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CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

T he chamber beyond was both vast and claustrophobic at once. Every surface—walls, floor, ceiling—was made of mirrors. Not neat, polished mirrors like in a department store, but jagged, cracked ones, overlapping and intersecting at impossible angles. The reflections bounced off each other, creating an infinite panoply of images that made Ava’s eyes hurt if she looked too long.

“Stay close,” Nos murmured. His voice bounced back at them a thousand times, echoing in the strangest way. It sounded like he was coming from all angles. “It’s easy to become separated.”

That was when Ava noticed the mirrors weren’t reflecting them accurately. In one, she saw herself as a child. In another, as an old woman. In yet another, her face was scarred, her eyes hollow with grief.

“What the hell? ” she whispered.

“Don’t look directly at them,” Ibin advised, though Ava noticed she was having trouble following her own advice. In one mirror, Ibin appeared as she once was, during World War I—a handsome man in a British pilot’s uniform. In another, she was a bird’s skeleton, dead on the ground, being picked apart by ants and maggots.

As they moved deeper into the chamber, the reflections became more insistent. More disturbing.

Ava saw herself with Serrik’s glowing, golden eyes. Saw herself with spiderweb tattoos crawling up her neck. Saw herself wielding a blade made of light, cutting down figures that looked disturbingly like Ibin and Nos. Her expression was empty. Cold, like stone—like his.

“I don’t like this place.” A crawling fear began to creep up her spine.

That’s when the reflections began to speak.

“Run,” whispered a version of herself with bloody hands. “Before it’s too late.”

“He’s using you,” said another, this one with hollow cheeks and desperate eyes. “They all are. They aren’t your friends. You have no friends. They’re all lies. All of them. They aren’t real.”

“You’ll become just like him,” warned a third, whose skin seemed to be slowly transforming into something chitinous and inhuman. “Is that what you want?”

Ava nearly stumbled backwards, startled by the voices. “Stop talking!”

“Don’t listen.” Ibin grabbed her elbow to steady her. “They’re lying.”

“Are we?” asked a version of Ava dressed in elegant black lace, golden jewelry dripping from her neck and wrists. She looked regal, like a queen—or a princess. “Or are we simply showing the truths you’d rather not face? They’re dreams, nothing more. This place is a lie!”

The path ahead seemed to stretch and contract, making it impossible to judge distance. Mirrors shifted positions when Ava wasn’t looking directly at them, creating new corridors, new dead ends.

“Turn back,” pleaded a reflection of Ava whose eyes were completely black. “While you still have a soul. Before he takes what’s left of you and makes it his own.”

“What you know of your life is over if you continue forward. You will live but as a perversion of yourself,” hissed another, this one missing an arm. “Die with honor—die only as yourself.”

“They’re trying to confuse you.” Ibin’s voice was tight, and stilted. As if she was trying to talk over her own voices. “The mirror is straight ahead. Stay focused, Ava.”

But “ahead” was becoming a meaningless concept in this kaleidoscope of reflections. Every step seemed to lead them in circles.

“He’s lying to you. He doesn’t care about you,” a particularly vicious reflection spat. This Ava had venom dripping from her lips, staining her chin black. “You’re just a tool. A key. Nothing more. He will discard you the moment he has no need of you. You are less than even a pet to him.”

“Fuck you, future self.” Man, she never thought she’d need to use that phrase literally. “Shut up.”

“He’s a monster. And you’re becoming one too. Your mother would be so ashamed of you.”

“I said shut up! ” Ava snapped. With her sudden anger, Book responded. It twitched at her side. Holding it out in front of her, it flew open. The images in the mirrors recoiled, as if afraid of it.

Good. The mirrors could shut the hell up.

On the blank page, as if drawn by an unseen hand, an elegant and overly elaborate arrow pointed the way. “This way,” she said with more confidence than she felt. As she walked, the arrow rotated like a compass, showing her which way to go. Yeah, okay. The book’s clinginess was a little annoying, but it really, really came in handy.

The reflections grew more desperate as they neared their destination.

“You’re going to die!” screamed a blood-soaked Ava. “They will all betray you!”

“Worse than die,” moaned another, whose skin seemed to be slowly dissolving. “You’ll wish for death.”

“He’ll tear you apart,” whispered a third, showing marks like golden claws raked across her face. “After he takes everything.”

Ibin put a hand on Ava’s shoulder. “Almost there. I can feel it.”

And suddenly, there it was. A wall where there hadn’t been a wall a moment prior. It was a massive mirror, easily fifteen feet tall and half as wide, that dominated the surface of the wall. Unlike the other broken mirrors, this shattered one had all its pieces of glass removed.

The only problem? It was next to two other, nearly identical versions of itself. Only the trim on the frame was just slightly off. Or the shape of the center of the hourglass was just slightly a different ratio.

“Which one is it?” Ibin frowned.

“Choose wrong, and you all die.” A reflection of Nos laughed. “I do hope you choose wrong…”

“Wait.” Ava dug into the back pocket of her jeans, and pulled out a folded piece of paper. That was why Serrik had given her a drawing of it! Unfolding it, she held it up in front of her and compared the image to the three versions in front of her. Pointing to the one on the left, she smiled. “It’s this one. But even if I didn’t have the drawing, the acanthus leaves on the molding on this one are the right shape. The other ones are too small and all out of proportion. Get your shit together, evil mirrors, at least get your rip-offs historically accurate.”

The other two shimmered and vanished like they were never there.

Folding the piece of paper back up, she stuffed it back into her pocket. “Yay, architecture nerdiness, finally coming in handy.” Stepping up to the one remaining, enormous mirror, she let out a breath.

It was a door. Or had been, before something had broken it.

Someone.

The Morrigan. When she’d sealed away her son.

Putting down her bag, she shut Book and set it down on the ground. Taking the glass shard from the bag, she looked down at it, and then back to Nos and Ibin. “So I just…put it back?”

Ibin shrugged. Nos looked like he was either going to throw up or shout at her.

It felt like the mirror shard in Ava’s hand was pulling toward the door like a magnet to metal.

Taking a breath, she held it, and let it out. Well, she still had two more chances to make up her mind. Two more to change it. Cracking her neck from the left side to the right side with a pop , she headed over to the huge mirror and looked up at it. “Whelp.”

“Don’t!” The collective shriek of all her reflections behind her made Ava wince. “He will destroy everything!”

“I know that, thanks.” She kept staring up at the huge mirror. “And I really hope you guys aren’t going to do this routine two more times, it’s going to get really boring.”

“Betrayer!” the voices screamed. “You’ll doom us all! We’re you! All the paths that might be! All the paths that will be if you do this!”

Every option before her if she didn’t do this, wound up with her being cursed or destroyed by some megalomaniacal fae monster in the Web. If she did do this, it was going to get…messy. But at least she’d have more magic to defend herself with. And she’d maybe, just maybe , be one step closer to freeing herself. Or her and Serrik. Or killing Serrik.

Or whatever.

“This sucks. Well, here goes everything.” Before the reflections could scream again, she pressed the shard against the door, fitting it into an empty space near the top.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then the shard melted into the door, seamlessly joining with the broken mirror. It expanded, filling a third of the space, answering her question from before. A pulse of golden light spread from the point of contact, racing along the edges of it.

The reflections fell silent.

Nothing happened.

She threw up her hands.

“Well that was anti-climacti?—”

Something that resembled an enormous, shadowy hand—or perhaps the legs of a gigantic spider—reached out through the darkness of the broken mirror, and dragged her through the surface.

Ava screamed.

Serrik was dreaming of the past.

Dreaming of memories of which he wished he could rid himself.

“An eternity in exile.”

Serrik bit back a laugh, but could not hide his sneer. What pompous fools, these kings be. From where he was held in forced deference to the ground on six bent knees, he lifted his head, daring to cast his gaze to where Seelie King Dagda and Unseelie King Bres sat beside each other on their thrones.

Brothers. Doomed to betray each other, if Serrik were to wager upon it. For that was all his kind were good for—trickery and blackmail, contracts and schemes. Whispered words that dripped from painted lips, adorned in silk and gold.

Treachery, lauded the same as honor.

Vile.

Contemptible.

Beasts.

He clenched his hands down at his sides but did not dare straighten himself from where he was still kept low. He still wished to leave this place with his life. “For what crime, my kings?”

Dagda looked the most bored in the room, though the expression was not uncommon. He propped an elbow up on his chair and rested a cheekbone on the back of curled knuckles. “That place you have made. We have warned you against filling it up with parchment, scribbling away forbidden things within its walls. Yet you persist in defying us. These books, these scrolls, those are human relics—it is against our nature. You are not of us, little arachnid. And you should wear the cost of it. You should forever be reminded of who you serve. And the cost of such defiance.”

Serrik felt the muscle in his jaw twitch. But he said nothing. Could he fell a king? Perhaps, but not in open conflict. And two? Surrounded by guards and courtiers? No, he would be dead in moments.

Nor could he count on any assistance. He would not bother praying to his dear mother for assistance. She would not answer, for she had already made it quite clear how little he was worth to her.

Bres spoke next. “We have decided you should be marked for your shame. Your magic is an abomination. You are not one of us. And all others should know this when they lay eyes upon you.”

The meaning was clear. He was to be disfigured. He had seen others—branded, or a limb taken—simply for displeasing the brother kings. He lowered his head to hide his disgust for them upon his features. But it seems he did not do so quickly enough.

“Hmm. It seems he is not grateful for our mercy.” Bres stood from his throne, his dark, swirling, nebula-like eyes glinting in cruelty. His pale features drew in a smile that made his brother’s seem jovial by comparison. “I think we should double our planned lesson in manners.”

“I believe you are right, dear brother.” Dagda suddenly seemed interested. The King in Green was twice the size of his brother. If the Unseelie King were the wolf, then the Seelie was the tree under which the wolf took shelter. “But we cannot kill him, mind. His mother would be quite cross.”

“I do not intend to kill him.” A flick of his wrist, and Bres summoned a wicked, jagged silver knife to his hand. “But I do have a question I think he can help us answer.”

“Oh?” Dagda looked intrigued.

Serrik felt something twist in his stomach. It was not fear. He could take pride in the fact that he was not afraid.

No, it was hatred.

King Bres approached, bare feet upon the stone steps that were ancient before any of them arrived. When he neared, the guards to either side of Serrik pushed him farther down, flattening him and his much larger body flat to the cold stone of the throne room.

Grunting in pain, he did not struggle.

There was no use.

He felt a foot press down on his back, just above where one of his middle legs joined his body. The Unseelie King’s voice was thick with sadistic enjoyment. “What does spider meat taste like, I wonder?”

Serrik did not know if he screamed.

All he could recall later was the sound of laughter.

He felt her presence. A brush against him in the darkness. As though his eyes were closed, and she was there. “Begone, Ava. These memories are not for you.” He was dreaming. And she had come to him.

“Didn’t—” Her voice broke. “Mean to?—”

She collapsed against him.

It was then that he felt it.

She sank against him—but not just that.

She sank into him. The first seal was shattered. He could not withhold a gasp as he felt her mind so close to his. It sparked that dangerous desire once more. That need in him to take. To claim.

But also to protect.

Serrik moved without thinking, incorporeal arms wrapping around her essence as they stood suspended in his nightmare. Her consciousness was fragile, untethered—lost between realms after unleashing the first key.

“Ava.” He used her name like a talisman against the memories that still echoed around them. The scent of his own blood. The sound of royal laughter.

She trembled against him, her mind fluttering like a trapped bird. “I didn’t mean to—I didn’t know—I’m sorry?—”

“Hush,” he commanded, though his voice was gentle. “The first seal’s breaking has thinned the barriers between us. You were drawn here without intent.”

Her presence steadied, the panic receding. She wasn’t quite there, wasn’t quite whole. She had no true form—just a luminous impression of herself, a ghost made of golden light. Yet he could feel her emotions washing over him—confusion, fear, and beneath it all, a dangerous thread of fascination.

“I saw what they did to you.”

Serrik went rigid. “You saw nothing.”

“I felt it.” Her essence pulsed with distress. “I felt the knife. I heard them laughing. ”

A wave of her fury swept through him. The memory was his burden alone—his shame, his hatred. He had not intended to share it, least of all with her.

“The bond grows stronger.” All he could do was insist that was the case. Though he knew the truth was so much deeper than that. So much more dangerous. “Your use of the first key has changed things between us. But you are safe.”

“Is that why I’m here? In your…dream?” The golden light of her essence swirled closer, curious despite what she must know was foolishness. “Or memory. Whatever this is.”

“Dreams and memories are much the same in the Web.” And so were fantasies. Serrik felt his control slipping, his essence responding to her proximity in ways he could not entirely govern. Tendrils of his true self reached for her—the spider within him hungering for connection. For her.

He recoiled from his own desire, curbing the impulse with iron will.

“You’re hurting.” She furrowed her brow.

“You see too much.” He struggled to reshape their surroundings, turning the throne room of his memory into his library. But the bond made it difficult to hide. The first key had never been used before Ava. It allowed her deeper access than he had anticipated.

He supposed that was by design. He should have known. He designed it to function this way, after all.

“Why did you really do it?” she asked suddenly.

“Do what, little butterfly?”

“Give up your memory to the crone. For me.” Her essence drifted closer, warm against the perpetual cold of his being. “You claimed it was because you didn’t care if you remembered the Morrigan. But I don’t buy that. Why would you sacrifice anything for me?”

Serrik turned away, though in this realm the gesture was largely symbolic. “The tactical advantages of maintaining your trust are obvious.”

“Bullshit.” The coarse word was somehow elegant in its simplicity.

He almost smiled. Almost. “Such a delicate turn of phrase.”

“Don’t change the subject. It wasn’t tactical. It was…” She hesitated, searching for the word. “Personal.”

The accusation hung between them, uncomfortably accurate.

“I insist. The memory was of little consequence.” The lie left him smoothly. “A small price for your continued cooperation.”

In truth, it had been precious—the only memory of the Morrigan, bitter as it was. But when faced with the crone’s intent to take Ava’s memories of her own mother, he had acted without calculation.

It was this impulsiveness that troubled him most.

“I still don’t believe you.” Her golden essence seemed to strengthen as she grew more certain. “The Web is changing you too, isn’t it? This connection between us—it’s not one-way.”

Serrik stiffened. “You presume too much.”

“Do I?” She drew closer still, her essence brushing against his, sending shivers of sensation through his being.

“How would you have had me react then, little butterfly?” He was unable to keep the dangerous edge from his voice. “What would you prefer I be? A villain from a children’s tale? Would you prefer I make this simpler for you?”

“No. I thought you were someone who wouldn’t make any kind of sacrifices for me. That’s all.” The answer was simple.

And the honesty in it disarmed him. In this realm, without physical barriers, her emotions flowed freely into him—her confusion, her reluctant gratitude, and beneath it all, a current of attraction that mirrored his own forbidden desire.

It would be so easy to take advantage. To twist that attraction, to bind her more tightly to him. The spider in him called for it—to wrap her in his golden threads until she could not distinguish between her will and his own.

But even as the thought formed, he rejected it.

“You should return to your body.” His tone was colder than he intended. “This connection drains you. And your… companions will grow concerned.”

“Nos and Ibin think you’re using me.”

“I am using you,” he countered. “As you are using me.”

Her essence rippled with something like amusement. “Oh. Cool. Is that what we’re doing? Sweet. I missed the memo.”

The challenge in her tone ignited something in him—a hunger that had nothing to do with plans or schemes or vengeance. It was primal, visceral. Dangerous.

“Do not test me, Ava.” His control was rapidly fraying. “This state you have found me in is a dangerous one. I am not…entirely myself.”

“And what exactly are you threatening me with, Serrik?”

The question hung between them, heavy with implications neither was prepared to face.

“Continue this conversation, and you will have another choice to make,” he said finally. “As will I.”

Her essence swirled closer, almost enveloping him now. Without physical form, her curiosity manifested as tendrils of golden light caressing the edges of his being. Each touch sent ripples of sensation through him, awakening needs long dormant.

“And if I choose wrong?”

“There is no wrong choice.” He gritted his teeth. “Only consequences you will regret.”

Something shifted in the dreamscape—a tremor in the Web itself. Serrik felt it immediately.

“You are being pulled back. Your body calls to you.”

Her essence began to fade, golden light dimming. “Serrik?—”

“We will speak again. The second key awaits you. Be cautious, little butterfly. The Web grows more treacherous as the locks weaken.” He grimaced, pushing himself farther away from her.

“Wait—”

Her presence faded further, golden light retreating. But just before she vanished entirely, he felt something unexpected—a flare of emotion from her that was neither fear nor confusion nor even the simmering attraction that troubled them both.

It was compassion.

For him.

The sensation burned like holy water against his skin, forcing him to recoil. He was unaccustomed to such sentiment directed toward him, especially from one who knew, at least in part, what he truly was.

As the last of her essence disappeared, returning to the waking world, Serrik found himself alone in his library once more. The dreamscape settled as the ancient throne room disappeared. His library manifested in full, his books righting themselves.

But the hollow ache in his chest remained.

With a snarl of frustration, he lashed out, sending a nearby stack of ancient tomes crashing to the floor. Golden threads erupted from his fingertips unbidden, spreading across the walls like cracks in reality itself.

The Web responded to his turmoil, twisting and contorting around his library. Outside the windows, the perpetual twilight darkened to pitch black, lightning flashing in skies that had known no storms for centuries.

He was losing control. Over her. Over his plans.

Over himself.

And all because of one insignificant human woman who refused to fear him properly.

“Foolish butterfly,” he whispered to the empty room. “You flutter ever closer to the spider’s jaws.”

Yet even as he uttered the warning, he knew the truth that he dared not speak aloud—he was no longer certain who was trapped within whose web.