Blowing out a breath, I cast off the lingering resentment and dig through my makeup bag. Like most parents who get in way over their heads, Dad did the best he could with the resources he had. So if all it takes to free us from the constant death threats and beatings from his “collectors” is me accepting my destiny as a piece of garden-variety arm candy for an elite mage nearly twenty years older than me… well. What choice do I have?
Besides, even if I wanted to turn my back on my blood and run, where would I go? Dad’s my only living relative. I’ve got a high school diploma, no money of my own, nomagicof my own, and zero connections.
I don’t even have my own phone.
Pathetic, right? If my life was a Tarot card, it’d be the Eight of Swords. Tied up and trapped, no escape.
“Don’t give me that look, Luce. At least I can still rock a dark matte lip like a fuckingboss.” I waggle my eyebrows at the raven perched on the bathroom vanity and apply the lipstick. Then, brandishing the tube like a tiny dagger, “They can take my freedom, they can take my hopes and dreams, but if they want my lipstick, they’re gonna have to kill me first!”
Lucinda buries her head under a wing, totally unimpressed with my theatrics.
Tough crowd.
“Bright side?” I cap the lipstick and drop it back into the bag. “Getting married means I’m no longer fated to become the Brooklyn Bird Lady who wanders the streets feeding cheese sandwiches to crows and cackling at the neighborhood kids.”
This gets a little caw, and I rub the spot between her wings with my thumb, making her squint in pleasure.
“It’s true. Brooklyn Bird Lady is the avian-obsessed equivalent of Crazy Cat Lady, an honor already taken by Edith Zelasko and—”
“Westlyn, who on earth are you speaking to?” The shrill voice cuts through the hotel suite like an ax to the skull as my stepmother barges in to the bathroom, smashing the last of my pre-wedding peace to smithereens. Lucinda squawks and makes a beeline for the open window in the bedroom.
Not for the first time, I stare out after her and wish on every star in the sky I could follow her. Just jump out that window and sail over the East River, over Brooklyn and Long Island, all the way across the Atlantic. I wouldn’t stop. Not until I got to England.
Eloise would find me, though. She always does. That’s just how shadowmancers are.
Now, dressed in a blood-red mermaid style gown only slightly less macabre than mine, holding court in my hotel suite like the regal dark queen she fancies herself, she curls her lip and glares at me. Seriously glares. Like my choice in feathered friends is a personal affront to her good sensibilities.
“You and your birds.” She crosses the room and slams the window shut, then the curtains, blocking out the bright moon. “I hope you said your goodbyes tonight, Westlyn. A mage like Hunter is unlikely to tolerate your idiosyncrasies. He certainly won’t coddle you the way your father and I have.”
She says this as though they’re a single force unified in their life’s purpose to raise a Proper Young Witch. But Eloweasel, as I like to call her when I’m feeling petty, is a relatively new edition to the family. They’ve only been married for three years. I’m pretty sure she’s got one foot out the door, anyway.
That’s what happens when you marry a man for his once-prized name, only to discover his name is about as valuable as the pigeon shit you dodged on the walk over. Why she’s so invested inmyhappily ever after is beyond me. As long as we make it through the ceremony, Dad’s debts will be eradicated and the alliance between our two families made official—that’s the deal he struck with Hunter’s father, the Archmage. Whether Hunter hates my birds or my lipstick or even the sex? Completely irrelevant.
“Well?” I force an enthusiastic smile, ignoring her comments as well as the dread bubbling in my gut. “How do I look?”
She rakes her gaze over my entire body, from the braids her personal stylist created right down to the hem of the dress her personal seamstress designed, then back up again. Her answering smile doesn’t reach her beady brown eyes, but I’ll take the fake smile over the genuine scowl any day.
Fussing with one of my torturous hairpins, she says drily, “Aren’t you a sight.”
It’s not quite a question and definitely not a compliment. I wait for her to elaborate. She doesn’t.
“Oh!” Tearing her attention from my hair and yanking out a few strands in the process, she casts a frantic glance around the suite. “Where’s the bouquet? It was supposed to be delivered at six p.m. sharp!”
“It’s—”
“Incompetent fools. I’m telling you, Westlyn, if you want anything done right in this life, you have to do it yourself.”
She whips out her phone and jabs at the screen. I manage to stop her mere seconds before she goes full-on Karen on some poor, unsuspecting florist.
“They delivered it earlier,” I say. “But I asked the woman at the front desk to come take it away. Whatever flowers they used, I’m pretty sure I’m allergic.”
“Allergic?” She presses her hand to her heart and gasps. Clearly, this news has ruined her weekend. “You don’t have any allergies. You’re vegan, for the love of the Morrigan.”
Resisting the urge to roll my eyes and recite the long list of the allergies I’ve suffered with since childhood, I say, “As soon as I took a whiff, I got dizzy. The longer they sat in the room, the worse it got. I seriously felt my throat closing up. Lucinda didn’t like them either—she squawked the entire time they were in here. And not her happy squawk, which is slightly more—”
“Westlyn.” That muscle in her jaw ticks. The one that always tells me I’ve done something supremely offensive before she even says the words.
“It’s not that I don’t appreciate your efforts,” I rush to add, turning up the wattage on my smile. “They really were beautiful. I’m sorry. Sometimes my body just… justreactsto things. I can’t control it.”
