Page 125 of Veil of Blood and Bone

Suffering does strange things to a person.

I wing my way to the turret of the Victorian and settle on the top of the weathervane, its bronze horse worn by age. I can’t go in yet.

Because across the street, Wren stands, his head ducked, his spell in place.

He’s not alone.

Acid churns beneath my breastbone. Why on earth would he meet with a Himfrey, Norse coding Fae of the ice court?

What the hell are you doing, Wren?

Questions pile up inside me in a litany of voices. Not all of them are mine.

Look at that. A vile laugh scalds through me. Hours and he’s ready to stab in the back. How will this cycle be any different with him already playing both sides against the middle?

Instincts screech. Confront him. Shift and interrupt the conversation.

What holds me back?

My heart thuds hard enough for them to make me out in the night.

A Hrimfrey in this world is a signal of the end. Will you let him drag you down again? Forest. Be rational. Be vigilant.

Betray him before he betrays you.

I shake my head. This isn’t me.

Lightning cracks, and I tighten my hold on the bag.

I can’t allow the Hrimfrey to know who I am, an imposter masquerading as the beast I used to be, or the man I used to be, the one who only emerged once a warrior woman smiled at me.

With a squawk, I take off around the side of the house, mind filled with Helene rather than the odious voice of nerves.

How many nights have I dreamed of returning to a home I couldn’t find?

How many days did I wake to burning eyes and an acrid taste along my tongue, grasping at ghosts?

She’s here now, and so am I. There’s comfort in that. A shaky breath sends a tremble through me. The worst time for weakness is when none of us can afford to break.

I claw through the night’s embrace and land on the crumbling porch that rings the exterior of the house, transforming with the hazy town lights behind me.

A sneer in Wren’s direction does nothing. He can’t see me around the angle of the house. What is he up to?

I grip the duffel and kick down the door. It swings open, creaking in greeting. Another nudge pushes it shut, and I take the stairs two at a time, pausing on the footstep-worn walkway outside the apartment.

Is this the right thing to do?

Has Wren always walked in circles with beings who make their lives a litany of dishonesty? Wariness creeps closer and threatens to replace trust.

The apartment door opens, Helene backlit by lamplight and her eyes dark. “What are you waiting for? Come in.”

She steps aside with her gaze dipping to the duffel bag. Boots shake the floor, rattling Christmas lights strung from slender nails on the wall.

Nicholas stands in the shadows of his long leather trench coat with a look raking Helene top to bottom.

I know the look. I know what it does to her. A flash of jealousy lands before I stifle it. “Ah. I’ve interrupted something?”

My grin stretches and hides a sharp edge.