Chapter One I crept into the mouth of the alley. My heart pounded hard against my ribs, until the sight of my target weighed it down with dread. I was too late. The fae I’d followed cradled his victim’s lower back with one hand, pulling her against him. The other hand was splayed against her pale face. The wind whipped his suit jacket back, revealing his deceptively lean figure, and swept his dark bangs into his eyes. Those tricolored eyes sparkled in the alley’s half‐light and his lips pulled into a shallow smile. Like most fae, his catalogue‐model looks were all part of the seduction. Dreadfully beautiful, he barely moved at all, just held her still. Held her close. The woman looked up at him, devotion widening her innocent eyes. Bespellment. I’d only been seconds behind them. Seconds that could have saved her. Fear trilled through me, chased by something darker, hungrier. A memory hitched in my thoughts—a moment such as this one; a life in my hands, and with it came the terrible desire for more. I inched forward. The persistent wind pushed at my back, carrying with it snippets of laughter and catcalls from nearby bars. Another step and the wind suddenly dropped, allowing a dense quiet to settle. Tension crackled across my skin, a sense of time slipping through my fingers. I was too late to save her, but I could stop him from harming others.
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“Hey!” My fingers twitched, seeking the daggers strapped between my shoulder blades. I could reach back and slide them free, but I didn’t want this to escalate, for the girl’s sake. The fae wasn’t the most dangerous thing in the alley. “Let her go!” My shouts echoed. “She didn’t want this.” He pulled his gaze away from his victim’s and for a few seconds confusion muddied his face. He saw only a silly American girl. Who was I to stop someone—something— like him? He didn’t know what I was, or that my ordinary appearance was camouflage. His flat smile grew and opportunity gleamed in his eyes. He shoved the girl to the ground and bolted right for me. I fumbled over my shoulders for my daggers, grasping for the handles, but my fingertips slipped over their smooth surface, and he tackled me around the waist, slamming me against a wall. Breath whooshed out of my lungs, my head smacked against brick and needles of pain sparked around my skull. He bit me— sunk his vicious little pearly teeth through my jacket into my shoulder and crunched down. I let out a cry and, not for the first time, wished I’d listened to Reign. He was right —I’m not ready. The fae recoiled with a snarl. His upper lip curled. “You’re not even real.” He swept a hand across his mouth and spat to the side. I would have replied with something clever and kneed him in the balls but the pounding in my head throbbed louder with every wheezing breath. It wasn’t just the pain. I wanted to lash out, but I knew it wouldn’t stop there. I wasn’t even sure if I could be stopped once the quiet, hungry part of me broke free. He smiled a salacious smile. “Are you fae?” He pushed off me while running his appraising gaze down my body. “You’re weak.” His eyes narrowed. “I think you need her more than I do.”
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His senses were probably telling him that something about me didn’t add up. Clearly, I wasn’t just another silly girl, but I didn’t look fae, so what the hell was I? He added a small, disbelieving laugh, but I got the impression that laugh was more for his own sake, especially when I caught his hesitation. “I’m not like you.” I reached over my left shoulder and plucked a dagger free. “You were right with your first guess. I’m not real.” Recognition flashed in his eyes. He was catching up. He snarled and staggered back a few steps. “No, you’re not fae. You’re worse.” He kept his gaze trained on me. Those beautiful eyes were filled with promises; the kind that killed, but now they also held a tight glimmer of fear. He slid his gaze away toward the main street and, keeping me in the corner of his vision, he hurried away. If it wasn’t for the pounding in my head I’d have chased him down, but Reign’s warning, and my own rattling fear, held me back. That fae would blend back into the London nightlife; a touch here, a touch there, and he’d hunt again. I failed. The wind whipped up the trash, tossing the sound of distant police sirens into the mix, and my head throbbed harder. What was I doing here? I’d failed and he’d bespelled a girl and walked free. She whimpered, rousing me from my thoughts. The alley tipped and swirled when I moved away from the wall. I was hurt, but I’d heal. Unlike the girl. On her knees in an oily puddle, she blinked up at me. Her eyes were vacant and glassy. Nonsense babbled from her lips. The fae hadn’t used physical force. That wasn’t their way. Beauty was their weapon. Sensual words, desirable looks, whispered promises and seductive smiles. There wouldn’t be any physical evidence of the assault. The damage was deep inside. He’d bespelled her and absorbed her draíocht—the life 3
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force the fae thrived on—all in the space of a few moments. Moments she’d never get back. Moments that would change her life forever. I reached out a hand—some part of me too human to see her suffer—but snatched my trembling fingers back before it was too late. My touch was just as toxic as the fae’s. ‘You need her more than I do.’ I stepped back and swallowed around the knot in my throat. “I’ll get help.” She said nothing, just gazed vacantly into the space where the fae had been. *** Reign had told me his kind could steal draíocht hard and fast, but the fae in the alley was the first time I’d seen one of them so blatantly flout the law. Some people asked for it, some paid for it. Others—like the girl—didn’t deserve it. ‘You’re worse …’ Those words played over and over as I frowned at my bloodied and pale reflection in the mirror. Behind me the TV blared out news about the rise in missing persons cases across London. The reporter’s words echoed around the vast underground chamber I now called home. Despite the fairy lights; the colorful tapestries depicting a world I’d probably never see; the pool table and half a dozen couches, the place known as Under still felt huge and empty without the fae to fill it. They’d left almost three weeks ago, driven out by events at the Millennium Dome, when their spider‐queen had revealed the truth: the fae weren’t beautiful. They were monstrous. And the people of London had let them into their homes, their lives. They’d loved them. Wanted to be them. But not any more. London had fallen out of love with the fae, at least officially. 4
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I eased my jacket off my shoulder, hissing as it brushed against the bite. A quick glance toward the door confirmed I was still alone. Echoes travelled far in these forgotten spaces. The shadows were deep, down here. I wasn’t the only one left roaming Under’s tunnels and I did not want to be interrupted while patching myself up from my disastrous hunt. I popped open the first‐aid kit I’d collected on my way through Under and spread its contents over the pool table. Selecting a handful of antiseptic wipes and gauze, I angled myself side‐on to the mirror. A dark patch of blood had soaked through my top and run down my arm where it had dried in flaking streaks. This was going to hurt. I pulled the neck of my top down over my shoulder, teeth gritted against the throbbing pain, and got a good look at the bite. The wound was clean but ragged; more of a tear than a bite. Angry welts crowded its edges. It looked as bad as it felt. One‐handed, I tore open a wipe with my teeth and fumbled with the packet. It slipped from my fingers. I crouched down, scooped up the wipe and paused. A tickling sensation fluttered against my thoughts, pulling my attention toward the door. I didn’t need to look to know I was no longer alone. Reign was here, and it wasn’t human senses telling me he was close. That same tickling tugged at something within me, like a spider testing a single strand of its web. It had been present since we’d killed the queen—a connection that had my insides knotting for all the wrong reasons. A lot of things had changed since the queen died. As I straightened, I avoided his reflection behind mine and focused on my shoulder. The wound wept a little blood. I wiped at it, smearing blood across my pale skin. This would have been a whole lot easier without him watching me. I briefly flicked a gaze his way. He was wearing a creased shirt, half unbuttoned, with the sleeves rolled up, and low‐slung black pants. He somehow managed to throw on clothes like he didn’t care, 5
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revealing tantalizing glimpses of a physique that could stop a girl’s thoughts on a dime, and he made it all look like some happy accident that he was so damn alluring. He’d leaned his hip against the pool table and crossed his toned arms. A familiar little flutter skittered low. That too was a reaction I couldn’t control. Before the queen had spoiled it all, Reign had been the city’s poster boy for the fae— lead singer in London’s hottest rock band. Women wanted him; men wanted to be him. He hadn’t lost any of his charm, or his confidence. But there was more to Reign than the spoiled rock‐star persona he presented to the world. Behind those tricolored eyes, behind the quick smiles and the swagger, an ancient nightmare waited. The queen had held his reins when she was alive. Now I did. And it wasn’t something either of us was comfortable with. I took the wipe from its packet and pressed it against the bite with a wince, then snuck a look at his face. He had the kind of dark, thoughtful eyes girls swooned over. A mouth that was quick to smile, and lips that were equally quick to curl into a fierce snarl. At that moment, his expression revealed nothing. He’d probably mastered blasé centuries ago. I didn’t stand a chance at reading him. “Say something,” I said softly, once again intently focused on my shoulder. “I’m thinking,” he replied, his voice smooth and tempting, like silk woven through fingers. “Don’t hurt yourself.” There was a time such jibes would have crackled with good humor, but now they fell flat. When we’d killed the queen, I’d believed everything would be fine. That we’d be back to normal. Whatever normal was for us. But in the last few weeks, while we’d hidden from the Fae Authority, I’d lost him somewhere among all the unspoken words.
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He’d watch me while I had my nose buried in one of the fae’s books, or when I studied the tapestries, trying to learn the way of the fae, but when I looked up, he’d look away, desperate not to catch my eye. We barely spoke at all, except for him to warn me what not to do, or where not to go. Don’t roam Under. Don’t fight the fae. Don’t do anything rash. Don’t, don’t, don’t … I missed the Reign who had introduced me to chocolate cake, who told me to live, who once held me in his arms and said, ‘We’re all alone, Alina. But you and I can be alone together.’ Where was that man? I lifted the wipe away from the bite. More blood welled inside the wound. I tossed the wipe away and grabbed another. Maybe I needed stitches. I couldn’t go to the hospital; I didn’t exist on any databases and I couldn’t pay for treatment. I rummaged one‐handed through the packets of gauzes, but I didn’t know what I was looking for. How do you treat fae bites? Could I just stick a plaster over it and hope for the best? What if it got infected? I wasn’t even sure if I could get infected. Reign plucked a pair of latex gloves from the first aid box, tugged them on, and set his uncompromising glare on me. “Let me help.” “The touch—” He lifted a brow, giving me a droll I‐know‐what‐I’m‐doing look. At least one of us did. Turning my face away, I worked my arm all the way out of my top and watched his reflection as he went to work on the bite. Even with the gloves, shivers prickled my skin. Extended skin‐to‐skin contact with me tested the control he had on the beast coiled inside of him. It was an effort just to be this close to me. The times he’d lost control, he’d turned. And each of those times, he’d killed. I wanted to tell him it wasn’t his fault. But my telling him didn’t make him believe it. He’d lived with the curse of Cu Sith longer than the fae had lived in London. My words didn’t change a damn thing. Some days I wondered what I could possibly change. I 7
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wasn’t human. I wasn’t fae. I wasn’t even real. The queen had created me to do her bidding while she was trapped beneath London. Her ancient draíocht lived in me. The same draíocht that could summon Cu Sith. “What happened?” Reign asked, bringing me out of the memories before they could drag me deeper into despair. “I tracked a fae. He bespelled a girl and stole her draíocht right out in the open. He attacked me, probably thinking he could shock me into submission. Apparently, he didn’t like how I tasted.” I had a quip lined up—how he’d bitten off more than he could chew—Reign might have chuckled before, but one look at his hard expression killed it. I sighed, wishing so much was different. “They’re ignoring the curfews, hunting in public, and what’s worse, people want them there. Nothing is being done. It’s going to get worse.” “Alina.” A shiver trickled through me at the sound of my name on his lips. “You’re not ready. We don’t know how long—” “How long I’ve got left?” I interrupted, knowing all too well what he was going to say. “What if he’d provoked the part of you that’s fae?” He’d focused on the bite mark while his fingers worked to examine it. “It could have burned you out.” Red‐hot pain radiated through my shoulder. I hissed and flinched away from him. “I can’t just sit around here doing nothing, Reign. I won’t. The fae are more dangerous like this. It’s not like before, when you were all in hiding, pretending to be myths. You’re everywhere now, and you’re—they are … angry? Afraid, maybe? They’re lashing out. I don’t know how to fix it, but I can help. I need to help.” A muscle fluttered in his cheek, as though he carefully chewed on the words, mulling them over before speaking aloud. “You’re too afraid to fight.” He narrowed his eyes on
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the wound and leaned in to get a closer look. “What were you planning to do? Talk him to death?” “I’m not afraid. Not of them.” Reign shook his head, dislodging a lock of dark hair so it curled in front of his eye. We both knew he hadn’t meant I was afraid of the fae. He brushed his hair back with the knuckles of his gloved hand and finally met my gaze. Inches away, he might as well have been in another room, or another city, because he certainly wasn’t here with me. That look in his eyes … it was distant, and laden with regret. I missed him. More than I cared to acknowledge. When we’d fought the queen, we’d been close. Now he guarded himself ... from me. “You could help,” I said, and knew the moment the words left my lips that I’d said the wrong thing. A shadow fell over his eyes. “You think I don’t want to?” He yanked his gloves off. “You think I’m not going crazy down here, walking these bloody tunnels?” He balled up the gloves and tossed them with force onto the pool table, turning his back on me to lace his fingers through his hair. My daggers rested beside the first aid kit on the table. Reign hadn’t touched my skin, but the hound stirred just below the surface of his. I could feel its hunger tugging on mine. It wanted out; freedom. He wouldn’t allow it to escape. Just as long as we stayed apart, he had control. Frustration, anger—mostly involving me—would wake the beast. He always fought it. He’d been fighting it for years, but the strain had started to show on his face. It wasn’t getting any easier. I’d started wondering if maybe it wasn’t just me that called to the hound in him. Perhaps it was easier for him to blame me than face the guilt of his own crimes. Reign 9
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had killed the four powerful fae Keepers who had imprisoned the queen. He’d told me he wasn’t good. He could easily have wanted to let go of his control, just for a little bit. But people died when he did. One slip in public, one mistake in front of the cameras; the killing could happen again. He wasn’t free. He was too recognizable to be free. The second he was spotted in public, the Fae Authority would close in. He was London’s Most Wanted; by the police, by the FA, by the people who didn’t know any better. “At least you have your freedom,” he said softly, clearly thinking the same as me. For however long that might be. Days. Weeks. Until I stole someone’s draíocht. Or didn’t, and faded away as a result. I snatched up a wad of gauze, pressed it to my shoulder and worked my top back on—all within easy reach of my daggers. The hound still stirred inside him, an ever‐ present simmering of draíocht that set my teeth on edge. It wasn’t all about freedom. The anger behind his eyes, the frustration behind his words—he’d lost his life, a life he’d worked hard to build for himself, a life he’d loved. Like all fae, he thrived in the spotlight, and now he had to resort to stalking the shadows. So much had changed. Days after he’d met me, he’d lost everything he’d ever cared about, including Shay. Shay, his … whatever she was to him. Lover. Friend. I’d yet to figure it out. She’d left him alone down here. He wouldn’t talk about her. He wouldn’t talk about anything. “You don’t understand,” he said, hands still locked in his hair, still facing away, clearly unable to look at me. I tugged my jacket back on, ignoring the burn in my shoulder. I understood a lot more than he believed. “That’s right, because I don’t know anything. I was created weeks ago. It’s not like I understand anything you must be going through. You’re over two hundred
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years old and I’m nineteen going on one.” He muttered something under his breath— likely a curse. “Is this bite going to do any lasting damage?” I snapped. He dropped his hands and turned. Say it. Just say it … I thought. Stop pushing me away—talk to me! He stayed quiet, but those eyes … they said so much. I plastered an I don’t care look on my face to hide the hurt and hoped he bought it. “No, you’ll probably heal in a few hours.” He braced his hands on the edge of the pool table and bowed his head. I didn’t imagine the trembling through his shoulders. My being around him would just make it worse. “Good—then I’m going back out there.” He flicked his gaze up and glared through dark lashes. “Let me teach you how to take a little draíocht.” “No.” “Just enough that should you feel yourself burning out—” He straightened. An undercurrent of old draíocht pulled tight between us. If he moved forward, I’d go for my daggers. “No.” “Alina,” he growled. “Ignoring this won’t make it go away!” A step closer, and I lifted my chin, defying the order in his tone. “Is that what you’re hoping will happen with me?” He saw my glance toward the weapons and either knowingly or on instinct, took a few steps back. “You need to learn …” The tension in his shoulders loosened, the fight draining out of him. I’d stolen draíocht once, and still dreamed about the sensation of falling into the mind of my victim and how it had felt so terribly good. My unwilling victim had been a friend. 11
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The only friend I’d had. Now he probably hated me, but he’d dream about me too because he didn’t have a choice. “I’m not like you.” I regretted the words as soon as they were out of my mouth. You’re worse, the fae in the alley had said. I wasn’t sure what I was. Reign flicked a hand toward the door. “Go then. Do what you have to do. But if you won’t help yourself, don’t expect me to.” *** The bar that my hungry fae friend had visited was a dead end. I spent an hour watching the crowd come and go, but it appeared as though the fae who’d bitten me would be the only customer with pointed ears that night. Another hour, another club. This one with a sprinkling of fae among the crowd. I didn’t need to see them to know they were there. Voices chatted a little louder, flirtatious laughter tinkled among the throbbing music and a thread of excitement wove through the customers jammed into the basement bar. Even after the events of a few weeks ago people still adored them—maybe even more so because of the risk. I was technically immune to their touch. The 1974 Trinity Law meant nothing to me now. Look, but don’t touch. Touch, but don’t feel. Feel, but never love. Life had been easier when I could blame my feelings on bespellment. As it was, everything I felt for Reign— the anger, the desire, the fear—was real. The crowd jostled at the bar, buffeting me from all sides. I shouted my order at the barman and tried to pick the fae from the crowd while I waited. One stood nearby, taller than the majority of people here. Glamorous, like a 1940’s movie star, she smiled easily and dipped her chin, as though demure, but her tricolored eyes sparkled with hunger. 12
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Her date, with his ruddy cheeks and eager eyes, would no doubt make a nice draíocht snack. I paid for my drink and brought it to my lips. My gaze flicked over the rim of the glass to a guy who was sitting too still at the end of the bar. Ruffled chestnut hair and soft, mocha‐brown eyes which were now slightly narrowed, probably by the fact he knew me and was already figuring out the quickest way to the exit. Detective Danny Andrews. He’d gained a few lines around his eyes and there was a dash of stubble on his chin. Maybe he was on leave. Although that wouldn’t account for the shadows under his eyes. I could lie to myself all I liked, but that didn’t stop a knot of guilt lodging in my throat. I swallowed my sip of drink and tried to drink the guilt down with it. The music droned on, drowning out everything but my own regrets. It usually takes three or more touches to bespell someone, but the process begins from the first touch. Andrews and I had touched; just fleeting, inconsequential touches here and there, neither of us aware I was toxic. Taking his draíocht had sealed his fate. I hadn’t meant to hurt him; I’d been dying at the time. In fact, if he hadn’t been there, I might have fizzled away to faerie dust, or whatever I was made of. He’d saved my life, and in return I’d taken away his free will. My gaze wandered back to where he was seated, but a young man and his date had taken Andrews’ place. I carved my way through the crowd, drink sloshing over my hand every time someone nudged me. My thoughts were too loud, the air too thick with the smell of sweat and the sweet taste of alcohol. I tasted it, smelled it all, and pushed deeper into the sea of people. It’d be easy here to brush up against one of the fae—touch skin‐to‐ skin and lose your mind.
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Colored lights lit up faces. Most eyes reflected it, but those of the fae absorbed the kaleidoscope. I counted at least two more fae breaking the curfew. The crowd finally spat me out at its fringes, where I found a long‐haired male fae seated at a table with another man, enthralling him with tales of how he’d been caught by the Fae Authority al fresco with a ‘date’—which I heard as ‘victim’. He’d braided half his golden hair in a tightly woven plait, revealing a face too angular to be handsome, yet he still managed to draw surreptitious glances his way. Most fae cut their hair, trying to blend in with modern trends, but not this one. He wasn’t here to blend in. “I ran,” he said, adding a sly little smile. He seemed young; maybe early twenties, but they aged slowly. This one could easily have been twice the age of his audience. “You don’t fight the FA unless you’re sure you can win.” Or maybe it was the attitude that gave the impression of youth; although they all had a knack for cocky arrogance. With one eye on the long‐haired storyteller I leaned against the wall and absently sipped my drink while scanning the crowd. A fae target rarely escaped the Authority once the elite group of warriors had them in their sights. This one was already on borrowed time. I might have lost track of the biter from the alley, but this fae appeared to have a history of avoiding the Authority. My night might not be a total disaster. I kept my new target firmly in the corner of my vision. His rapt audience of one reached a hand under the table and rested it lightly on his thigh. The tale continued, their gazes locked. There was nothing I could do and, technically, nothing I should do— yet. He slid his hand up the fae’s thigh and out of my line of sight. I found myself wondering if I looked at Reign like that. I hoped not, but had to admit I probably had given him that expression of wide‐eyed wonderment more than once. Considering I’d been designed to kill Reign, I’d had a funny way of going about it. 14
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“Alina.” I froze. Thoughts of Reign drowned beneath a flood of memories that weren’t mine. “Andrews.” He was close; right behind me. He should have left, should have gotten as far away from me as possible. Why hadn’t he? Because he can’t. I should have been the one to leave—just walk away right then, but what would happen to lover‐boy fae and his victim? I’d already had one failure that evening. I wasn’t letting this one slip through my fingers as well. “Small world, isn’t it?” Andrews had the kind of quaint English voice Americans adored and, to my American ears, he sounded chipper. I’d have smiled if I hadn’t immediately wondered whether his tone was a little too enthusiastic—if bespellment drew him to me. A small ache in my chest added to the growing guilt choking me. Just get it over with. I turned, and wished I’d walked away. He smiled a tentative, unsure smile. It slipped across his lips but didn’t really stick. The man I’d known, my first and only true friend, was a shadow of the man he’d once been. His eyes had dulled; the spark of intelligence snuffed out by the poisonous thoughts in his head. Shoulders slumped, face taut behind a mask of denial, he’d aged in a weary, rugged way. “Andrews, I …” I’m sorry? That wouldn’t cut it. Sorry was pathetic. Sorry didn’t bring him back, sorry didn’t remove the memories from my head or his, nor did it do anything to stop me wanting to take his draíocht again, because it had felt so damn good the first time and what difference would it make? He was already mine. I couldn’t make it any worse. I gulped a few mouthfuls of my drink, hoping the alcohol would chase away all the wrongs. 15
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“It’s okay.” He scratched absently at his head, fingers threading through his short locks, and then tucked his hands into his jeans pockets. “You’ve got to get your kicks somewhere.” I blinked. “What?” “I’ve had a lot of time to think about what happened. It was for the best. You need draíocht. It’s … natural, I suppose.” “No.” I frowned, appalled that he’d associate me with the other fae working the club. “I’m not here for that.” “You have to survive. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to live.” I leaned back against the wall and closed my eyes. This wasn’t Andrews talking, not really. Oh, he was in there somewhere, buried under the artificial need, but bespellment had a hold of him. He could have been trawling these bars for weeks, looking to get his fix of the fae who’d gotten under his skin—me. “Do you hear yourself?” I asked so softly that half of me hoped the thudding music would bury my words. When I opened my eyes again, he’d moved closer and now leaned a shoulder against the wall beside me. “I’m fine,” he said, but kept his hands tucked deep inside his pockets. “Really, Alina. I … I know what to expect. I’m not a naïve fae‐fan. I saw the signs in my sister. I know I’m bespelled, but the difference is that I can manage it.” My lips tightened into an uncomfortable smile. You can’t manage bespellment. It manages you. “No, you can’t. No one can.” He drew in a shaky breath and briefly wandered his gaze toward the crowd. “Look, I’m not hiding anything, okay. It’s not easy. Right now, I’m struggling to think much beyond wanting to touch you.” He shrugged his shoulders, drawing attention to his hands locked in his pockets. “But I am thinking. I’m still me.” 16
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Sorry. That useless word was perched on the tip of my tongue again. Instead, I looked into his eyes, really looked. Was he really still in there, still in control? “Why are you here?” I asked. “I …” He paused and gritted his teeth, flexing a jaw muscle. “There’s something I have to do. It’s not about you, though.” “Thank you,” I said. It still sounded like sorry, and from the gentleness in his eyes he knew it too, but he understood and to me that meant everything. “For being straight with me.” “What’s done is done. We—I just have to keep moving forward. I’m not about to let bespellment take me. I’m not that easy. I can speak to you and walk away. I don’t need you.” His smile this time was warm and real. No, he wasn’t easy. He was strong and intelligent and he deserved more from me than a cold shoulder. He pushed off the wall and merged with the crowd until I lost all sight of him among the herd of people and rippling lights. Good. That was good. He wasn’t as far gone as the girl in the alley. There was still hope for Andrews. I finished my drink, rolled the cool empty glass against my cheek and closed my eyes. He might be managing his bespellment, but what he didn’t know was exactly how I’d imagined brushing my fingers across his hand and igniting that spark, drawing all of him into me exactly like before. I’d taken his draíocht to survive. I didn’t have that excuse again. These thoughts were toxic, but that didn’t stop me from having them. Music drummed into my skull. The air thinned and the crowd swelled, pushing against my carefully constructed façade of normalcy. Add to that the ache in my shoulder and the bruise pulling on my ribs and I was in no condition to be hunting 17
City of Shadows © Pippa DaCosta 2016
wayward fae. Reign was right. That didn’t mean I was going to let him have the satisfaction of knowing it. The music cut off so quickly it left my ears ringing. Murmurs rippled about the bar, and then a deeply resonating voice carved through the quiet like a death knell. “By decree of the Fae Authority, any and all fae found on these premises are now under arrest.” Silence smothered everyone and everything. “Resistance will be met with deadly force.” I jerked onto my tiptoes. The fae known as the general loomed inside the entrance doorway, flanked by six red and black clad Fae Authority warriors. Each stood still as watchmen, daggers glinting at their thighs. Not a smile, not a flicker of anything in their eyes but complete devotion to their cause. The general—well over six feet of perfect fae genetics complete with sharp cheekbones and a jawline so severe you’d crack your knuckles taking a swing at him—scanned the crowd with laser‐keen eyesight. I ducked my head low and tried to make myself small and uninteresting. The last time we’d met, I’d been trying to kill him with every muscle, every thought, every intention. Now, wounded and somewhat less ‘charged’ with the queen’s draíocht, I was in no condition for round two. I hadn’t technically survived the first round. Whispers filtered through the crowd. The fae here knew the general by reputation, if not immediately by sight. The chances that he’d been just passing by were slim. He was here for a reason. That reason couldn’t be me, but there was a fae here who’d slipped by the FA at least once already. Lover boy bolted from his seat. He made it all of five feet before an FA dagger sliced through the air and punched him in the throat, pirouetting him. He staggered and crumpled to his knees. A few bleats of alarm from the crowd punctuated an otherwise heavy silence. 18
City of Shadows © Pippa DaCosta 2016
If I moved, I’d be seen. My best chance was to stay still, keep my head down and weather the storm, maybe slip out the back exit— “You!” Andrews’s bark snapped my head up. “You fae son‐of‐a‐bitch!” Oh god, no. I tried to get a good look at what was happening but the crowd erupted. People scattered and surged, some pouring through the back door, some clawing at others to get away. Fighting my way forward, ignoring the burn of pain in my shoulder, I caught glimpses of Andrews lunging for the general. I pushed ahead. He was going to get himself killed. What was he thinking? My fingers twitched, daggers calling to me. When I finally extracted myself from the horde the FA had Andrews on his knees, his arms yanked behind him. A fae had one hand twisted in his hair and the other was drawn back, long fingers curling into a fist. “Don’t!” I slid my daggers free, grateful for the cool steel against my warm palms. The warriors’ heads whipped up. Indignation burned in their fae eyes. They recognized me. “If anyone hurts him, they’ll be dancing with the queen’s killer.” Adrenalin surged through me and, deep inside where I locked all the uncertainties and fear away, hidden desires stirred awake. The general’s silvery eyes narrowed on me. “Construct,” he snarled. “Hello again, General.”
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City of Shadows © Pippa DaCosta 2016
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