“I couldn’t get to the Shadowlands, but I confirmed that Devi is back in Faerie. She set off on a foolish mission to Storm’s End before I could reach her—may the Dark One guard her soul.” Sherubs my arms down to the bandage wrapped across my palm. “Who attacked you? What did he look like?”
My mind flashes back to the gardens and the phantom beyond the iron gates. “I couldn’t see much. His clothes were torn, and he had a white mask covering his face. A bunch of faceless men came for us, but they were obviously his lackeys. And, oh—he called them his reavers.”
“By the Dark One,” she whispers, sinking into a dining room chair. “He’s truly back.”
I turn on the stove to brew her some tea as I recount the attack as best I can.
Mabel shudders. “What you saw was the Mist King, but he wasn’t truly there. He sent a version of himself that exists only in the mind.” She exhales slowly. “My husband, Armand, spent years chasing immortality and taught himself how to slip into dreams, sometimes even into waking thoughts. He’d linger, whisper, and make his victims doubt their own senses until they bent to his will—or broke entirely.
“When the magic of his realm was released from the Eternal Chalice, I assumed a new Mist King had risen, but that was naïve of me.” She meets my gaze, and her voice breaks. “It’s Armand, or rather what’s left of him. He’s back.”
My stomach sinks. “How is that possible?”
“Some fragments of his soul survived in spite of our efforts to destroy him. The melting of the Chalice must have restored enough of his power for him to reach beyond the Islantide.”
I swallow hard. The only Fae supposed to master death is the Winter King, and even then, his ability to survive the harshest treatments sounds more like a curse than a blessing. Winter kings don’t escape death—they endure it. Their hearts keep beating, but the stories say ice slowly consumes them from the inside. They get a little more frigid each day, and a little lesshuman. Whatever power allows them to survive slowly hollows them out.
“What about the faceless men?” I ask.
“The reavers are flesh and bone,” she says. “They’re the result of countless failed attempts to bring the dead back to life. Armand never found the missing piece that would let them truly return. They have no souls, and whatever he did to them warped them into that shape. Thank God you made it inside the house in time.”
I pour us both cups of steaming tea and pass her one before sitting at the table.
The warmth soothes my racing heart. “What does he want?”
“He wants the jewels I stole from him. The Mist King used precious stones to amplify his power. He experimented with corpses and dark souls in his pursuit of true immortality—and came frighteningly close. The Summer King and I suspected he couldn’t be killed, not completely, so we stripped him of his jewels and buried them deep at the heart of the Islantide. The jewels were sealed away, but we told the world they’d been destroyed.”
She exhales, her shoulders sagging. “I hoped that, given enough centuries, the shard of his soul that had survived might have withered into nothing.” Her eyes lift to mine. “I was wrong.”
“If he isn’t dead,” I say slowly, “how did you remarry?”
Fae marriages are until death.
“I didn’t,” she replies. “Not truly. It was a pretense, agreed upon to secure alliances. Shadowlands unions aren’t as public, so no one knew. Before you.”
“Me?”
“You’re the only one I’ve told.” She grips her cup tighter. “If something happens to me?—”
My heart slams. “Don’t say that.”
She cups my cheek. “If I don’t return before the next moon, you need to find a mirror and summon the Shadow King. Tell him about Armand. Tell him that only the last drop of Bloodsinger blood can open the jewels’ tomb.”
My stomach plummets as she goes on. “Armand thinks that means my blood and my children’s blood—any and all of my descendants bearing the name. Let him believe it. It will keep him occupied and buy us time.” Her gaze sharpens. “But you must tell Damian Sombra that Morrigan bore a child. He must protect her at all costs. She is the sole key to Armand’s cursed treasure.”
“But you’re Mabel Bloodsinger,” I whisper. “The last Dark Queen of the Red Forest. The most powerful witch to ever live. You can tell him all of this yourself.”
That earns me a thin, weary smile.
“Be that as it may, I’m getting old. And I can’t protect you outside this house, not until I find some answers. I have to go back to Faerie. You should stay here until I return.”
A boulder of nerves crushes my chest. “I have a job. A fiancé. A wedding to plan?—”
Mabel pats my shoulder. “You won’t have any of that if you die, my darling. I told you the day would come when we’d have to fight for our lives. I just didn’t expect it to come so soon. The reavers tasted your blood. If you go home, you’ll lead them straight to your mortal lover. You’ll endanger him and his family. They have no idea Faerie exists, let alone how to defend themselves against its magic.”
My heart races. She’s right, and I hate it. She’s been trying to pull me deeper into coven affairs for years, and now I can’t go back to my life at all. Funny how that worked out.
“Nick texted me,” I say. “He plans to fly home next week.”
