Page 27 of Trials of Dusk and Dreams
“We will continue to investigate,” Legion promises Styx, then looks each of us in the eyes. “The end of our suffering is finally within our grasp. Our queen is with us . . . and by some miracle, she looks fondly at me—even at you miscreants.” That last bit sparks amusement in his eyes. When we don’t laugh, he deadpans. “You’ve all lost your humor, it seems.”
“Perhaps you need to work on your jokes,” Styx returns sourly, although his lips twitch.
Legion looks to me for help, but I show my palms in surrender and mutter, “What would I know about humor?”
“Jokes are a muttonheaded mortal pastime,” Emrys huffs and idly takes a stick from Varen’s makeshift honeycomb diagram to poke the embers with.
“I find them fun,” Styx counters.
Varen launches to his feet, snatches the stick, and glowers as he sinks down again. Emrys gives an exaggerated apologetic look, then purposefully sits on the sofa beside Varen and starts poking holes in his diagram’s logic. The ensuing bickering grinds Legion’s jaw but strangely brings music to my heart.
“And what of the Earl’s warning,” I ask, “The Shining Host convenes at moonrise tonight.”
Emrys gestures at the map of Nightmares. “What of that?”
Legion’s eyes glitter as he taps his finger on the jar of wisps. “Leave Puck up to me.”
“So, he survived.” Styx rolls his eyes. “I should have killed him, but Willow didn’t want me to reveal my powers.”
“She was right to stop you,” Legion confirms, eyes landing on Varen. “Puck won’t have control of the Baleful Hunt for long.”
“Tonight, then.” I nod.
A fierce protectiveness surges through me. We may be fractured, our memories in tatters, but our bond remains unbroken. Whatever storms lie ahead, I will be the bulwark that shields my hive from harm.
It’s not just duty—it’s who I am.
Chapter 13
Willow
Getting cleaned up in Fox’s shower doesn’t take long. The scent of his soap lingers on my skin, comforting my frayed nerves. Still, being near water makes my heart race, so I avoid the bath. Not wanting to be alone with my thoughts, I dress quickly in leather training breeches and one of Fox’s shirts, its fabric soft against my skin. I wrap a woolen shawl around my shoulders, its warmth a poor substitute for his embrace.
My wolf side perks up, nostrils flaring. My friends are still in the kitchen, but Marina’s gossip has given way to the clatter of meal preparation. The salty aroma of broth makes my mouth water. As I approach, I hear the rhythmic thud of Geraldine peeling potatoes, the scrape of Peggy’s wooden spoon against the pot, and Cricket rummaging in a sack beneath the butcher block. The mood has plummeted since I last passed by; tension hangs thick in the air.
“Hi,” I say, forcing a smile as I step into the kitchen. “Is it too late for lunch?”
Cricket’s hands collide in a sharp clap as she turns, her smile faltering as her gaze meets mine. “Not at all, love. I was just telling your friends—” Her jaw drops, eyes widening.
“Is everything okay?” The hair on the back of my neck rises, sensing the sudden shift in the room.
“I . . . ah . . .” Cricket stammers.
“Your face,” Geraldine blurts, her eyes darting between mine. “It’s . . . I mean . . .”
Fear squeezes my heart, cold and sharp. My fingers fly to my cheeks, but the curse is gone. My skin feels smooth beneath my touch, except for my left side’s faded scars.
“I broke the curse,” I mumble, suddenly feeling exposed, like a nerve stripped raw.
“A curse?”
“Titania placed it on me.” I can’t meet their eyes now. Tears prick at the corners of my vision, threatening to spill over. How can I explain the way the curse was designed to make me look as ugly as I feel? I haven’t told them what Nero made me do, that he’s the man who destroyed their world, what else I woke from the dead, the people I killed.
I still feel shame and self-loathing . . . but also a dark part of me thrills when I hold someone else’s life in my hands. I fear it’s something intrinsic and not just learned from an evil man. What if it’s me? What if I’m born with that ugliness? What if they think I’m a chip off Nero’s block? After all, what kind of person is the perfect mate to six demigods of chaos?
My new friends would turn on me if they knew the truth.
Without Fox here, it feels like I’m missing a vital piece of myself. The urge to go to him thrums beneath my skin, a constant, maddening itch.
