And with Rook’s tablet in my lap and my fae amulet clutched tight, I read the first words my mother has ever given me.
My dearest daughter,
I have only just learned of your existence, and I’m already hopelessly in love with you. I’m writing these letters to you—dairies, if you will—for many reasons. A gift to my beloved daughter, so that you may know how much you mean to me. A record of all that led to your creation, so you may understand your legacy. And, most importantly, a warning.
You are in grave danger, my love.
I don’t know when you’ll see these letters—how old you’ll be, where you’ll be living, what horrors you might’ve already endured. But if you’re reading them, it means the worst has indeed happened. It means I’m gone from your life. It means Brian is also gone—taken from you by death or some other nefarious force, for he would never leave you willingly. You must believe that above all else. Brian Avery fell in love with you the moment I told him about you, just as I did.
I only wish I could love him the way he loves me. The way he’s always loved me. But for that, I’m grateful. It means he will care for you as his own, even though you were created by another man.
I am filled with regret to know that this is how you are finding out, but again, if you’re reading these letters, all of our safeguards have failed.
The man who fathered you isn’t a man at all. He’s fae. A high born dark fae of the Wintermoon court. That name is likely insignificant to you—in fact, I pray that it is, for that means you’ve yet to encounter the fae from your father’s realm. His people.
I will explain everything to you, my love. So perhaps these letters are more than just a gift, a record, and a warning.
Perhaps they are a confession. I beg your forgiveness.
Your devoted mother,
Madison
Chapter Twenty-Four
WESTLYN
I read the first letter several times, the gargoyles silent, the crackling flames in the fireplace the only soundtrack to the revelation that will forever separate my life into “before” and “after.”
Before, I was a magicless daughter of a powerful witch who died during childbirth and a mage who never really wanted me.
After—now—I’m a half-witch, half-fae hybrid with magic I’m only just beginning to experience, and a legacy that—if my mother is speaking the truth—has put me in even more danger than the shadow magic society and the demon prince.
Gathering my courage, I take another breath and scroll to the next letter. I try to stay focused on the words, to read them slowly and carefully, but soon my eyes are moving faster than my brain can absorb anything, my mind eager to uncover my mother’s secrets.Mysecrets.
“She was experimenting with fae magic,” I say, still skimming. “Somehow she became trapped in the fae realm. A Wintermoon female befriended her, inviting her to court.”
“It’s how they entice mortals,” Draegan says. “An offer of friendship, a chance to see another world. To indulge in all the majestic wonders of the fae courts. But when it comes to the fae, there arealwaysstrings attached.”
I nod, reading on. “She met—him,” I say, unable to call him my father, “at a royal masquerade ball the female friend invited her to. He was attending with some of the other nobles, dressed in black and violet silks, wearing a golden mask.”
Her words paint the picture of a story I know all too well—a fairy tale beginning.
From the moment I laid eyes on him, there was no one else in that ballroom. Tall and sinewy, with hair the color of the darkest night and eyes like burnished silver. Even through the mask, his eyes entranced me. He asked me to honor him with a dance, but I was the one who was honored.
We waltzed for hours. Days, it seemed, his eyes holding me in his thrall, his laughter like a drug, his scent equally intoxicating. By the time the music faded, I was already in love with him.
We created you that very night, my love. Under the fae moon and more glittering stars than you will ever see in the human realm.
I skim through the overly poetic description of how I came into being. Not because I can’t handle the idea of my mother having sex, but because the longer she goes on, it’s so clear to me—an outsider looking in on a rose-colored memory—how manipulative he was, how deceptive.
She’s a tiny rabbit in a snare, and he’s nothing more than a wolf toying with his meal.
I tell the guys about the ball, the way the night ended.
“But after a few more nights,” I say, “it sounds like he wanted her to return home.”
At first, I didn’t want to leave,my mother writes.But he insisted I must, promising me he would call for me again—that I could return to him soon. Trusting this, I returned home.
