Page 52 of Castle of Nevers and Nightmares

“Increase your expeditions,” Legion instructs as he wipes his hands. “Nightly.”

I tense. “That will rouse suspicion.”

“Not if you stick to the usual haunt.”

“But I can’t take my fill there.”

“Hence the augmented frequency. Small snacks will not be noticed if you continue with your charade.”

My stomach churns at the thought of feeding this way. They don’t remember much, but the seals can’t hide our baser instincts. We are ravenous for sustenance. My thoughts inevitably turn to Willow, to her unique scent still clinging to my clothes. I bunch my shoulder, press my nose against the fabric, and inhale. Remnants of her remain and tug longing from deep within my soul.

Go to her.

Catch her.

Give her your heart.

Never have I felt desire so intense.

You’re dead. You’re all dead.

Sighing, I pick up the razor and press the blade to Varen’s jaw. Metal gleams gold in the firelight, reminding me of another unfulfilled promise. At some point, I should probably start policing forbidden substances so the Wellspring can flow freely once more. After all, the abundance of this contraband is why no sprites exist in Avorlorna. The original faerie are growing weak, and Titania is too self-involved to learn why.

I find myself slow to rouse on the subject.

Whatever hold Titania and the Keepers have on us is a patch job. And if there’s one thing we Sluagh are good at, it’s waiting. She will eventually summon her own doom.

“Fox,” Legion prompts. “Am I understood?”

“Fine,” I grit out, then scrape the razor down. “I will resume my midnight adventures.”

“Good.”

I feel his eyes on me. “Spit it out.”

“Do not get attached to her.”

“We are all attached.” I wash the razor’s blade, wipe it, and take a second pass at Varen’s jaw. “She is our queen.”

“Do not be facetious.” He looms over me. “You are forbidden to take her as a lover, a plaything, or whatever it is you call your conquests these days.”

Conquests. If he only remembered. My amused snort accidentally nicks Varen’s skin. He barely registers the pain. When I remove the blade, a thin line of blood wells from the cut. Legion nudges my hand away and swipes the wound, testing the flesh—more blood wells.

“He is not healing as we do,” he notes gravely. “How long has it been like this?”

I shrug. “A few turns of the moon.”

“And you didn’t think to mention it before?”

“You have a war to worry about.”

His sigh ruffles my hair, and I close my eyes against the sensation. I miss the oneness, the openness with them all. Before, it was so easy to share. Now, we are an afterthought.

“Fox—”

“I know.”

I hear his intake of breath, the parting of his lips to lecture over who comes first—us or her.

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