“Draegan,” she whispers, her breath feathering across my lips. “What are you so afraid of?”
“I’m afraid of… I…” A single tear slips down my cheek, and I swallow hard, all those sharp glass edges slicing me anew. Forcing myself to look into her eyes again, I cup her cheek and say softly, “When I look at you, when I hear your laughter, when I touch you, I feel myself… falling and I… It is a thing I simplycannotallow.”
Her mouth parts, emotion gathering in her eyes like a storm.
“Westlyn, you… you need to know the truth about me. About us. The past and the curse. What it truly means.”
Her eyes widen, and I press on, forcing myself to keep going.
“You know it’s not just my story, but itismy duty to tell you.”
“Why?” she asks.
“Because what happened to us is my fault.” I take her hand, and in the center, I drop the heart-shape stone I’ve kept by my bedside every night since it was given to me as a man. “This was given to me by someone very special to me. It’s… it’s the only thing I’ve managed to keep from… before.”
She nods, and I realize she’s likely seen it before, every night she’s spent recovering in my bed. I’ve never hidden it.
“A.C.” She traces over the carved letters with a light touch. “Are they initials?”
I nod, bracing myself for what comes next. “Anastasia Caldwell. She was… Sheis… Anastasia is my daughter, Westlyn.”
Anastasia. Daughter.The words are foreign on my tongue, the taste of them like blood and ash coating the back of my throat. I haven’t said either aloud in centuries. There was no need; my men knew her as a human girl. Played with her. Chased her around the barley fields until happy exhaustion finally overtook her.
They grieved her as I did, as we grieved all the ones we lost.
And in the time since our banishment began, no one has ever earned my trust enough to hear her name or what she was to me—until now.
Tears fall from Westlyn’s eyes in earnest. She doesn’t speak, and I spare her the agony of trying to find words for a horror that can never be eased with them anyway, instead filling the silence that follows with the story of how her gargoyles came to be.
Chapter Nineteen
DRAEGAN
“The gargoyles and I—Rook, Jude, Augustine, and all the stone creatures of this city we’ve worked so hard to protect—we were men of Britain once. Humans. Friends and neighbors in the village of Blackmoor and the surrounding towns, fifteen hundred years ago.”
Westlyn gasps.
“I know we don’t look quite that ancient,” I say. “But sometimes, Westlyn… Sometimes I feel the weight of those years with every breath. Like my bones understand they were meant to turn to dust long ago and still resent me for making them carry me around all these centuries.”
She curls her fingers protectively around the stone, her eyes never leaving mine.
“In those days,” I continue, “most mortals still believed in magic. We knew the fae were real even if we couldn’t see them—we’d all grown up with stories of the so-called ‘good neighbors.’ And for the most part, we knew better than to provoke them into showing themselves. It was best, we all agreed, to silently acknowledge them, respect them from a distance, and allow our kinds to peacefully co-exist. But over time, humans became more brazen, intentionally taunting the fae, luring them into traps and forcing them to reveal their secrets. Their magic.”
Anger flashes in her eyes. “Goddess, this is a recurring theme in all Rook’s library books, too. Wherever something rare and magical is found, humans aren’t far behind, lining up to trample it.”
“Never underestimate mankind’s unique ability to destroy the things they can’t control or understand.” One of the candles sputters out, and I reach over to re-light it with one of the others. “Eventually, the fae grew tired of the torment, and called upon their dark kin for aid—dark fae of the Wintermoon court and its vile king, Verrick.”
Goosebumps pebble Westlyn’s bare legs, a chill vibrating through her body, head to toe. All the color bleaches from her face.
Wintermoon has that effect.
“It was a desperate measure, even for them,” I say.
“How do you mean?”
“The dark fae aren’t like the others.Allfae are tricksters, most of them cruel ones at that. But the dark fae of Wintermoon are downrightmurderous. They have no love for mankind—never have. When they heard of the atrocities humans were committing against their kin, Verrick mounted a swift, coordinated attack.”
“On your lands?”
