“Are you hungry?” he asked, his tone telling her he already knew the answer.
She nodded and then quickly said, “I’m just hungry. It has nothing to do with your sleep aid.”
“Sure,” said Reeve lightheartedly. He snapped his fingers, Magic pulsing from them gently. “Food will arrive shortly. Now for business talk.”
Reeve waved his hand, and with a small twinkle of light, a letter appeared before her in the air. Her fingers snagged it, pulling it closer for inspection as she crossed towards him. The emerald green seal was already broken on the letter. Her heart turned heavy.
She didn’t move to open it, despite recognizing the handwriting as belonging to Abraxas.
“What’s it say?” she asked, her voice dry.
“They are coming here in two days.”
Maeve looked away from him and the letter, not having expected a visit. The thought of seeing Abraxas overjoyed her. To ensure his well-being, as well as he could be, was a gift.
But that meant having to see Mal. No. That meant having to see Shadow’s version of Mal.
Reeve contemplated his words carefully before he spoke. “I hate what I am about to say, Maeve. I want to tell you, you have a choice. I want to lie and say you have the freedom to choose if you attend this display of power.”
“But I don’t,” she said softly.
Reeve nodded. “If we are going to right the world, it will require us to play the game.”
Maeve let out a cynical laugh, but there was no disagreeing. He was right. She couldn’t escape facing it. If she was going to try and save Mal, hiding wasn’t an option.
“You couldn’t defeat her the first time,” said Maeve reflectively, no condemnation or judgment in her voice. No, she kept that resentment buried. “And with Mal in this state. . .what plan do you truly have? Beyond a rebellion with some creatures on Heims?”
“The first time I faced Shadow, there wasn’t a prophecy.”
Maeve’s eyes narrowed, her voice growing darker with each word. “A prophecy? Which one? The one that says Mal is the one to defeat her, or the one that says in order to do so, he has to become one with my son? Absorbing his Magic? His life force?”
“Maeve,” said Reeve calmly, “I only meant—”
“I know,” she said tensely. “I’m sure you think at some point I need to accept Maxius’ fate. That I should think of it as some honor only he can carry. But I don’t. I’ll do whatever I can to protect him.”
“Have you considered that if Shadow is removed from Mal’s mind, perhaps Malachite could control—”
“Stop it. Do you hear yourself?” Maeve shook her head. “I can’t imagine how buried beneath her he is for him to. . . regard me the way he does under her possession. She told him to kill his son, and he did not hesitate.”
The words, the truth of them, and their infinite weight hung between them. Reeve’s face showed every emotion she hated in an opponent: pity, consideration, and a light annoyance. His voice held all of those things as he spoke.
“Do you know what drove Shadow to manifest her body? Do you know why she wanted your eyes?”
Maeve refused to answer.
“You are the only one who can draw him out of this.”
She recalled the way the green in his eyes faded beneath her touch. No. Not that.
“You want me to throw myself at him?” she asked, her voice barely audible, as though just speaking the words would taint her.
“No,” said Reeve. “I want you to be mine when he comes here.”
Maeve’s eyes shot up to his as he finished his thought.
“And I want it to strike him so strongly, so violently at his core, that the Malachite you know surfaces.”
“And Shadow? You think she will fall for something so pathetic?”
