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The last time I faced the glasscrawler, I had my bat, salt, and a plan. Here, I have a knife that might not work in the fae realm.
“Amalia Wolf,” Theron calls, the subtle warning clear.
I’ve strayed too far from the group, and I hurry to catch up.
“Admiring our living architecture?” the mirror-crowned courtier asks, his smile revealing teeth too pointed to be natural. “The Dark fae have perfected the art of guiding growth rather than imposing form.”
“It’s unique.” I summon every scrap of polite indifference I possess while my pulse races.
“Are you well?” Theron asks quietly as we near a pavilion where tables groan beneath piles of food I cannot eat.
“Just on edge.” I scan the decorations for more mirrors the glasscrawler could use to slip through. “We’re being followed.”
“Of course we are,” he says with a hint of impatience.
I shake my head. “Not just by the fae. There’s a monster here that followed me from the human plane.”
Theron goes still. “What manner of monster?”
“A demon who uses reflective surfaces as portals. It feeds on fear.” I lean toward him. “I was hunting it when Caelan pulled me through the mirror.”
Understanding dawns. “And it slipped through while the passage was open.”
“So it appears,” I murmur. “I thought I saw it in the Hall of Mirrors and then in the woods. It’s following me.”
“If fear is what it consumes, it will thrive here.” Theron surveys the pavilion with new wariness. “This complicates matters.”
I almost laugh at the understatement. As if finding his missing brother in a hostile sithe wasn’t complicated enough, now we have a fear-feeding demon loose in a kingdom where emotions are pushed to their limits.
“Stay close,” Theron murmurs as we approach the pavilion entrance. “And trust nothing.”
As if I needed that advice.
Trusting nothing is how I’ve survived this long.
10
HOSPITALITY AND HOSTILITY
THERON
Ilie staring up at the ceiling of our guest chamber, counting the seconds until the time comes to rise.
The aftermath of last night’s welcoming feast clings to my skin, as persistent as the cloying perfume throughout the garden.
Nyctarian had kept us there until well into the night in a petty power play to ensure I face today’s negotiations exhausted and on edge.
When we had finally returned to our chamber, the single bed proved a new, silk-draped challenge. I had offered to share it with Amalia, assuring her I would maintain distance, but she had refused.
The snub should not have rankled. I did not extend Thalindor the same offer, nor did he expect me to. And yet, when she took up position on the floor, her back braced by the wall and her knife in hand, it bothered me enough to lose sleep over it.
The lack of windows leaves me off-kilter, but when the rest of the Dark Spire stirs around me, I deem it late enough to rise. My spine cracks as I stretch, bones protesting the hours of forced stillness.
Across the room, Amalia’s eyes snap open at the movement, dark and alert without a trace of fog from sleep.
Thalindor, too, stirs from his position at the door, where he slept propped up the same as Amalia, his sword resting across his thighs in case we were besieged after a night of revelry.
None of us slept more than minutes at a time.
