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We’re two steps across the bridge when I come to my senses.
“Put me down!” I shriek, loathing the fear cracking my voice.
Did he read my thoughts? Does he know my weakness? Mortified, I pound his back, but the rucksack tips, sliding over my head, tangling my arms against his body, and threatening to throw us off balance. Before I know it, I’m roughly deposited on solid ground and scramble to my feet.
“You’re welcome,” he mumbles, cheeks bright from exertion.
I am speechless, still mortified, disorientated, so I’m unprepared for his silent shove between my shoulder blades, urging me toward the keep’s open gate—a dark stone archway between two smaller towers.
It takes a hot minute to right my pack. Somewhere along the way, the tie holding my braid fell out. Wind blasts my long hair in my eyes, but I stumble through the gate. Once inside, he waves his hand. Thorny vines weave a thick web between the archway, blocking me from the outside world. I’ll have to climb thirty feet of granite wall to escape.
And cross a moat.
I’m fucked.
Hugging my cape to my trembling body, I face the keep.
Fox storms away, directly over a grass courtyard big enough to train a small army. Smaller outbuildings are to the left and right of the three-story castle. More dead trees surround the field, gnarled branches creaking in the quickening breeze. I shudder. A storm is coming.
Another two smaller towers punctuate the boundary wall further down, but none are as high as the tower at the main residence. It must be at least seven stories high. The gathering wind makes window shutters bang against the granite. Cracks in glass panes are a common sight. Paint peels from the wooden lattice. The climbing rose on the façade is dead.
Six people wait ominously on the porch landing, but only three are Sluagh—Legion, Bodin, and Varen. I set my eyes on the latter with curious suspicion. He is the spitting image of his portrait—pale skin, arresting eyes, high cheekbones. Two dimensions fail to convey his chameleon beauty. Depending on his angle, his features are sometimes hard, sometimes soft. His jaw is unshaven. Cool lantern light paints a blue, sometimes purple, sheen on his dark hair. Something vital is missing from his haunted eyes.
Disturbed, I move my focus to the pretty brunette beside him. Her fists bunch over a white apron, catching her dress skirt. She’s either excited or angry. Her neighbor, a tall, lanky man, clasps his white-gloved hands. His stained work shirt and messy tawny hair don’t match his suspenders and bowtie. It’s like he woke up this morning and couldn’t decide whether to be the gardener or the butler.
One Sluagh left unaccounted —Styx.
Fox strides up the steps and barges through the door without acknowledging the others. Legion arches his brow at Bodin. A second later, Fox returns and murmurs something to the womanthat the wind steals from my ears. Then he’s gone, the big carved door slamming behind him.
Movement two levels up. A curtain twitches in one of the many windows. Some are dark, and others are candlelit from within. But whatever was there, isn’t now. Oh, wait.There. A long pink tongue finds a gap between the curtains and licks the paned glass. I glimpse white bone and flatten my lips to stifle a laugh. The baby Wild Hunt probably wants to be out here but isn’t allowed. Like my sisters, he’s probably making a mess in that room in retaliation.
This place is falling apart.
Good.
As I cross the lawn toward them, Legion descends the steps and stops halfway. “Welcome to Shadowfall Keep.”
As I climb, he studies me from head to toe. Probably wondering why I’m not running in the other direction at all the creepy things I’ve already seen. But I recall their house in Elphyne before we moved in. Weirdly, it was in a state like this. They had no idea how to maintain a house—were lazy, or were too busy spying and scheming.
His gaze lingers on the dark patches of my trousers. He gestures at the gardening butler and says, “Finch will take your luggage to your room. Cricket will see to your orientation. Note that any goings on within these walls shall remain inside. Understood?”
He pauses. Our gazes collide, and I hold my breath. Is he going to acknowledge who I am? Or has he paused because he’s horrified by the sight of my cringe-worthy face? It was easy to forget about the curse during the procession—too many distractions. But now the excitement’s over, and I’m surrounded by the most beautiful creatures ever to exist, I feel my ugliness like a brand on my forehead.
He stares for longer than appropriate. The urge to shrink is overwhelming.
“We haven’t formally been introduced,” he eventually says, voice a velvet purr. “I am Lord Legion, sworn Knight Commander of Avorlorna and the First of the House of Shadow. You may address me as sir or my lord.”
“I know who you are,” I reply curtly.
His brows knit as if he doesn’t understand my abrasive tone. “And you are Willow O’Leary-Nightstalk, correct?”
Sigh. “Yes.”
“This is Lord Bodin, Knight Marshal and our Second. Address him as sir or my lord. And this is... this is our Varen.”
Just Varen? My gaze swings to him. Why the pause?
Bodin gently takes Varen’s arm, saying to Legion, “Perhaps, brother, formal introductions should be in the privacy of the keep.”
