Page 45

Summer

H is wounds now clean and bandaged, Wyn sits up in the shallow grave and summons a glamour—just dark leather pants and nothing else. He’s now officially in a Leather and Abs competition with the Shade Prince.

“So this is what passes for a grave in your court?” Wyn mutters. “Not even six feet deep. I’m quite offended.”

Landolin frowns. “That’s all you have to say? No crying or pathetic begging for your life?”

Wyn shrugs. “I’m saving the theatrics for my resurrection. Hurry up and tell her what happened. I won’t shift until you do.”

Shadows lick the edges of Landolin’s boots. “I promised to show you the truth,” he says to me. “Are you willing to see it?”

I nod, swallowing a snow-globe sized lump in my throat.

“Good,” he says. “Then come here.”

His hand brushes my forehead, and my breath ices over in my chest.

The vision starts differently this time .

No mirrors. No slow pan of the bloodied kitchen tiles. No sense of floating horror as though I’m a ghost watching it all unfold. This time, I’m right there. In the scene, just like I was eight years ago.

Feet on the stairs. One hand on the rail. My voice humming a nothing-song under my breath.

I remember parts of that night so clearly. And I also remember not remembering the rest. It’s such a weird sensation.

I step down into the kitchen and stop.

Chopped cheese and tomatoes sit on a board on the counter near the stove.

That’s right, I’d gone upstairs to grab my phone before I finished putting my pizza together .

My mother lies on the floor, her robe soaked red, legs twisted at a horrible angle. My father kneels beside her, a knife clenched in one trembling hand.

His shoulders heave. He mutters her name over and over, like a spell to undo whatever’s happened.

Then he hears me. Sees my fingers pressed over my gaping mouth.

“Summer,” he gasps. “No—no, baby, wait—”

I scream.

He jolts onto his feet, the knife still in his hand.

“Listen to me,” he pleads, his voice cracking. “It was an accident. She slipped. I didn’t mean…”

He steps toward me. I back up. Feet skidding on the wet tiles until my shoulder hits the door frame.

“Please,” he shouts, reaching for me. “You weren’t supposed to see. No one was. I had no choice. I need money. I…”

He grabs me, his hand clamping down on my arm. The knife comes up. My father’s eyes are wild.

And then…

Darkness explodes through the kitchen, and shadows swirl in like a hurricane. Figures made of night and fury tear my dad away from me. He hits the wall with a wet crunch. Then the blade slashes across his throat before clattering to the floor.

Screaming, I fall. Screaming, I crawl on my knees. Screaming, I watch through eyes as wide as dinner plates.

Landolin stands near the stove, surrounded by smoke and shadow creatures that don’t belong in a kitchen full of pizza mess and unpaid bills.

In the vision, he doesn’t speak. Just watches me as the scene starts to melt.

Blood dissolves like ink in water. My father merges with the black fog. My mother’s body fades away.

All of it… the horror, the wrongness. All sucked into the shadows, and then gone.

Then I’m back on the cliffs, my knees in the dirt, and the sunrise has barely shifted a shade.

Landolin watches me cautiously, his arms folded.

“You saved me?” I whisper.

“I did.”

“Why?”

“I’d been watching the house for a while. Watching you , and hoping you were the girl I’d been searching for.” His voice softens. “I couldn’t let your father take you away from us. From the Hunt. ”

“But… Detective Perez said there were no traces of the murderer left behind. My dad’s prints on the knife, or on the walls… there were none.”

Landolin grins. “All wiped away with a quick pass of my shadows.”

“When you showed me the fake version of events, you said the Hunt killed them. I thought full-blooded fae couldn’t lie.”

“I said it was the Wild Hunt collecting the dues of the Raven Realm—which was you. I never said a word about who killed your parents. Visions shaped by magic can show whatever their wielder wants. Even lies.”

Damn reality-twisting fae. Can’t trust a single one of them—except for Wyn. But he’s a halfling, so technically he doesn’t count.

My dad. My dad did it. Now that’s a total mind fuck. He was an asshole, sure. Didn’t even know how to hug me properly—too wrapped up in himself, his booze, his get-rich-quick-then-go-broke schemes. But I never thought he’d try to kill me.

Or Mom.

It wasn’t some crazed stranger. Not the fae, Landolin’s shadows, or any kind of magic. The monster was already in the house, and he was my own flesh and blood.

My skin crawls as the Hunt’s horn blows in the distance, long and loud. My heart hammers in my chest. Nausea rises, and I bend and empty my stomach off to the side.

Fuck . I remember everything now.

The Shade Court. The spinning. The endless dancing. Twirling until my legs buckled and I collapsed because no one would help me stop. Then the laughter, like hyenas hovering over a fresh kill, all cruel stares and taunting grins.

I remember the sphere-lit halls of the Shade Court castle. The seven pastel moons. My skirts soaking in spilled wine. My wrists raw where the faeries’ nails scraped my skin.

And then another Court. The bronze and metal hall. More endless dancing and a girl with red hair and silver eyes. Merri. Wyn’s sister, who rescued me from the Merits, took me back to her birth home of green and gold—the beautiful Seelie palace.

And Wyn. I remember him from before, at his home in Talamh Cúig. Younger, less guarded, and always hovering in the background. Never teasing me, like the other fae, just... watching. Eyes fixed on me like he was reading his favorite book.

The whole time I was there, waiting for the thrall spell to weaken enough for their High Mage to finally remove it, never once did he touch me cruelly or laugh when I fell.

And one time, I remember someone stepping between me and the guards and guiding me back to a comfortable, luxurious room, tucking me in safe.

It was him. My Wyn.

Flashing green eyes and a freckled scowl. A prince with dirt under his nails and fists clenched at his sides, always present, helping me rise.

“You were there,” I whisper, staring down at him. “Talamh Cúig. The Elemental Kingdom. You were the Winter Prince. The one I knew I had to wait for.”

The tortured expression on his face, the sweet silver patch of hair falling over his left eye—they break my heart. His throat bobs, but he says nothing.

“At the time, I thought I’d imagined you,” I say. “Made you up to help me survive.”

But I hadn’t. He’d been real.

Finally, he gives me a dimpled smile. “Actually, my official title is Prince of Earth, not the Winter Prince.”

Landolin looks down at Wyn. “You promised to shift.”

Holding my gaze, Wyn whispers, “I love you. Never forget it.”

Then, slowly, painfully, his limbs begin to contort. Fur ripples across his skin. Bones crack. I flinch as his body warps and twists, unable to look away. And then he’s gone, and in his place stands a great dark-furred wolf, tail low, head bowed.

My beautiful Hank.

He leaps out, legs shaky, and limps into my lap.

I wrap my arms around his warm body, burying my face in his ruff, sobbing and breathing in the scent of earth, pine, home.

He licks my cheek once. That’s all. Then he pulls away and pads back into the grave, curling up tight as if he’s ready for a nap. Resigned to his fate.

Landolin picks up the shovel.

My breath saws in and out, short and ragged. “Landolin? There has to be another way.”

“There isn’t,” he says, and begins burying my beloved wolf one shovelful at a time.

Wyn holds steady, doesn’t grimace or blink, his eyes fixed on mine. In case he can hear me, I send him the same thought over and over.

I love you. I love you. I love you .

I bite my lip so hard I taste blood, but I don’t cry. Not yet. Not while he’s still watching me, which he does—right up until the dirt covers his eyes and swallows him whole .

The wind gusts over me, tearing my cloak from my shoulders, and Ivor lets out a long, mournful howl.

Landolin brushes his hands off and looks at me. “You should rest before you begin your vigil.”

I don’t answer.

He studies me a moment longer, then says, “You’ll be at his side the whole seven days, I assume. Good. If he wakes early, know this, I’ll be there. So don’t run. Wait for me to arrive.”

“Why the hell would I do that?” I snap, then turn on my heel before I say something I’ll really regret.

Alone, I walk down the hill toward the castle, the wind dragging at my gown, the bruise on my cheek throbbing with every step.

I want to drop to the ground and bawl my eyes out, but I don’t stumble. I don’t fall.

I won’t let myself. Not until the earth gives Wyn back to me.