.

“How practical.”

I swear I hear the mildest snort as he pats his weapon-slash-musical instrument with pride.

We climb a narrow set of stairs carved from stone that’s so polished it looks wet. The air cools the higher we go, thickening with that smoky tang I’m learning to associate with the Shade Court’s magic.

As we round a corner, I catch glimpses of rooms behind open archways.

One is filled with books stacked in spirals, another with mirrors suspended in midair, all reflecting different scenes instead of the room itself—fields of bright flowers, ponds draped with willow branches, and bright-green, sunlit mountains that couldn’t possibly exist in this gloomy realm.

Finally, we reach the entrance to the throne room.

Two monolithic slabs of obsidian doors rise before us, their shiny surfaces rippling with magic. Small, wraith-like faces shift across the stone—ghostly illusions trapped in mid-scream, mouths frozen wide as they drift in and out of view.

Guards stand motionless on either side of the doors, draped in hooded ash-gray cloaks that obscure their faces. They clutch long spears decorated with glossy, black feathers.

Irren doesn’t slow, just nods at them once, and the doors open, not with a creak or a groan, but with the sound of hundreds of ghostly whispers pouring from the trapped faces billowing across the stone. And I thought Gravenshade Hall was creepy.

I steel myself and step inside .

The ceiling stretches so high it disappears into a gloomy mist above. Black stone columns rise like trees in a fire-scarred forest, marbled with veins of silver. The throne itself sits on a raised obsidian dais, flanked by wide, golden steps.

Behind it, a wall of glass reveals the realm’s seven pastel moons, their light diffused through mist, painting the floor in strange, unnatural hues.

Irren stops just inside the massive open doors and jerks his chin toward the dais. “He’s waiting.”

I brush past him, heart hammering much harder than I’d like to admit. “Thanks for the warm escort. You really know how to set a girl at ease.” Not .

Shaking his head, he grunts and stalks off—probably making haste to the castle’s darkest corner, or wherever members of the Hunt go to brood about life.

Landolin sits on a throne carved from polished dark stone, its high, flaring sides rising around the base like jagged wings.

The seat is wide but shallow, the back straight and unforgiving.

No cushions. No ornamentation beyond the natural striations in the rock.

It was made to be imposing, not comfortable.

The Shade Prince rises from the throne without a word and moves down the golden steps with unsettling grace.

He’s dressed in black from shoulder to heel, but he wears no princely crown.

His clothes are functional, layered leathers and dark cloth stitched with metallic thread that catches the light.

A long coat drapes from his shoulders, the hem embroidered with silver patterns that look like shadows curling upward to embrace him.

Trying not to fidget, I stand in the middle of the hall and watch him approach. His dark hair is tied back today, loose and low. The closer he gets, I notice his ebony, gold-flecked eyes are calm and steady, not cruel and mocking like I thought they’d be.

He stops a few feet away from me, offering no smile. No greeting. Just waiting for me to speak first.

Fine. I’ll take the bait.

“If this is the part where you kill me, Landolin, could we at least skip the smug monologue you’re clearly rehearsing and get it over with?”

“I don’t want to kill you, Summer.”

That’s a relief, especially since he can’t lie. But I don’t let myself relax too much. Wanting and needing to commit murder are two very different things.

“Then why did you have your henchman drag me here? For a chai latte and a chat?”

“Haven’t you been begging to know why you’re in my court?”

“You know I have.”

“There’ll be a midnight trial tonight,” he says. “We need to ascertain if you can help the Hunt.”

“Me? Partake in a trial? I thought you said it would be a test, like an exam or an interview. I can tell you right now you’ve got the wrong girl and save you the time and effort,” I say.

“I’m a big fan of girl power and battles in books and movies, but in person, I’m more into the curl-up-and-die strategy.

So there’s no point giving me a sword and throwing me in an arena. ”

“I disagree. The Hunt must know what power, if any, lies dormant inside you. It’s time to call your gift to the surface.”

“My gift?” I keep my voice low and flat. “Unless sarcasm counts, I’m tragically lacking in talent. ”

“That remains to be seen,” Landolin says. “And it won’t be a traditional battle with weapons and the like. You must know what gift I’m referring to.”

Nope, I don’t. Unless he’s talking about my ability to see ghosts. But that’s a curse, not a gift.

I think of Zylah, our inside jokes and late-night confessions, my cats, and of Wyn, promising to never let anyone come between us. Promising that we were forever.

I may never see any of them again.

Landolin stands still as stone, waiting for me to speak again—a classic cold-blooded manipulator move.

Once more, I play along.

“Is this trial something you personally need to happen?” I ask. “Or is it for the king?”

Wyn told me lots about Moiron Ravenseeker. Apparently, he’s cruel and calculating. The type of fae who enjoys watching people break apart for kicks and giggles. In other words, a complete asshole.

I don’t understand what the Shade Prince is up to yet. But I have a fair idea who’s pulling his strings.

Landolin’s gaze sharpens. “The trial’s for both of us. I need the answer to be revealed as much as my father does. Probably more.”

I shift my weight. “And if this supposed gift of mine doesn’t show itself? What happens to me?”

He steps forward, slow and deliberate. “It will show itself, Summer. There’s no other option.”

His tone resonates with certainty, like he really believes I’m the one. That I’m somehow useful to the Hunt. But he’s wrong .

When I eventually finish my counseling course, I’ll have a purpose—helping others who’ve lived through trauma. Like I have. But for now, I’m just a girl whose own mother couldn’t summon the energy to love her properly. Pathetic, really.

I tighten my arms around my ribs and bounce on my toes, teeth chattering. “What makes you so sure of that? I’m not being funny. I really want to understand.”

Black eyes flick over me. “I know that you speak to the dead. Irren found your... What do humans call it? Profile? Post? Whatever it was, we watched you poke around crumbling houses, rambling on and on about the spirits you conversed with.”

“I didn’t think fae could use the Internet,” I whisper, shocked he knows about my spectral entourage.

“We learned a lot about human technology from the Merits. Even Wi-Fi signals cannot defeat us.” He tilts his head like an owl at midnight, locking on its prey. “Foolish of you to think they could.”

He turns me by my shoulders and points at a small door tucked in a wall beside the dais steps. “Go outside and look around the city. Distract and calm yourself before tonight. I can almost promise you won’t be hurt and that nothing bad will happen to you during the trial.”

A defeated sigh slips through my lips. An almost promise from a fae is hardly very reassuring.

“Aren’t you worried I’ll escape?”

He laughs. “Not at all. Wards surround the city that activate when anyone tries to leave that the king would prefer stay. They sense betrayal, fear, and the intent to flee. The city walls are always watching and listening. ”

I blink. “The walls can sense what I’m thinking?”

“ And feeling. It’s old magic,” he says. “Older than me. Maybe older than this court. It was built into the bones of the kingdom—a sentient energy focused on fear and guilt. If you try to leave with fear in your heart… it simply turns you around.”

“So I’m stuck here forever,” I say flatly.

“You’re contained for the time being,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”

“Not sure I agree, Landolin.”

He doesn’t argue, just struts around me in a close circle, hands clasped behind his back, the click of his boots a measured rhythmic echo. “Someone will collect you from your room this evening, and you’ll dine with the king before the trial.”

Oh, goody. Lucky me. I hope they don’t expect me to actually speak to anyone. Social engagements aren’t my forte.

The narrow door creaks as he opens it, then thrusts me out into the chaos of the city.

“Have fun,” he says with an arrogant wink. “Avoid anything with no eyes and too many teeth. They tend to love snacking on stray humans. Don’t want you to miss tonight.”

Maybe it’d be better if I did get eaten. At least then I wouldn’t have to see Landolin’s smug face again—or take part in his farce of a trial.