Page 14 of Fallen Court

“No,” I whimpered. “He doesn’t know anything about this. Please.”

“You could cut it off,” Titania suggested from across the corridor. “Finger and all.”

I was going to pass out.

Oberon considered for a moment. “That might backfire. I have a better idea.” He strode toward the door and beckoned for his sister to follow him. “Tomorrow, we send for a witch.”

Chapter Four

Lach

Sweet laughter echoed in the darkness. I turned toward the familiar sound, neurons firing into action. “Cate?”

A flicker of movement caught my eye, and I whipped around as a figure fled down the corridor, out of sight.

“Cate!” I called her name, my voice clawing and frantic, sprinting after her. My body slowed when I glimpsed her. I fought against the invisible force.

Just a little too far ahead.

She turned, arms reaching for me, a silent plea etched in the space between us. Desperation surged through my veins, propelling me forward. The ground turned to mud, swallowing one foot. The other. With each step, I sank farther into the muck as if it was dragging me toward hell.

I fought harder, need pounding in my chest as mud consumed me to the waist, then the chest. My arms strained toward her, tearing at the mire.

Cate’s eyes locked with mine, a storm of emotions swirling within them. “Why did you let me go?”

Her words cut sharper than any blade, slicing through the dream, and I woke, gasping. Shafts of buttery light fell across the guest room bed, and I forced myself up. I was still panting as I stumbled, bleary-eyed, into the living room.

Fiona, my perpetually disapproving sister, flew out of the kitchen. “Where the hell were you last night?” Her eyes zeroed in on my neck. “And why are you bleeding?”

“I was bleeding,” I corrected her, scrubbing at the caked-on blood. “I went to get information. Has anyone called?”

I’d wandered through the city until dawn, needing time to think before I found myself stuck in a cramped apartment with my sister, her increasingly hostile witch girlfriend, and too many cats. I didn’t remember passing out. I checked my watch. Durant should have heard something by now.

Fiona didn’t answer me. “Was that before or after you tried to get yourself killed?”

I made my way to the kitchen, where I’d plugged in my new phone. Romy, my sister’s better half, didn’t look up from the stack of grimoires in front of her as I passed. But she scratched absent-mindedly at the dark baby hairs that peeked from her silk head wrap—a sure sign that she was pretending not to eavesdrop.

“Where were you?” Fiona repeated as I grabbed my phone.

There were no missed calls. I resisted the urge to throw it against the wall.

“Lachlan.”

She wasn’t going to let it go, and this apartment wasn’t big enough to contain the fight brewing between us. “I ran into a little trouble at Durant’s.”

“You went to see the arms dealer?” Her tone sharpened.

Romy finally turned at this revelation, studying the wound on my neck. “Is he the one who shot you?”

“Probably,” Fiona snapped, crossing her arms. “Every time my brother leaves New Orleans, he gets shot.”

Which was why I rarely did. But I shook my head. “I cut myself shaving.”

“I know a grazing wound when I see one, Lachlan.”

Historically, it was a bad sign when my sister used my formal name.

“I thought maybe you’d forgotten since you became a pacifist.”