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Shay stared at her mom, eyes burning, mouth tight and shaking. She turned toward Balthazar. “Let me out.”
Balthazar’s small, sharp eyes flicked to Athene.
“Let her go,” Athene said, glaring at the back of Shay’s head. Shay didn’t have to see her mother to know that; she could feel it. She would know that hateful stare blind. “She’ll be back.”
Balthazar stepped aside, and Shay stormed out, down the drafty old hallways that were lined with windows of blue glass. Every breath she drew caught in her throat, but no tears fell—she didn’t let them. She had already cried once today, and one time was too many.
Athene had said that Roman was a gifted actor, but Shay refused to believe it. He might put on a mask when he stood on the world stage, but she had seen the real side of him—she was sure of it.
She was sure of it.
64
The Hollow
YVESWICH, STATE OF KER
Going to the Hollow should have felt like going home. Instead, simply the sight of it sent an icy prickle up Roman’s spine.
The buildings here were old and dark, each house, lamp post, and winding, cobbled road a masterpiece that favored eyes that appreciated the strange and the unusual. The roofs were peaked like witch’s hats, and every lamp post was carved with designs of wolves, bats, sickle moons, and spiderwebs. Every graveyard in the city was in these parts, headstones jutting up out of the earth like broken bones and jagged teeth. Magpies cawed without rest, and pockets of fog seemed to hang around perpetually in nooks and crannies that were never smiled upon by the sun.
Roman would have loved it, had his dad not taken everything from him.
His Grandfather Slade had died when Roman was young, so he never had the chance to get to know him. But Roman figured the man must’ve been a real prick to produce two horrible sons. He’d had a third, as well—Dean Slade. The one brother who’d never had kids but should have. Dean was the good apple—a take-no-prisoners fucking badass, but in a good way. Roman had admired him when he was a kid; on his tenth birthday, he’d wished on blown-out candles for Uncle Dean to switch places with his dad. To this day, Roman sometimes wondered where he’d be now, had Dean been the one to guide him instead of Donovan.
The House of Black loomed at the end of a street up ahead. Bigger and blacker than every other house on the block.
Sayagul was curled up on the dash. She lifted her head as Roman rolled the car toward the house. I can understand why you are reluctant to kill your dad, the dragon said gently, her slitted eyes weighed down with emotion as she stared at the house. But perhaps, instead, you could kill Athene.
Roman tried to smile and failed. Still, he joked, “Killing is your solution to everything, isn’t it?”
Sometimes, the dragon said, it is the only solution. When a soul grows so black that it taints the light around it. She peered up at him with regretful eyes, warm breaths puffing out of her snout. You have had your light blackened, my dear Roman, and it has been truly haunting to watch. But you may still be able to help her.
Roman drew a shaky breath. “Maybe,” he said softly.
The gates rolled open, and Roman drove in, hands squeezing the wheel, through the arches of bone that framed the mouth of the driveway like a giant’s broken ribcage.
Sayagul climbed down from the dash and vanished into his shadow. I’ll be right here with you, she said, if you need me.
Roman parked and cut the engine.
There were a lot of vehicles here—not surprising. Too bad the spells were so thick, or he would’ve checked for Paxton’s aura before bothering to go inside.
Roman hoped the kid wasn’t here—for Pax’s benefit and his own.
With a steadying breath, he opened his door and got out. Crossed the dark yard on legs that felt like jelly. It was funny how he’d faced every monster known to man, and somehow it was the one in that house who managed to scare him the most.
He walked up the steps, swung open the creaky door, and strode inside. Head high, shoulders back. He ate up the corridor with long, determined strides, heading straight for the three men drinking on the leather sofa straight ahead.
Donovan’s looks were the only thing he had going for him. He looked a lot like Randal, actually; aside from a few minor differences, the two could have been twins. Don’s eyes were a brighter blue than Randal’s, and he wore his hair longer, the dark, wavy strands slicked back, the ends dusting his collar. The Slades had good genes, Roman could admit that—the only pro that came with being born into this family. But good looks didn’t make up for being sick in the fucking head.
The two men sitting next to Don were Trey and Simon—two big Shadowmasters in their early forties who were known more for their brawn than their brains.
Roman loathed them both, but mostly he loathed the man in the middle.
At the sound of his approach, Donovan looked toward the hallway, his cutting gaze dragging up Roman from head to toe. “So you finally decided to show up,” he sneered. He stood, swigged from his beer, and set the bottle down on the coffee table with a bang. “Where you been?”
Roman’s pulse was already hammering. “On a job.”
