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She might not be able do it by herself, and she might not have anyone coming to save her—but if Graves had been in her mind, if their magic connecting during the solstice had changed his powers enough to send images into her mind, then maybe there was a link.

In the end, she had to decide whether love was enough. Whether love meant trust. She’d met Graves where he was in the dark and let him see her own darkness in turn. They were one and the same. A mirror.

And now she needed to use that mirror to reach him. He’d touched her mind enough over the last couple months to have left an imprint. Even if he hadn’t done what Lorcan had said, she thought it was worth trying.

Her absorption was off. Her mind wide open. Anyone could have touched it and she had no defenses. It was now or never.

Graves , she cried in her mind. Graves, please, I’m in Brooklyn. Lorcan is going to force the binding, and I can’t do this alone. I can’t save myself this time. I…I need you. Graves, please.

She waited in the silence for a moment, but no answer came.

She tried again.

And again.

And again.

Crying out into her mind for just the bare hope that Graves would come and save her from this monster. But nothing changed. Nothing happened.

Their mental bond wasn’t real. It was just her last-ditch hope.

And she’d failed.

“Keep doing the spell,” Lorcan snapped at Niamh.

“Maybe we should wait,” Niamh said in the din of the whirlwind. “This is supposed to be voluntary.”

“Niamh, please,” Kierse said, feeling like a broken porcelain doll. The jagged edges of her fragile exterior detonating.

“Lorcan…”

“Would you rather see her dead, too?” Lorcan asked.

“Of course not,” Niamh said.

“More people were dragged to the ceremony than volunteered. I was lucky. I had Saoirse. But we all agreed that being bound, increasing the magic, saving the Druids and wisps, was more important than what one person wanted. In the end, yes, the ends justified the means. We were stronger. We are stronger. At the end of this, Kierse will understand.”

Understand.

He was destroying her from the inside out, and he thought she’d just understand .

“I’ll never understand,” she told him. “You can’t bring back your dead wife. All of this isn’t going to make it better. I am not going to be her. And if she was here, she’d be ashamed of you.”

Lorcan reeled back as if from a blow.

“She’s right,” Niamh said. “Saoirse wouldn’t want this.”

“Saoirse is dead!” Lorcan roared. “She’s dead. She doesn’t get to make choices. Just like Emilie doesn’t get to make choices. The people I love end up dead, and I’m not going to have Kierse be one of them, too.”

Niamh took a step backward. “I can’t continue. I should have never listened to you.”

“Niamh…”

“Look at her, Lorcan!” she yelled at him, throwing a hand at Kierse.

And Lorcan turned to face her again. Saw the tears running down her cheeks. The fear in her eyes. The pain she couldn’t mask. The desperation and grief and despair at this violation. For a second, he looked uncertain. As if he might stop the ceremony.

“It’ll be worth it,” he promised.

Kierse deflated.

“I’m sorry, Kierse,” Niamh began. “I’m so sorry. I should never have listened to him. Even if what he said was true, it never justified this.” Niamh turned to Lorcan. “If you go through with this, it’ll be the end of your reign.”

“This is just the beginning.”

The magic was up her throat, down her legs, inching toward completion.

“I declare an official challenge for the throne,” Niamh spat.

“What?” Lorcan asked in shock.

“You’ve lost your way. You don’t deserve the seat. You don’t deserve the honor of the Order.”

Lorcan’s eyes widened. “You can’t challenge me. You’re my fucking robin.”

“Then maybe I won’t be anymore,” she said and turned toward the throne.

Each step she took against the power of the gale was like dragging through mud.

The magic of the spell pushing her back toward the center and not allowing her onward.

The only person who could sit on the Oak Throne was the true ruler of the Druids.

Lorcan was the only one with that honor.

And his queen…which would soon be Kierse.

A wren on the Oak Throne. Oh, the irony.

But Niamh didn’t stop. Her magic cocooned her as she pushed against the spell and headed for the throne, determined to end Lorcan’s cursed reign.

Not that she was going to do it in time to save Kierse. The magic was crawling up her nostrils and heading for her eyes. She could feel it around her ankles and down into her heels. It felt like breathing. Like she could give up and wrap herself in Lorcan. Oh, how she wanted to just give up.

“You’re going to lose everything.”

“I’m just getting started,” he told her with all the confidence of someone who never lost.

Niamh was thrown back from the throne before she reached the dais.

The magic in the room held everyone suspended as the spell neared its close.

It was loud enough now that she couldn’t even hear the chanting.

All she could see was the magic covering Lorcan’s face before it threatened to close over her own head.

Then the door to the room burst open.

The wind erupted outward like a backdraft when fresh oxygen hit a fire. A boom like an explosion punched through the room. Kierse’s ears rang as she turned to face the torn-off doors.

And there stood death incarnate in a black suit, holding the Spear of Lugh—Graves.