Manon gazed into the plunge, at the ever-growing army sweeping across the mountains and valleys like a carpet of darkness and fire—so many more soldiers hidden beneath it. Her Shadows had reported that very morning about spotting lean, winged creatures with twisted human forms soaring through the night skies—too swift and agile to track before they vanished into the heavy clouds and did not return. The majority of Morath’s horrors, Manon suspected, had yet to be revealed. She wondered if she’d command them, too.
She felt the eyes of her Thirteen on her, waiting for the signal.
Manon dug her heels into Abraxos’s side, and they free-fell into the air.
The scar on her arm ached.
It always ached—more than the collar, more than the cold, more than the duke’s hands on her, more than anything that had been done to her. Only the shadowfire was a comfort.
She had once believed that she’d been born to be queen.
She had since learned that she’d been born to be a wolf.
The duke had even put a collar on her like a dog, and had shoved a demon prince inside her.
She’d let it win for a time, curling up so tightly inside herself that the prince forgot she was there.
And she waited.
In that cocoon of darkness, she bided her time, letting him think her gone, letting them do what they wanted to the mortal shell around her. It was in that cocoon where the shadowfire began to flicker, fueling her, feeding her. Long ago, when she was small and clean, flames of gold had crackled at her fingers, secret and hidden. Then they had vanished, as all good things had vanished.
And now they had returned—reborn within that dark shell as phantom fire.
The prince inside her did not notice when she began to nibble at him.
Bit by bit, she stole morsels of the otherworldly creature that had taken her body for its skin, who did such despicable things with it.
The creature noticed the day she took a bigger bite—big enough that it screamed in agony.
Before it could tell anyone, she leaped upon it, tearing and ripping with her shadowfire until only ashes of malice remained, until it was no more than a whisper of thought. Fire—it did not like fire of any kind.
For weeks now, she had been here. Waiting again. Learning about the flame in her veins—how it bled into the thing in her arm and reemerged as shadowfire. The thing spoke to her sometimes, in languages she had never heard, that had maybe never existed.
The collar remained around her neck, and she let them order her around, let them touch her, hurt her. Soon enough—soon enough she would find true purpose, and then she would howl her wrath at the moon.
She’d forgotten the name she’d been given, but it made no difference. She had only one name now:
Death, devourer of worlds.
CHAPTER
55
Aelin fully believed in ghosts.
She just didn’t think they usually came out during the day.
Rowan’s hand clamped onto her shoulder right before sunrise. She took one look at his tight face and braced herself. “Someone’s broken into the warehouse.”
Rowan was out of the room, armed and fully ready to shed blood before Aelin could grab her own weapons. Gods above—he moved like the wind, too. She could still feel his canines at her throat, rasping against her skin, pressing down lightly—
On near-silent feet, she went after him, finding him and Aedion standing before the apartment door, blades in hand, their muscled, scarred backs rigid. The windows—they were their best options for escape if it was an ambush. She reached the two males just as Rowan eased open the door to reveal the gloom of the stairwell.
Collapsed in a heap, Evangeline was sobbing on the stair landing, her scarred face deathly pale and those citrine eyes wide with terror as she peered up at Rowan and Aedion. Hundreds of pounds of lethal muscle and bared teeth—
Aelin shoved past them, taking the stairs by twos and threes until she reached the girl. She was clean—not a scratch on her. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head, her red-gold hair catching the light of the candle that Rowan brought down. The staircase shuddered with every step he and Aedion took.
“Tell me,” Aelin panted, silently praying it wasn’t as bad as it seemed. “Tell me everything.”
“They took her, they took her, they took her.”
“Who?” Aelin said, brushing back the girl’s hair, wondering whether she would panic if she held her.
“The king’s men,” Evangeline whispered. “They came with a letter from Arobynn. Said it was in Arobynn’s will that they be told about Lysandra’s b-b-bloodline.”
Aelin’s heart stopped dead. Worse—far worse than what she’d braced for—
“They said she was a shape-shifter. They took her, and they were going to take me, too, but she fought them, and she made me run, and Clarisse wouldn’t help—”
“Where did they take her?”
Evangeline sobbed. “I don’t know. Lysandra said I was to come here if anything ever happened; she told me to tell you to run—”
She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Rowan knelt down beside them and slid his arms around the girl, scooping her up, his hand so big that it nearly enveloped the entire back of her head. Evangeline buried her face in his tattooed chest, and Rowan murmured wordless sounds of comfort.
He met Aelin’s eyes over the girl’s head. We need to be out of this house in ten minutes—until we figure out if he betrayed you, too.
As if he’d heard it, Aedion edged past them, going to the warehouse window that Evangeline had somehow slipped in through. Lysandra, it seemed, had taught her charge a few things.
Aelin scrubbed at her face and braced a hand on Rowan’s shoulder as she stood, his skin warm and soft beneath her callused fingers. “Nesryn’s father. We’ll ask him to look after her today.”
Arobynn had done this. A final card up his sleeve.
He’d known. About Lysandra—about their friendship.
He didn’t like to share his belongings.
Chaol and Nesryn burst into the warehouse a level below, and Aedion was halfway to them before they even realized he was there.
They had more news. One of Ren’s men had contacted them moments ago: a meeting was to take place tomorrow in Oakwald, between the king, Dorian, and the Wing Leader of his aerial cavalry.
With a delivery of one new prisoner headed for Morath.
“You have to get her out of the tunnels,” Aelin said to Chaol and Nesryn, as she stormed down the stairs. “Right now. You’re human; they won’t notice you at first. You’re the only ones who can go into that darkness.”
Chaol and Nesryn exchanged glances.
Aelin stalked up to them. “You have to get her out right now.”
For a heartbeat, she wasn’t in the warehouse. For a heartbeat, she was standing in a beautiful bedroom, before a bloody bed and the wrecked body splayed upon it.
Chaol held out his hands. “We’re better off spending the time setting up an ambush.”
The sound of his voice … The scar on his face was stark in the dim light. Aelin clenched her fingers into a fist, her nails—the nails that had shredded his face—digging in. “They could be feeding on her,” she managed to say.
Behind her, Evangeline let out a sob. If they made Lysandra endure what Aelin had endured when she fought the Valg prince … “Please,” Aelin said, her voice breaking on the word.
Chaol noticed, then, where her eyes had focused on his face. He paled, his mouth opening.
But Nesryn reached for her hand, her slim, tan fingers cool against Aelin’s clammy palms. “We will get her back. We will save her. Together.”
Chaol just held Aelin’s gaze, his shoulders squaring as he said, “Never again.”
She wanted to believe him.
CHAPTER
56
A few hours later, seated on the floor of a ramshackle inn on the opposite side of Rifthold, Aelin peered at a map they’d marked with the meeting’s
location spot—about half a mile from the temple of Temis. The tiny temple was just inside the cover of Oakwald, perched atop a towering slice of rock in the middle of a deep ravine. It was accessible only via two dangling footbridges attached to either side of the ravine, which had spared it from invading armies over the years. The surrounding forest would likely be empty, and if wyverns were flying in, they would no doubt arrive under cover of darkness the night before. Tonight.
Aelin, Rowan, Aedion, Nesryn, and Chaol sat around the map, sharpening and polishing their blades as they talked over their plan. They’d given Evangeline to Nesryn’s father, along with more letters for Terrasen and the Bane—and the baker hadn’t asked any questions. He’d only kissed his youngest daughter on the cheek and announced that he and Evangeline would bake special pies for their return.
If they returned.
“What if she has a collar or a ring on?” Chaol asked from across their little circle.
“Then she loses a head or a finger,” Aedion said baldly.
Aelin shot him a look. “You don’t make that call without me.”
“And Dorian?” Aedion asked.
Chaol was staring at the map as if he would burn a hole through it. “Not my call,” Aelin said tightly.
Chaol’s eyes flashed to hers. “You don’t touch him.”
It was a terrible risk, to bring them all within range of a Valg prince, but … “We paint ourselves in Wyrdmarks,” Aelin said. “All of us. To ward against the prince.”
In the ten minutes it had taken them to grab their weapons, clothes, and supplies from the warehouse apartment, she’d remembered to get her books on Wyrdmarks, which now sat on the little table before the sole window in the room. They’d rented three for the night: one for Aelin and Rowan, one for Aedion, and the other for Chaol and Nesryn. The gold coin she’d slapped onto the innkeeper’s counter had been enough to pay for at least a month. And his silence.
“Do we take out the king?” Aedion said.
“We don’t engage,” Rowan replied, “until we know for sure we can kill the king and neutralize the prince with minimal risk. Getting Lysandra out of that wagon comes first.”
“Agreed,” Aelin said.
Aedion’s gaze settled on Rowan. “When do we leave?”
Aelin wondered at his yielding to the Fae Prince.
“I don’t want those wyverns or witches sniffing us out,” Rowan said, the commander bracing for the battlefield. “We arrive just before the meeting takes place—long enough to find advantageous spots and to locate their scouts and sentries. The witches’ sense of smell is too keen to risk discovery. We move in fast.”
She couldn’t decide whether or not she was relieved.
The clock chimed noon. Nesryn rose to her feet. “I’ll order lunch.”
Chaol got up, stretching. “I’ll help you bring it up.” Indeed, in a place like this, they would get no kitchen-to-room service. Though in a place like this, Aelin supposed, Chaol might very well be going to keep an eye on Faliq’s back. Good.
Once they left, Aelin picked up one of Nesryn’s blades and began polishing it: a decent dagger, but not great. If they lived past tomorrow, maybe she would buy her a better one as a thank-you.
“Too bad Lorcan’s a psychotic bastard,” she said. “We could use him tomorrow.” Rowan’s mouth tightened. “What will he do when he finds out about Aedion’s heritage?”
Aedion set down the dagger he’d been honing. “Will he even care?”
Halfway through polishing a short sword, Rowan paused. “Lorcan might not give a shit—or he might find Aedion intriguing. But he would more likely be interested in how Aedion’s existence can be used against Gavriel.”
She eyed her cousin, his golden hair now seeming more proof of his ties to Gavriel than to her. “Do you want to meet him?” Perhaps she’d brought this up only to keep from thinking about tomorrow.
A shrug. “I’d be curious, but I’m not in any rush. Not unless he’s going to drag his cadre over here to help with the fighting.”
“Such a pragmatist.” She faced Rowan, who was back at work on the sword. “Would they ever be convinced to help, despite what Lorcan said?” They had provided aid once—during the attack on Mistward.
“Unlikely,” Rowan said, not looking up from the blade. “Unless Maeve decides that sending you succor is the next move in whatever game she’s playing. Maybe she’ll want to ally with you to kill Lorcan for his betrayal.” He mused, “Some of the Fae who used to dwell here might still be alive and in hiding. Perhaps they could be trained—or already have training.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Aedion said. “The Little Folk I’ve seen and felt in Oakwald. But the Fae … Not a whisper of them there.” He didn’t meet Rowan’s eyes, and instead started cleaning Chaol’s final unsharpened blade. “The king wiped them out too thoroughly. I would bet any survivors are stuck in their animal forms.”
Aelin’s body became heavy with a familiar grief. “We’ll figure all that out later.”
If they lived long enough to do so.
For the rest of the day and well into the evening, Rowan planned their course of action with the same efficiency she’d come to expect and cherish. But it didn’t feel comforting now—not when the danger was so great, and everything could change in a matter of minutes. Not when Lysandra might already be beyond saving.
“You should be sleeping,” Rowan said, his deep voice rumbling across the bed and along her skin.
“The bed’s lumpy,” Aelin said. “I hate cheap inns.”
His low laugh echoed in the near-dark of the room. She’d rigged the door and window to alert them to any intruder, but with the ruckus coming from the seedy tavern downstairs, they would have a hard time hearing anyone in the hall. Especially when some of the rooms were rented by the hour.
“We’ll get her back, Aelin.”
The bed was much smaller than hers—small enough that her shoulder brushed his as she turned over. She found him already facing her, his eyes gleaming in the dark. “I can’t bury another friend.”
“You won’t.”
“If anything ever happened to you, Rowan—”
“Don’t,” he breathed. “Don’t even say it. We dealt with that enough the other night.”
He lifted a hand—hesitated, and then brushed back a strand of hair that had fallen across her face. His callused fingers scraped against her cheekbone, then caressed the shell of her ear.
It was foolish to even start down this road, when every other man she’d let in had left some wound, in one way or another, accidentally or not.
There was nothing soft or tender on his face. Only a predator’s glittering gaze. “When we get back,” he said, “remind me to prove you wrong about every thought that just went through your head.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “Oh?”
He gave her a sly smile that made thinking impossible. Exactly what he wanted—to distract her from the horrors of tomorrow. “I’ll even let you decide how I tell you: with words”—his eyes flicked once to her mouth—“or with my teeth and tongue.”
A thrill went through her blood, pooling in her core. Not fair—not fair at all to tease her like that. “This miserable inn is rather loud,” she said, daring to slide a hand over his bare pectoral, then up to his shoulder. She marveled at the strength beneath her palm. He shuddered, but his hands remained at his sides, clenched and white knuckled. “It’s too bad Aedion could still probably hear through the wall.”
She gently scraped her nails across his collarbone, marking him, claiming him, before leaning in to press her mouth to the hollow of his throat. His skin was so smooth, so invitingly warm.
“Aelin,” he groaned.
Her toes curled at the roughness in his voice. “Too bad,” she murmured against his neck. He growled, and she chuckled quietly as she rolled back over and closed her eyes, her breathing easier than it had been moments before. She’d get through tomorrow, regardless of what happened. She wasn’t alone
—not with him, and not with Aedion also beside her.
She was smiling when the mattress shifted, steady footsteps padded toward the dresser, and the sounds of splashing filled the room as Rowan dunked the pitcher of cold water over himself.
CHAPTER
57
“I can smell them all right,” Aedion said, his whisper barely audible as they crept through the underbrush, each of them clothed in green and brown to remain concealed in the dense forest. He and Rowan walked several paces ahead of Aelin, arrows loosely nocked in their bows as they picked out the way with their keen hearing and smell.
If she had her damn Fae form, she could be helping instead of lingering behind with Chaol and Nesryn, but—
Not a useful thought, she told herself. She would make do with what she had.
Chaol knew the forest best, having come hunting this way with Dorian countless times. He’d laid out a path for them the night before, but had yielded leading to the two Fae warriors and their impeccable senses. His steps were unfaltering on the leaves and moss beneath their boots, his face drawn but steady. Focused.
Good.
They passed through the trees of Oakwald so silently that the birds didn’t stop their chirping.
Brannon’s forest. Her forest.
She wondered if its denizens knew what blood flowed in her veins, and hid their little party from the horrors waiting ahead. She wondered if they’d somehow help Lysandra when it came time.
Rowan paused ten feet ahead and pointed to three towering oaks. She halted, her ears straining as she scanned the forest.
Growls and roars of beasts that sounded far too large rumbled toward them, along with the scrape of leathery wings on stone.
Bracing herself, she hurried to where Rowan and Aedion were waiting by the oak trees, her cousin pointing skyward to indicate their next movement.
Aelin took the center tree, hardly disturbing a leaf or twig as she climbed. Rowan waited until she’d reached a high branch before coming up after her—in about the same amount of time she had done it, she noted a bit smugly. Aedion took the tree to the right, with Chaol and Nesryn scaling the left. They all kept climbing, as smoothly as snakes, until the foliage blocked their view of the ground below and they could see into a little meadow up ahead.