Moira’s gaze flicks to me.“I didn’t accept.”
“Why invite a banshee?”Cruz asks.
“Because banshees hear death before it arrives.”Moira’s smile is thin.“They want entertainment.A prophecy with their wine.”
I stare at the envelope.
“She’ll want to go,” Cruz says quietly.
I look at him, but he doesn’t back down because he knows he is right.Briana will hear about this and demand to be involved.She’ll lift her chin and tell us she survived once already.She’ll say we don’t get to bury her in safety.
And every protective instinct I own will claw itself bloody trying not to lock her away.
Krishka takes the envelope.“What will this cost me?”
Moira smiles again, but it’s weaker now.“A favor from the Obsidian Coven.”
“No.”
“A small favor.”
“No.”
“A medium favor.”
Krishka stares.
Moira sighs.“Fine.Nothing.But I do have a warning.”
Krishka’s eyes narrow.“What kind of warning?”
The banshee looks at me, and the fine hairs on the back of my neck rise.
“The escaped woman carries more than fear,” Moira says.“There’s something in her blood.Something old enough that the vampires didn’t recognize it at first.But Lucius will.”
My heart stops.“What does that mean?”I ask.
“I don’t know.”
I step closer, and the candle flame bends toward me.
Moira doesn’t move away, but her throat bobs.“I truly don’t know.Only that they tasted value in her before they understood why.If Lucius sees her, he won’t merely want her back.He’ll keep her.”
A sound rips out of me.Not human and not words.The black cloths over the mirrors lift as if caught in the wind.
Krishka slams the envelope against my chest.“Enough.”
Her magic bites at my flesh.I grab it, fingers crushing the paper.
Cruz says my name, but I hear none of it for a moment.I only see Briana in my mind.Her throat.Her knife in her shaking hand.Her voice telling me to trust her to stand.
Moira’s expression shifts again, softening in a way I despise.“You love her.”
The room goes still.Cruz stops breathing, Krishka’s eyes move to me, and I stare at the banshee.
Love is too small a word for the thing inside me.Too clean.Too human.What I feel is older and darker and worse.It’s rage with devotion.It’s need wrapped around restraint.It’s the beast in me kneeling to a woman who doesn’t know she has already changed the shape of my world.
But I don’t say that, I say, “She is not yours to taste.”
