Page 102 of The Dark Lord’s Guide to Honeymooning (and Other Acts of Tyranny)

“Resistant,” he finished, his jaw tight. “I know.”

“So how are we supposed to reroute an entire nexus when we can barely get the Heirloom to respond to simple commands?”

Kazimir placed a hand on the door. “The Alchemist claims they have a ritual. One specifically designed for this task.”

“And you trust them?”

“No.” He met my eyes, and I saw the same helpless frustration I felt reflected back at me. “If we do nothing, the ley lines are gone forever. If we try and fail—”

“We might make it worse,” I finished softly.

He was quiet for a moment. “There’s still the matter of performing this ritual without revealing that the Heirloom is currently fused to your skull.”

I glanced toward the door. “I think they already know.”

Kazimir’s eyes narrowed. “What makes you say that?”

“The way they looked at me when they mentioned the Heirloom. That comment about hoping we’d trust them with the full story ‘one day.’ ” I touched my temple reflexively. “They’re too clever not to have figured it out.”

“Brilliant.” Kazimir’s tone was dry. “So we’re attempting a dangerous ritual with someone who knows our greatest secret and who we have absolutely no reason to trust.”

“When you put it that way, it sounds like a terrible idea.”

“It is a terrible idea.” His expression was grim. “But we don’t have a choice, do we?”

I sighed. “On the bright side, we can tell Griffin we know what happened to the ley lines.”

30 Say the Wrong Thing Repeatedly

(It’s a Special Talent)

Kazimir

We’d spent the rest of the day listening to the Alchemist drone on about ley line theory, ritual components, and the precise magical frequencies required to isolate a nexus. Under normal circumstances, I’d have found it fascinating.

Today, I’d barely heard a word.

The whispers had started again—faint at first, like the hiss of wind through dead leaves, but growing steadily louder as the day wore on. An insistent scratching at the back of my skull.

As we walked back to our apartment, Arabella and I maintained a careful distance from each other. We hadn’t spoken a word about last night. We’d been perfectly civil in front of the Alchemist—the picture of Dark Lord and lady, united in purpose if not in heart.

But now, alone in the corridor, each step echoed too loudly, each breath felt too shallow. Arabella walked beside me, close enough to touch but miles away in every way that mattered.

I should apologize. I knew that. Last night at the Gilded Gallows, I’d crossed a line. The Twilight Wine had heightened my senses, my desire, my possessiveness—but it hadn’t robbed me of my faculties. I’d known exactly what I was doing when I tried to compel Arabella to stay behind while I pursued Pip.

She defies you. She will always defy you.

The whisper slithered through my mind, cold and venomous. I shook my head, trying to dislodge it.

At our apartment, Arabella headed straight for our suite. I followed her inside, steeling myself for the conversation we needed to have.

Before I could utter a word, Arabella strode to the balcony’s double doors and flung them open. Cold wind rushed in, carrying the scent of ozone and distant rain. For one wild moment, I thought she might be planning to throw me off the balcony.

Then Nyx swooped down from the darkening sky, her massive form barely fitting through the doorway. The shadow dragon’s liquid silver eyes fixed on me with unmistakable hostility as it lumbered past me, heading straight for our bedroom.

“What’s she doing?” I asked, the first words I’d spoken directly to Arabella in hours.

“Going to bed,” Arabella replied, her voice neutral. Too neutral.