Page 9 of Golden Star

Most alarmingly, he’s holding aswordin front of him, and his knees are bent, as if he’s ready to attack. And it’s not pointed at the leopard, who’s now retreated to his side.

It’s pointed atme.

“You’re in winter territory,” he says, low and dangerous. “What are you doing here, summer fae?”

“What?” I push myself up to stand, my brain spinning, unable to keep up.

“Don’t play dumb. I know what you are,” he says, gesturing at the stream. “You just used your water magic.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I remain still, overly aware that if I make any sudden moves, this man mightattack me with his sword.

Not to mention theleopardnext to him, which he seems completely unconcerned about.

This is insane.

Absolutely, completely insane.

He steps closer, his gaze sharp, although my focus is mainly on the tip of his sword.“You revealed yourself when you attacked Ghost,” he says.

“Ghost?” I ask.

“My cat.” He raises an eyebrow, a flash of what might be considered amusement crossing his face.

“Your cat,” I deadpan. “The one you lost, and then found near the bar.”

“Correct.”

“Your cat is a leopard,” I say, unsure why this is surprising me more than his holding a sword and accusing me of using magic.

Not to mention the little detail about how I died and came back. And, judging by how I’m feeling right now, I’m completely unharmed.

“I was dead. I was up there watching you when you found me,” I say, pointing to the top of the silver-leafed tree. “Then I saw the leopard—yourcat—and I somehow came back. To help you.”

“By drenching us with water?” he asks, and as ridiculous as this conversation is, I’m glad it’s stopping him from lunging at me with that sword.

“I didn’t touch the water, so I don’t see how I could have splashed you with it,” I tell him, although now that I’m thinking about it, I did feel… connected with the water when it came at them. “If I did something with it, I didn’t realize it. Everything’s a bit hazy right now. It must be a side effect from dying.”

“You weren’t dead,” he says simply. “You had a pulse.”

“Well, I sure looked dead from where I was standing. Well, sitting.”

His expression hardens, all traces of amusementgone. “You’re playing at something—trying to distract me,” he says. “Clearly a spy from the Summer Court.”

“Is this some sort of game?” I ask. “Run around with a sword and pretend the forest is a magical realm?”

“Everything’s a game in our realm,” he replies swiftly. “You, of all people, should be well aware of that.”

Part of me wants to argue with him. To tell him he’s insane.

But there’s no denying there’s something different in these woods. The snow sparkles unnaturally, like tiny crystals of magic have settled into it. The air hums with energy, and a shimmer weaves through the trees, giving the moonless sky a silvery hue.

It’s magical. Completely, undeniably magical.

Just like the man with the silver eyes in front of me.

“I don’t know anything about magic, or fae, or other realms,” I tell him, desperate now—and wishing he would put away that sword. “I’m just a bartender from Maine, okay? I’ve lived there my whole life.”

His grip on his sword’s hilt tightens, his gaze locked on mine.

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