Page 141

RIVEN

Gwyn and Avaline have been gone for a while.

Carver and I sit alone in the dining hall, sipping wine.

Not talking.

Achlys has been glued to me since she left, and I can’t say I mind all too much.

“What kind of dog is that?” Carver asks suddenly.

“He’s not a dog.”

The vampire stares at me. “I’m plenty of things, Riven, but I’m not stupid. I know a dog when I see one.”

Achlys swings his head to look at me, and I lift a brow. “Go on.”

In a blink, he shifts, leaping onto the table as a sleek black kitten.

Carver curses, jolting back in his chair. “Black hell. What is that?”

“Achlys is Gwyn’s familiar.”

I reach out to pet him, and he crawls into my lap. His eyes—wide black orbs rimmed in silver—lock on mine. He exhales through his nose, then curls into a ball of ink-dark fur.

“Think Ava and Gwyn will be down soon?” Carver asks, drumming his fingers on the table.

“Lettie said Gwyn was nearly finished getting ready.”

It’s strange—how empty the room feels without my little witch.

How empty I feel.

I sent a messenger to Eve, asking if she’d host us—Arkyn, Lettie, and the four of us—for an early lunch at the Midnight Swan before wedding chaos kicks in.

She obliged.

We’re meant to leave shortly, but I’ve been told flower picking is dirty work, and my bride needed a bath before we head out.

If I had it my way, Gwyn and I would already be married.

But she deserves a private ceremony that’s idyllic and romantic and shared with the people we love. She’ll be pleased when she learns Rory and Quill have confirmed their attendance, and that I’ve prepared rooms for them and Avaline and Carver so everyone can stay to celebrate after the wedding.

Fuck, if it makes Gwyn happy, Avaline can have a permanent room in the palace.

A messenger enters the room, bowing deeply. “Forgive the interruption, Your Majesty. An urgent message has come for you.”

I take the letter from him and flip it over. The wax seal is ocean blue, stamped with the sigil of a conch. Nerissa, the siren supreme. I break it open. Her handwriting is fluid and theatrical as she details abnormal activity in the mortal kingdoms. Apparently, fishermen—disgusting, despicable pirates, she wrote—are capturing sirens and holding them prisoner in Seagrove, the southernmost mortal kingdom.

“Something going on with Nerissa?” Carver asks.

“Isn’t there always?” I mutter.

I keep reading.

She’s demanding an immediate conclave to discuss this matter with the Seven.

Of course she is.