Page 21 of Cursed Shadows 5

Our gazes latch.

Eamon’s smile is a lopsided grin, partly disbelief.

Mine is fleeting, a ghost passing through the realms.

That solves a problem. For Eamon, for me, for us both.

Lord Braxis wasn’t going to simply leave us alone now that the Sacrament is over with. But it was a problem I’d forgotten all about—and Dare took care of it.

I touch a look to him. “You are right.”

Dare just blinks at me, patient.

I gesture to his face. “It gives you mystery.”

In answer, he dips his head once.

Eamon chokes on a laugh. His grin is ear to ear, pinned in place, and he grabs me tight.

I am tugged into his embrace, my spine moulding to his chest.

I find my gaze landing on the corpse.

The relief trickles down my body like rainwater down a tree.

I lean into Eamon’s chest and let the soothing feel of it shut my eyes on the death of Lord Braxis, the vanishing of Taroh, the end of the Sacrament, the rules of my father, the return to Licht—

From this moment on, I am my own female, my own self, and I will stay here in Kithe with my beloved brother, my Eamon.

I will start a life I never thought I would have, because I am free, and I am more than they say I am.

4

††††††

Dare is lounged on top of the toppled carriage, as lazily as one might find him on a chaise in front of a lovely simmering fireplace. Arm draped over his raised knee, he watches the slow dissolve of the crowd around Braxis.

I make no move to dismount.

I stay up here, nuzzled into Eamon, for a few reasons.

It is still too thick with fae on the ground, and I have already been swept away a couple of times by the lot; and I avoid too much down there, my family, Ronan, Daxeel.

No, I am better off staying up here, on the toppled carriage, for a while longer.

Then, I will climb down and wander Kithe until I find Hanner Fordd.

The thought prickles through me.

I reach into my trouser pocket, slim and packed thin against my thigh, and lure out the torn piece of parchment.

Drawing back from Eamon’s hold, I offer it to him. “Where is this?”

Dare—using the tip of a knife to scrape dirt out from under his fingernails—lifts his chin to peek at the scribblings.

Eamon takes a lingering look. “Who wrote this?”

“A healer.”

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