Page 149 of Shades of Silver City

Leisurely footsteps echo through the cement building behind us, and I whip around to see Arlo striding toward us. With his impassive expression and his impeccably gelled dark hair, he looks every part the manipulative politician he is. His almost blinding beauty makes sense now that I know he’s fae.

“Hello, little brother,” he says in a deceptively warm voice.

“Pixel—I’ll call you back.” Archer hangs up and stuffs the phone away. He steps in front of me, partially blocking me with his muscular frame.

Arlo stops where he is, a few paces away, and raises his hands in what I interpret to be a calming gesture. It does the opposite, stirring up my disgust and fear.

“It’s a shame you refuse to acknowledge your bloodline.” Arlo tsks, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Despite the seemingly casual gesture, his posture is rigid, his eyes coy, like a serpent ready to strike. “Reapers can veilwalk. It’d be quite easy, and useful, for you to learn.”

Arlo begins striding in a small arc around us, and Archer rotates, keeping his front toward Arlo at all times, with me behind him.

“No thanks,” Archer growls.

“Shame,” Arlo says. A sharp smile forms on his face. “Perhaps then you’d stand a chance at challenging me.” Before Archer can respond, he continues. “Ah, speaking of challenges. I’ve successfully earned the backing of the twelve Ministries.”

“Earned? Glamouring isn’t earning anything,” Archer spits.

“You say we’re nothing alike,” Arlo says, wagging a finger in Archer’s direction. “But we’re more similar than we are different. You glamoured your way to the head of the Nightcrawlers, no?”

“That’s different.”

“Archer,” I whisper. “Don’t engage. He’s trying to get under your skin.”

“Why would I do such a thing?” Arlo taunts. “You, missy, are highly underestimated. Claude would be quite proud to see how clever you are.”

“Keep my dad’s name out of your mouth.” I step forward, but Archer puts his arm up, blocking me from getting closer.

Arlo’s eyes flash with amusement. “You clip your butterfly’s wings,” he murmurs while staring at Archer.

“You glamoured him,” I say, balling my shaking hands into fists. “My dad. Into making dreamdust so you can gain power.”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Arlo says, swiveling around and taking a few small steps away. He sighs, then glances back at us. “Your father was the one obsessed with power. With magic, Tasia. He used you for one of his experiments, without fear of consequence.”

“No,” I snarl.

“Dreamdust was a creation gone wrong,” he says. “It was meant to be a way to give humans magic for a short duration, to let them become fae themselves. Your father does not work for me. I’m only here because he brought me here—to experiment on me.”

“But the glamour,” I say, dumbfounded. “He said he was glamoured.”

“Did he?” Arlo challenges.

“Yes,” I whisper.

“What were his exact words?”

Archer gives me a quick shake of his head, presumably to warn me to stop speaking, to stop giving Arlo information, but I ignore him, desperate for the truth.

“He said his letter was glamoured to be read by my eyes only, and that wasn’t the only thing glamoured.”

Arlo gives me a pitying look. “Pretty little butterfly, your father was not glamoured.”

My vision goes spotty as my head swirls. “What?” I croak out.

“For all his faults, your father is an intelligent man, Fantasia.” He clears his throat, straightening his jacket. “He needed help, and I wanted my freedom back, so we bargained.”

“What was the bargain?” I whisper.

“Power. He wanted power. I traded my power for my freedom.”

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