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Okay.
“Tell me more about the prophecy.”
“I’ve told you all you need to know.”
Not really. Sure, I guilted him into explaining it while the two of us were hiding out in the cemetery, but after my visit from the Light Fae, I’m beginning to think I got the cliff’s notes version. There’s more to it, I know there is, and Nine gets so defensive whenever it’s mentioned, I’m convinced he’s the best one to tell me.
“Ninetroir. Please.”
I don’t add any kind of order. It wouldn’t be right. After everything that Rys has done to me, most of it because he controlled me with a word of his own, I absolutely refuse to make Nine do something.
“You’ve said my name.”
I nod.
“But no command.”
“You’re my friend.” Whatever he is—whatever my wayward psyche wants him to be—he’s probably the only friend I have right now. “It wouldn’t be right to make you do something. Trust me. I freaking know.”
It’s a reminder that, no matter what, I’m still at the mercy of Rys knowing my true name. Nine wouldn’t let me tell him last night, but that doesn’t change the reality that, if the Light Fae does find me again, he could eventually use Zella against me.
Nine doesn’t react to that reminder. Nope. He totally latches onto something else I said.
Interesting.
“I’ve never had a friend before. In Faerie, there are those working with you, and those working against you. Friends are for the weak.”
“For the humans?”
“Yes,” he says honestly.
“Well, I’m a human. So you can be my friend.”
His lips thin. I’m not so surprised.
My manipulation tactic works, though. I might’ve meant what I said. Still had an ulterior motive—and it works.
“I’ve told you of the prophecy before,” Nine begins, sounding resigned. “In Faerie, there are plenty of ancient tales that get passed down. Because my people are long-lived and practically immortal, there are the elders who keep the scrolls from the days of the Tuatha Dé Danann. The first of us. The Shadow Prophecy… is one of the earliest prophecies, but it’s only become important since Melisandre stole the throne from Oberon. The Reign of the Damned. For the last two hundred years, the hope of the Shadow coming to end her is all that’s kept hope alive for some of the less powerful races in Faerie.”
Two hundred years…
Long-lived and practically immortal…
So, yeah, that explanation opens up a whole new can of worms. I can’t help but remember the casual way that Rys mentioned centuries. He’s at least that old.
What about Nine?
I have to know. I have to ask.
“How old are you?”
“Does it matter?”
“That’s so not an answer.”
He shrugs. “Old enough.”
“Neither is that. Come on, Nine. Why won’t you tell me?”
