Page 83 of Sincerely, Secretary of Doom

“Should we leave?” Remi asked, clutching the frying pan to herself. “This seems like the sort of situation where we should leave—”

“I don’t like you anymore, Mor,” Violet stated, and her heart thundered. Every inch of her wanted to run to him, to clasp him, to beg him to never leave her side again, but those feelings weren’t real. The muscles in her face twitched. She tore her gaze away so she wouldn’t look at him, because something about the expression on his face screamed at her with the most compelling argument she’d ever battled. She clenched her hands into fists hard enough to make them shake. But she refused to reach for him or to acknowledge him ever again.

She didn’t love him. She had to coach herself every second so she wouldn’t blurt in his face that she could hardly breathe while standing this far away from him.

“You look astoundingly uncomfortable,” Mor remarked, and Violet spun on him.

“Fine!” she shouted. “I’ve never wanted anything more than I want you, Mor! You big, stupid fairy! I can’t even think straight right now!”

From the stairs, Jase paled again, but Remi snorted an unexpected laugh. “Yikes,” she muttered.

Mor bit his lips together as Violet approached him. Even through the tangle of heart-pounding, fluffy emotions, she was still angry. “You left me!” she shouted, pointing at him.

He said nothing but his brown eyes flickered with guilt.

“I really wish…” Her voice turned dry. She dropped her hand back to her side. “I really wish I could hate you right now.” Her eyes wetted with tears. “But all I want to do is ask you if you’re okay, and brush the dirt out of your hair, and thank you for saving me, and bake you muffinsfor the rest of eternity!” She shouted the last part, turning on her heel and storming through the wood planks on the floor toward the kitchen.

Her chest pounded as she marched in and began throwing cupboards open to search for the measuring cups.

38

Cressica Alabastian and the Thing that Happened

One Faeborn Hour Ago

The museum floor was wet with purple blood. Some of it was Cress’s. Even more of it was Mor’s.

They fought back-to-back, never closing their eyes, never looking down as Shadow Fairies airslipped in and out of their vision, knowing a single glance in the wrong direction could cost them their lives.

Cress’s phone rang. He pulled it out, fighting with one hand as he pinched the phone between his head and his shoulder. “Yes?” he growled.

Mor released a baffled sound behind him—seeming to wonder why Cress had answered the phone at a time like this.

Shayne’s voice came through. “I killed the fox once, but he got away with Violet! And Cress—Dranian is hurt.”

“Queensbane,” Cress gritted out. “How hurt?”

“He’s down an arm. Where are you?” Shayne panted through the phone like he was running. “Are you still at the museum?”

“Unfortunately—” The phone was smacked off Cress’s shoulder. At first, he thought it was a Shadow Fairy’s doing, but he realized it was Mor who’d rudely ended the call. Mor didn’t even look sorry for sending Cress’s phone smashing to the floor.

“Focus!” Mor shouted at him.

“I am focused!” Cress shot back. He stabbed a Shadow Fairy and kicked him into the museum wall then turned his forearm to faestone and used it to block a swinging saber. He slashed the fool’s knees, and the Shadow Fairy fell at his feet.

Cress’s royal heart clenched, his mind telling him he and Mor weren’t going to make it out of this as they once had fighting side by side against Shadows in the past. Though they fought hard now, Cress knew their skill had grown relaxed in the months they’d been among the humans sipping beast milk and eating pies.

He took down another foe with a faestone punch.

Something eclipsed the light from the museum doors. Even though it could cost him, Cress glanced that way.

A pack of females in hideous sweaters of all the ugliest colours of fairy yarn filled the museum’s doorway. It was the most beautiful sight Cress had ever beheld in his entire faeborn life, and a beat of relief soared through him.

Cress drove his fairsaber into the nearest Shadow and shoved Mor toward the museum doors. He backed toward the Sisterhood himself, aiming his sword at his enemies, daring them to try and stab him while he closed the gap between his royal self and approximately a thousand pounds of bad smelling yarn.

Shayne and Dranian raced in right as the fight between sword and needle broke out. The two didn’t even stop running—they sprang into the mass of Shadow Fairies, saber and spear swinging. Dranian fought with a terrible disadvantage, hugging one arm to himself. Knitting needles pierced throats and heads and thighs. Cress was about to join in, but… he hung back, wondering if he needed to.

Mor remained at his side. Cress caught him stealing a glance out the museum doors, looking toward the city.

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