It’s E. I recognize the flavor of his magic. He’s protecting me.
I lift a shaky hand toward it, my mouth slightly open in awe. My fingers slip through the barrier with ease, the now-familiar bite of E’s magic coating my skin.
The mist thickens, and I quickly jerk my hand back to safety.
One by one, the monsters retreat. Then, with eerie synchronicity, they cross the room and melt into the mirrors, slipping back into the sceawere.
A cold wind brushes my ribs, dulling my spark. My fiery snakes strain along my arms, then slither back into their cave. Icy beads of moisture freckle my arms, and my new magic compresses into a single point in my chest—a cinder.
A shape pulls free of the fog near the doorway as the cold specter of the Mist King steps forward. According to Mabel, he isn’t truly here, yet this projection—this phantom—carries the full weight of a monarch caught between life and death. A king who can reach across worlds without ever setting foot inside them.
The Mist King turns his mask toward me, and the ice in my veins crystallizes into pain.
His quartz mask gleams with the same steady ivory sheen I remember. It’s smooth as polished bone, with no features and no eyes, like a nightmare shaped into an oval stone. Mist clings to his heels, flanking his silhouette like a throng of loyal hellhounds.
If the hollow image of a Fae king can smother my flames so efficiently, if only a vision of him can slow my breathing and make me weak at the knees, then what would his real presencedo? What kind of ruler casts a shadow that sucks the oxygen out of a room?
“Why so blue? I just want to have a conversation,”he finally says.
The voice scratches my ears—cold, deep, terrible. Its gravelly bass tone coaxes my most sacred fears to the surface.
“I don’t want to speak with the monster who killed my aunt,” I clip.
My fire pushes upward again, stubborn and desperate to rise. The mist meets it and hisses once more. My spark bends, folds, and dims.
Fire meets mist. Mist chokes fire.
The Mist King raises his chin and grazes my bubble of light.“That’s quite…unexpected.”His blank mask zeros in on my face.“Tell me your name. Or your mortal friend in the other room dies.”
“Maxine Bloodsinger.”
“Your entire name.”
His sinister voice wrenches the truth out of me.
“Maxine Morgan Bloodsinger.”
When Mabel adopted me, I took on her name and stopped using my mother’s surname.
The phantom’s head tilts to the side.“Poor thing, you don’t even know your name. You’re a tough girl to find, Maxine.”He leans in and takes a sniff.“Alas, you’re not the witch I’m looking for.”
“I know you’re not really here,” I grit through my teeth. “Mabel told me you can’t take solid form.”
He tilts his chin in defiance.“One word from me, and my reavers will skin your friend alive, but I’d like to offer you a deal instead. My dear Mabel stole something from me, a trinket you have no use of. A golden spindle.”
My mind reels as I try to figure out what he’s looking for, but nothing comes to mind.
“Leave it in your gardens before the next full moon, and I will stop sending death to your door.”
“I don’t know that I’ve ever seen what you’re looking for.”
“But you know where to look, I bet.”He pauses, his faceless gaze angling toward the changing room.“To show you how generous I am, I’ll let the mortal live. For now.”
I ball my fists at my sides, flames licking my knuckles. “I’ll look for your spindle. But if I find it, you and your monsters stay away from Inverness forever. And that includes Mabel when she comes home.”
I half expect him to tell me it’s too late, that Mabel is already dead, but he nods.
A hint of amusement touches his inner voice.“You drive a hard bargain, daughter of the Dark One. But I accept.”
