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Fates, Avery wanted to tell her. Her lips trembled, trying to form words that were poison in her mouth.

The stabbing sensation in her mind increased. She could feel her nails dig into her own skin. Her growl dissolved into a violent cough, the taste of iron on her tongue and bile burning the back of her throat. Her vision blurred, she shakily cradled Saga’s face in her hands. Saga was a blur of color, but Avery could feel the curve of her cheekbones and the warmth of her skin.

She could hear the music of Saga’s voice, but that was all it was now. She couldn’t make out the words, just the melody.

She could not speak her name in connection with the crime. She could not speak her name. But Saga knew that woman by something other than her name. It was easier to speak, but only in the same way that taking a knife to the shoulder instead of the heart wasn’t inherently fatal. The words choked out of her in such a rasp she could only hope they were audible to more than just her. “The Addler.”

30If you were to trace “cold iron” back to its original meaning, it referred to a weapon that was created without the heat of a forge. There was nothing magical or more lethal about this method, it was merely how weapons were made at the time. In short, cold iron being the best weapon against the fey did not mean they were weak to the material, but rather when going against impossibly powerful creatures, you would best be armed.

The misunderstanding about fey being weak to anything made of iron may have been cleared up centuries ago, had those who’d relied on it lived to tell the tale.

31Yes. The Fáfnir. Though it should be said mortal mythology may have exaggerated and slandered here or there. His death was greatly exaggerated…for now.

32A magical vow or contract. Typically punishable by death if broken.

Chapter 15 Saga

Don’t let her hit her head! Saga’s arms quickly secured around Avery just as the other woman’s form went slack and crumpled. “Avery?”

No answer.

Was Merrill capable of tending to the living as well? Saga was already kneeling, and it would be easy to shift Avery into a fireman’s carry and take her back to the morgue. It would be incredibly undignified, but she would be able to get her to safety.

No. Don’t move her, damn it, you know better than that. Check her vitals, assess her condition first.

Saga braced Avery’s limp form against the wall, allowing the structure to take some of the deadweight as she eased her companion to the floor.

Avery was breathing. That was good.

Saga checked her pulse—it was rapid but strong. She didn’t know what she’d just witnessed, but she’d seen blood droplets when Avery coughed, and that was never good. Was this magic? Was it linked to Avery admitting Iona gave her the sword? She’d gone to great pains to say it without actually saying the iele’s name explicitly.

“What is going on here?” The tenor of the voice was authoritative, unfamiliar, and possibly Italian.

“She collapsed. I think she’s stable, but I don’t know what happened.” Should Saga tell them what she suspected? Would that put Avery in more danger? She looked to the owner of the voice as they crouched beside her.

The first thing she noticed was the unnatural gold of their eyes and the sharpness of their cheekbones and jawline. They were beautiful and regal, and something about their presence warned her they were not to be trifled with. Their gaze swept first over Avery then her. “You must be Saga.”

Saga’s face felt warm. “Yes?”

They smiled, flashing their teeth, which, while not fanged, still seemed to carry a threat. “Fiore Castello. I believe you know my wife.”

“Oh.” Saga knew them by Avery’s somewhat altered descriptions. Still, if Esteri trusted them, then Saga could. “I think she worked around some sort of spell that would normally prevent her from saying something?”

“Worked around?” Fiore repeated the words. They took Avery by the chin. “Hemlock? Can you hear me?”

“Shhh,” Avery murmured. “Ih hurss.”

Fiore looked less impressed than if Avery had just vomited on their shoes. “She’ll be fine.” They released the changeling’s face, letting her head loll back. “But let’s get her out of the hallway.”

“Where?”

“There’s an entrance to Hygge down the way. I can carry her.” By carry, it turned out Fiore meant lifting and holding Avery by the back of her collar like one might grab a cat by the scruff. “Follow me.”

Saga had no trouble believing the creature leading the way was merely the human form of a dragon. Their frame and height appeared relatively similar to Avery’s—yet the changeling was now slung over their shoulder like a tote bag, still held by the scruff, feet barely dangling off the floor. It was…quite a sight.

Fiore was quite a sight. Saga wouldn’t dare call their auburn locks a long pixie cut (the term was far too cutesy), but she had no better description for it. It was layered, had excellent body, and fell around their face perfectly without product. That must have been a perk to shape-shifting: effortlessly perfect hair. Must have been nice. All in all, they looked much how Saga had pictured them, between Esteri’s adorations and Avery’s grumblings. There was a femininity to them, but it was almost princely in its presentation. Their suit was so tailored to their form she had to wonder if they’d been sewn into it. Black brocade and a deep emerald cravat. This was someone who knew the value of fine things.

And it appeared their presence demanded respect. No one stopped them. No one even gave them a second look, despite Avery’s ridiculous predicament. People even nodded to them, politely murmuring “Magistrate Castello” in greeting.