Page 9

Panic gripped Elyria’s chest, and she had to dig her fingernails into her leg to keep herself from reaching for her mark. “Am I your shadow queen, or am I a fairy whore?” she said instead, her tone placid, like she was bored. “You should probably make up your mind.”

His dark eyes flashed. “You say manners will get you everywhere, but that smart mouth of yours will get you nowhere, regina.”

She sighed. “Story of my life.”

“Do you still require my assistance, my lord?” squeaked a bright voice from the corner. Elyria had nearly forgotten about the cultist girl entirely.

She hadn’t paid much attention in her bedroom or on their walk through the tower, but now Elyria let her head fall to one side so she could get a better look at the girl. She was petite, a peachy flush in her cheeks as she fiddled with straight white-blond hair that fell to her chin.

“Yes, thank you, Petra.” Malakar’s voice was shockingly gentle as he addressed the girl. “You may bring it now.”

Petra gave a quick nod and dashed over to the desk on the other side of the room, grabbing something from amid the jumble of scrolls and journals plastered across the tabletop.

“My patience is running thin, regina.” His voice was unshockingly much less gentle when he turned his attention back to Elyria. “Today we will try something new. It . . . will not be pleasant.”

Because the past few weeks have been? she wanted to say, but the words died in her throat when Petra handed something dark and shiny to the sorcerer.

The sunlight beaming in from overhead glinted off the smooth black surface of the obsidian fragment, almost the full length of Malakar’s hand, and it felt like mockery.

Elyria sucked in a breath as he flipped the sharp stone dagger in his palm, then ran the pad of one finger down the side.

He grinned when the jagged edge sliced easily through his skin, dark crimson blood beading at the tip. “I take it from your reaction that you know exactly what this is.”

She didn’t reply. She was trying too hard not to react further, even as the memories of what occurred the last time her shadow touched obsidian washed through her mind. She couldn’t help recalling the uncontrolled way her power had exploded, how it had nearly leveled a fyre wyrm.

“Good,” Malakar said darkly. “That will make things simpler, I think. You may take your leave now, Petra. Warn everyone to give the west tower a wide berth for the next few hours. Perhaps have them cast an additional layer of protection over the forges below as a precaution.”

Petra gave the sorcerer a quick nod and scurried out of the room, though not before glancing over her shoulder with wide eyes, taking in Elyria’s prone form on the table one last time.

“I had not particularly wanted to resort to this, regina,” said Malakar after the door clicked shut. “It is admittedly risky, even for me. Obsidian is so volatile. But I am beginning to run out of ideas for how to get my power back and, well . . .” He tilted his head, something flashing in the depths of his tar-black eyes, as though struck with sudden inspiration.

Elyria suppressed a shiver as those eyes then proceeded to rake up her body with unnecessary slowness.

Eventually, Malakar shook his head with a sigh. Evidently, whatever idea had just popped into his malevolent mind had been set aside for now, because he then flicked the drop of blood that had welled at his fingertip into the air with a whispered word of the Old Language.

“There,” he said with a dark chuckle. “That should help contain any potential fallout.”

Elyria steeled herself as his attention fell upon her once more, his gaze sharper than the obsidian dagger in his hand. Rather than lecherously roaming over her body, though, his focus narrowed to one of her arms. He gripped her wrist, exposing her forearm again, and she felt those weak wisps of shadow inside her shrink back, like they, too, were scared of what was about to happen.

She closed her eyes before the obsidian touched her skin. Tried to run into her mind, to dive inside her rattling box, to hide in the memories of warmth and sunshine and gold-ringed eyes.

And she hated herself for how loudly she screamed.

2

SEARING

CEDRIC

Crack.

The feel of the sanguinagi’s nose breaking under Cedric’s fist should have been satisfying.

The whimper the blow drew from the cultist bastard should have felt good.

The stifled laugh coming from behind Cedric should have been bolstering.

They were not.