Page 44

My boots pound against the cobblestones as I race down the narrow street, Aithinne and Sorcha close on my heels.

Up ahead, Lonnrach grapples with the fae, trying to wrestle her through another portal.

But she’s a fighter. Her boot slams into Lonnrach’s knee and she wrenches free, dark hair flying behind her as she sprints away.

Lonnrach curses and takes off after her.

Aithinne snags my sleeve, yanking me to a stumbling halt. “What are we doing? Who is that fae?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know. But her power signature doesn’t resemble any other fae I’ve sensed, and if Lonnrach wants her that badly—”

“Then we need to get to her first,” Sorcha finishes.

We take off again, chasing shadows through the labyrinthine tangle of Old Town. The air feels different here, pressing down like a physical weight. The entire city holding its breath.

Lonnrach and the fae have disappeared down one of the narrow closes, swallowed up by the gloom. I skid to a stop, chest heaving. “Aithinne, take the west side of the street. Sorcha, you’re with me. We’ll cut them off on the High Street.”

They nod, expressions grim, and melt into the shadows. I’m running again, the uneven cobbles treacherous beneath my feet. Faster, faster. Have to reach her before Lonnrach does. Before the Morrigan can twist this to her own ends.

Because I can feel her here, a thrum of unnatural cold along my skin. The slide of foreign magic. She’s woven herself through the stone, through the very bones of the city. Every corner I turn, every slick-damp passageway, it’s all her.

My heart hammers behind my ribs as I plunge down another alleyway. No gas lamps here, not even the flicker of a candle in a window. Just me and the rasp of my breaths, the burn in my legs as I force myself to keep moving. Keep chasing.

There—movement up ahead. The trailing ends of the fae’s dark hair, the pale flash of slender limbs. She’s quick, I’ll give her that. Darting phantom-like through the murk. But Lonnrach is relentless. Hunting her.

I know what it’s like to feel his fingers digging into my skin. The cold crawl of violation as he burrows through my thoughts, dredging up memories like rotted things hauled writhing and putrid from a grave.

I can’t let him touch her. Can’t let him near her.

I push myself harder, ribs aching with each heaving gasp. The alley narrows around me—tighter and tighter until I’m scraping against the walls, brick and bones grinding—

The fae throws a frantic look over her shoulder and presses her palm flat to the stone. A door appears in the faceless wall, yawning open on silent hinges. She dives through without hesitation, Lonnrach crashing after her.

I wrench my body to the side and squeeze through the shrinking gap, bursting into the street. But I’m too late. The door seals shut behind Lonnrach, melting into blank stone. A dead end.

A growl tears its way out of my throat as I whirl around, wild-eyed. Searching for another way. The street is empty, buildings rearing up like crooked teeth.

I close my eyes and reach for my magic, for the banked embers of the Cailleach’s power smouldering in my veins. Let it rise, hot and hungry. Then I thrust out my hand, releasing it in a concussive wave.

Stone splinters and brick turns to powder, the wall blasting inward in a burst of dust and debris. I’m moving before the rubble settles, lunging through the ragged opening. I hit the ground running, bits of mortar crunching beneath my boots.

There, at the end of the street—a flash of pale hair, the tails of a dark coat. Lonnrach. And beyond him, a shadow flitting through the murk. The fae.

I’m gaining on them, closing the distance with each desperate step. But it’s not enough. They’re still too far ahead, seconds away from vanishing into the labyrinth of Old Town. I’m going to lose them—

Sorcha explodes out of a side street. She crashes into Lonnrach, and they go down in a tangle of limbs.

By the time I reach them, Sorcha has Lonnrach pinned to the cobblestones, her knee digging into his spine.

“She’s gone,” I grind out, chest heaving. The fae has vanished down another alley.

Sorcha wrenches Lonnrach’s head back by the hair. “Who is she?”

His lips peel back from his fangs. “You don’t know? Oh, this is too precious—”

Sorcha slams her fist into his face. “Tell me. Or I’ll finish what I started in that field.”

Lonnrach lunges for her—but I’m faster. I seize his arm and wrench it behind his back until the joint snaps.

And god, it’s satisfying. The sweet rush of vindication, of power. After everything he’s done to me—every memory ripped from my skull, every secret part of me violated . . . He deserves this. Deserves to suffer, to beg and break.

He deserves to die.

My hand twitches toward my dagger, fingers curling around the hilt. All I have to do is draw the blade across his throat. Quick and clean. It would be so easy. So right.

Light footsteps scuff behind me, yanking me out of the red haze. I glance back to see Aithinne standing at the mouth of the alley, silhouetted in the moonlight. She takes in the scene with fathomless black eyes—Lonnrach on his knees, blood dripping from his mouth. Mortal and undone.

Something savage uncurls behind my ribs, dark and fanged and hungry.

I meet Aithinne’s stare. “How shall we deal with him, do you think? Any ideas?”

Her gaze cuts to Sorcha. A silent question. “If you have objections, Sorcha, voice them now.”

Sorcha laughs, a scrape of sound. “Falconer, when I showed you my memories, I didn’t show you everything.

” She leans in close to Lonnrach. “I went to my brother for help when our mother was fading in my master’s tender care.

Before I made that deal. I begged him to do something. And do you know what he said?”

Lonnrach’s lips press into a bloodless line. He jerks his head once.

Sorcha seizes him by the hair, wrenching his face up to meet her burning gaze. “Say it,” she hisses. “Remind me, brother. What were your exact words?”

His reply is barely a breath, scraped raw and bloody. “You’re not my problem.”

An ugly smile curves Sorcha’s mouth. “Ah, yes. How foolish of me to forget such honeyed words.” Her nails dig into his scalp. Lonnrach flinches. “Allow me to return the sentiment now, sweet brother— you’re not my problem.”

She releases him with a shove and steps back. A deliberate show of unconcern. Her eyes find mine and Aithinne’s, a single nod. Permission granted.

I seize Lonnrach by the shoulders and force him to his knees. Pinning him like an insect, helpless and twitching. He’s no match for me, not like this. Not with his magic drained away.

This is the moment I’ve craved since he tore into my mind and broke me open. Since he defiled Kiaran’s mark. Since he shattered me into so many pieces, I didn’t think I’d ever find them all again.

I want to carve my vengeance into his flesh until he’s choking on it.

But Lonnrach isn’t looking at me. His eyes are fixed on Aithinne. “My Queen,” he breathes. Reverent, entreating.

Aithinne stops before him, head tilting. “Really, Lonnrach? After everything you’ve done, every betrayal, you’d still claim fealty?”

“Yes.” It cracks out of him, as close to begging as I’ve ever heard. “God, yes.”

For a long, charged moment, Aithinne just stares at him. Inscrutable, fathomless. I barely dare to breathe.

Then her lips lift in a smile. Cold. “Consider this my last act as your Queen, then.” Her gaze swings to me. “Aileana, I believe you’ve waited long enough to see this.”

“Please.” Lonnrach’s voice breaks.

But there’s no mercy in her eyes. No hint of softness or sentiment. She lifts her free hand, fingers curling against his jaw. A lover’s caress, gentle.

Then she plunges her hand into his chest. He screams, back bowing. Chokes on a wet rattle as she seizes his heart, still frantic-fluttering in its cage.

And she pulls.

Ribs crack. Flesh tears. His scream spirals up and up—echoing off the narrow walls. He writhes in my hold, fighting with every scrap of strength left in his breaking body.

But there’s no escape. No last-minute reprieve or stay of execution. Just the drag of Aithinne’s hand tearing him apart. A last, rattling sigh. The heavy thud of his body hitting the cobblestones, glassy eyes fixed on nothing.

I stare down at the ruin of him, chest heaving. At the ragged hole where his heart used to be. It should feel like victory. Like vindication, a debt finally paid in blood.

But looking at him now—this sad, broken thing—I feel nothing.

No rush of savage joy, no dark thrill. Only a yawning void, cold and numb. Same as with Thalion. Same as with Arion.

I lose no sleep over their deaths. I’ll always lose sleep over what they did to me.

Aithinne drops Lonnrach’s heart to the street and wipes her hands on her coat. “I’d hoped for a more gruesome end for him, but we’re pressed for time.”

“Tearing out his still-beating heart is an excellent choice in a pinch,” I say.

Sorcha snorts. She looks at Lonnrach’s corpse with flat, empty eyes. Like she’s staring at a stranger.

“We should go,” she says. “Before the Morrigan rallies.”

Movement in my periphery.

I look up just in time to see the tattooed fae hurtling out of a building across the street. For a heartbeat, our eyes meet—and then she’s running again, tearing down the cobblestones.

“Wait!” The word rips out of me.

I’m sprinting after her before I can think, before I can second-guess the wild imperative burning beneath my skin. Something about this fae calls to me. The signature of her magic is strange, an aberration I can’t place.

“Falconer!” Aithinne’s shout fades behind me, swallowed up by the echoing slap of my boots on stone.

But I don’t slow down. Not when every instinct screams at me to run faster, to catch her.

Up ahead, her hair flashes in the moonlight.

I’m close enough to hear the desperate rasp of the fae’s breathing.

She whips around the corner of a building, and I follow.

The world narrowing down to the flex of muscle, the pound of my heart.

She plunges into the gaping mouth of an alley, darkness swallowing her whole.

I grit my teeth and follow her— And stumble through a portal.