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It must be Emrys. The tugging in my chest has become a vibration at his proximity, making me feel breathless. My shoulders bunch. I swallow the urge to scrape my nails across his pretty, porcelain skin. A million scenarios run through my mind. Run? Kill him now? With what? I have no weapons, no escape plan, no excuse.
Vaguely, I register her profuse apologies, but everything falls away as that feeling inside me thrums like the buzzing of wings. The sound grows to a roar in my head, ventilates my lungs with his scent, and curls something hot around my heart. It’s like every cell in my body is drawn to him.
Turn around.
Turn around.
I turn and gasp as Emrys’s eyes snap down to mine. The moment we connect, the restless thrumming in my chest calms. His eyes aren’t wholly black like the portrait. The cruel twist of his angelic features slackens in surprise...surprise, not disgust. The longer we stare at each other, the more his eyes bore intome. His irises are a ring of rusty red surrounded by black. Like dried blood.
It should frighten me, but instead, I think about the crayons I used as a child.I was too scared to use the bright, angry red and would pick the subtler one between. Poppies, persimmon, sunsets, and my mother’s hair. The association unsettles me, because it’s a far cry from the dried blood of my first impression.
Study your targets,Rory would say during our lessons.Know them intimately—their habits, routines, strengths, and weaknesses. Find the clues on their bodies, beneath their nails, and on their skin.
Emrys’s taloned, draconic wings are missing. The tattered silken membranes should be draped from his shoulders like a dark, regal mantle, but he wears a black cape over his military dress suit.
Something lurks in his eyes as his features harden again. For a moment, I think he recognizes me. Alfie did earlier, so I must look similar enough even with Peablossom’s glamour.
His long lashes sweep lower with barely veiled frustration. He prompts, “Name?”
He doesn’t remember.
“What is your name, mortal?” he snaps impatiently. Not a single drop of etiquette exists in his body.
“Willow,” I answer, studying his reaction. “Willow O’Leary-Nightstalk.”
Not even a twitch in his jaw.
My vision blurs. Blood roars in my ears. The fucking bastard doesn’t remember my name. It’s a punch to the gut I should have seen coming. Titania said she made them forget, but I honestly expectedsomething.
They ruined my life. Hatred has consumed my every waking hour since I learned of the lengths of their manipulation.
“A private word, Exhibitor O’Leary-Nightstalk.” He gestures toward one of the archways leading outside.
Lost memories of the battle bubble to the forefront of my mind, flashing images in my mind’s eye.
Darkness enshrouds me. Screams. Cries. Snarls. I try to lever off the corpse to stand, but my arms tremble, and I slip on bloody flesh.
Featherlight pressure surrounds my limbs. My stomach drops as ghostly hands lift me upright. For a horrifying moment, I am weightless, powerless. And then my feet touch the ground. Confused, I look around as the darkness clears and six sets of tattered wings swoop, their owners twisting to kneel around me in a circle. The fallen angels bow like knights before a queen, their wings like veils spilling behind them to cover the gore and death.
That was the moment Legion touched my ankle, gasped in horror, and said I was not their queen. They were wrong. I’m nothing.
I almost pull that dagger from Emrys’s belt and stab his eye, but something doesn’t feel right. The Sluagh are telepathic and can reach into anyone’s mind uninvited, but he asked for my name. If he has no wings, normal-ish eyes, and no telepathy... then maybe his wraith form doesn’t leave his body either. Maybe he’s not as powerful as before, just as I’m not. One thing is for sure: I need more information before launching an attack. I’ll have to play the game.
As we step outside, the bone-deep cold seeps through every hole in my clothes. I look for a ray of sunlight and find a brave shaft punching through the trees. Considering the bleak weather, it will have to do.
“Here is good enough,” he says, but I take three more steps until the sun lands on my cheek and face him with my chin held high.
Look what your queen did to me,I scream in my mind.Come closer and see.
I fold my arms and return his glare as he meets me under the waning sunlight. A feral edge laces his movements, but no signs of discomfort from the sun. He should be burning, but he doesn’t even flinch—no perspiration beads across his brow or upper lip. The only sign of movement is his shadow writhing on the ground from dappled light cast through rustling leaves.
If he’s not affected by the sun, then everything I knew about their weaknesses in Elphyne could be wrong. Desperately gathering my wits, I remember why he brought me here. Goodfellow didn’t like me staring at them.
“For the record,” I drawl. “Refusing to let anyone look you in the eye is just plain stupid.”
Pure scorn fills his gaze. “Are you a simpleton or a fool?”
“Apparently, I’m nothing.”
