Page 16 of Castle of Nevers and Nightmares

I crawl toward my bed and pick up the stone, turning it over in the shaft of sunlight. My mother wanted me to keep it. Did she know this would happen?

At the table, when Dad and I argued about the Six, she said they were gone. Not dead. I’d always wondered, but their disappearance had been so sudden and complete that everyone assumed they’d somehow died when Queen Maebh sent all the souls from the Wild Hunt into the undead so they could be killed.

My mother, the most powerful psychic in Elphyne, handed me a portal stone to a place where the Six might be alive. And then she told me to follow my heart, to make my own mistakes. As soon as the realization hits, the tugging in my chest increases. I know it to be true. They’re alive and on the other side of this green stone.

Movement at my side. The spider crawls out from beneath my bed. It doesn’t run away. It scuttles toward me as though I’m its target. My fist comes down hard, squashing it.

Almost everything has been taken from me. The last thing I need is a poisonous bite to take my health. When I lift my hand, I marvel at the tiny black blob with enough poison to take me, a veritable giant, down. The spider knew the odds were stacked against it as it crawled toward me, yet it kept coming.

I’m envious of that courage. I havesixgiants of my own. Beautiful ancient soul-sucking beings who have a hive mind and are keepers of the Wild Hunt—the horde of wicked souls they punish. They’re feared because killing them is nigh on impossible. They can only be tamed.

I dreamed the Six were normal—beautiful, revered, and admired by the crowd dancing around us. Titania claimed she made their deepest yearnings come true, to exist in a realm where they weren’t looked upon as nightmares.

Are you even aware of the gift you handed to me?

I called them monsters, and she swooped in to claim them. I’ll bet that vision was real. Her words were real. I’m sitting in ruin while they’re with her, living like radiant kings... their dark hearts hidden behind whatever narrative she’s spun.

Fuck them. Fuck all of them.

I might be small, mortal, and weak next to their might, but if a spider dares to face its foe head-on, then so can I. Crawling to my bedside table, I pull down Rory’s silver-plated dagger. The hilt fits in my palm like it was made for me. Rory was like thespider. The mighty fae fist should have repeatedly squashed her, but she prevailed. She survived until shechoseto stab Cloud’s hand, forcing him to let go so that I could live.

She taught me everything she knew... and left me with this magic-cutting metal blade. I might not know much about the Sluagh, but I know plenty about Guardians. I know that even though they’re blessed to hold metal and use magic at the same time, they can still die if the metal pierces their flesh. This dagger is my poison.

An hour later,I’m in my room packing my bag for a trip into the unknown. Without tears left to cry, rage has become my constant companion. It bubbles beneath my skin, making me aware of every horrible bulge and crooked feature.

The Six’s obsession with me ruined my life. I hate them so much that I can’t see straight. They can’t get away with this. My plan to kill them depends on bringing Rory’s dagger with me because there’s no guarantee this new realm has steel blades. It could be confiscated, melted down at the forge, or locked away. This is why I broke into my mother’s room after she left this morning. Perhaps the Well was shining down on me because my luck finally turned when I found a jar of Guardian manabeeze on her dresser—clearly labeled and ripe for the taking. They’ll allow forbidden metal to pass through a portal.

My plan to track down the Six has never felt more right.

The rucksack weighs me down and rubs against my bone sword strapped between my shoulder blades, but I don’t have another way to carry it. String secures a scarf over my face, hiding my ugly truth. I don’t want to draw attention.

A bitter laugh puffs the silk at my mouth. No wonder the Six want me as their hive’s queen. We have the same hideous, nightmarish insides.

There’s only one thing left to collect. After we moved in here, I found a collection of charcoal portraits beneath a loose panel in the wall. I should have burned them, but something held me back. The artwork is stunning, and the artist took painstaking lengths to capture the personality of each subject. Each is labeled with a number and a name.

Knowing that one of the Six is psychic, I’m sure these were placed here on purpose. But I’m hijacking that purpose. I’m using these portraits to track them down, and when I find them... my thoughts trail off as I unfold the first sketch. That traitorous tug in my chest lurches at the sight ofhim.

“The First” is Legion. His long dark hair spills from a widow’s peak, framing a hauntingly beautiful face. Even in black and white, he is arresting. His lips are full. His nose is aristocratic. At first glance, he’s too pretty to exist. But something happens the longer I stare. Like a mirage, my perception changes. His beauty seems to harden into demanding lines and harsh angles. I see a ruthless leader who will stop at nothing to get what he wants.

“The Second” is Bodin. His skin is darker, his bone structure sharp and formidable, yet still so perfectly symmetrical. The sides of his head are shaved to reveal fae ears. Long dark hair is swept from his forehead in structured sections that might be braids or locks. Aunty Rory occasionally wrangled her afro into cornrows. Bodin’s are tied in a knot at his crown. Something about his eyes makes me feel trapped, breathless. It’s like he’s there on the other side of the paper, promising dark things.

Shaking the feeling, I study the next and commit his features to memory.

“The Third” is Emrys. Close-cropped silver hair offsets dark eyebrows, both striking against pale skin. His fathomless blackeyes instill fear into my soul, and I can’t explain why he’s more frightening than the others. Perhaps he was hewn from a different rock, carved with angry, hate-filled strokes. Black swirling tattoos strangle his neck but don’t touch his face, as though the ink is too frightened to go there.

“The Fourth” is Varen. His angular, narrow eyes are framed with thick lashes. His cheekbones are high, and his jaw is square. The inches-long dark hair is swept from his forehead but shaved at the sides like Bodin’s. His lips are tipped in a small half-smile as though the artist said something amusing. Each of the Six is achingly beautiful, but Varen seems almost feminine. Maybe delicate is a better word. It almost makes me feel at ease with him. I’ll bet he’s the worst.

“The Fifth” is Fox. The dimples throw me, and his short, curved horns almost seem cute. He feels like Legion’s troublesome younger brother, despite them both carrying the ageless fae features. His short dark hair is ruffled around the horns. Mischief dances in his eyes. The longer I stare, the more dark hunger seeps through. This passionate, ruthless side of him screams so loudly that I almost drop the portrait, fearing it’s enchanted.

Finally, “The Sixth” intrigues me the most. The name Spike has been scratched out and renamed Styx. Short conical spikes decorate the skin above his brows. Long, curved horns sweep back from his head, adding to his otherworldly appeal. It’s impossible to tell the color of his skin in a charcoal sketch, but it’s closer to the value of Bodin’s. My vague memories give me hints of skin almost blue, but with a blush from blood—like the sky at dusk.

A flicker of doubt enters my mind. It’s easy to think I am the spider... but I squashed that bug effortlessly with my fist. What if I’m making the wrong decision by going after them? What if they’re truly unkillable?

I clutch Tinger’s pendant and think about his life cut short because of my recklessness. If it weren’t for the Six, I would never have been in that situation, hunting for purpose and respect. And Titania? My ugliness? She only attacked me out of spite—one last dig to drive the message home.

The veil over my face itches where the string is too tight. The acid burns are sore and will probably leave a mark. Hatred slams out my doubt. I’m left here looking hideous, and they’re still so fucking perfect.

Fuck that.

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