by Kyra Quinn
Thick, dark clouds rolled through the narrow circle of sky above his head. The threat of rain perfumed the air, and the biting cold burned his nostrils with each breath. His hands shook as he crammed them into the pockets of his trousers. Damn Jett and damn his mad schemes. What sort of fool sauntered into a ghost town on purpose?
They trampled through the icy leaves, and his thoughts drifted to Novus. The faerie prick had every right to hate him. If not for Viktor and Jett’s interference, Celia would have never left Mulgrave. She’d be safe inside the walls of her tavern and not reduced to ashes by the Mourning Fires.
What the faerie would do with his rage was another story. One of the most well-connected Fey crime lords in Astryae, Novus didn’t strike Viktor as the type to forgive and forget. He’d avenge his sister’s murder by any means necessary. Viktor swallowed as a new chill washed over him, this one unrelated to the temperature.
A faint but sweet scent drifted past his nostrils. He had to have imagined it—as tall as the trees stood, inches of ice and snow suffocated everything else in the forest until spring. But his thoughts drifted to Lili regardless, his chest heavy.
He still remembered the way her eyes had sparkled when he kissed her, swirls of platinum twinkling with hope and desire. The soft smile on her mouth hit Viktor like a punch to the gut. He recognized the silent prayer in her eyes. He’d managed to avoid it for decades, but no amount of ambrosia or ale could help him forget.
His shoulders slumped as a different face drifted into the back of his thoughts. Felicity. He hadn’t seen her in years, but it didn’t matter. He’d memorized every detail of her face while she’d slumbered naked in his arms. The floral scent of her perfume still perfumed his memories decades later. He could recall the exact placement of every freckle and mole on her body better than his own.
Remiel and Celia told him to give it time. They assured him the hurt would fade as the years went on. They promised a day would come when he’d be able to picture her face or the sound of her voice without burying the knife in his chest deeper.
Two decades later, time had done nothing but prolong his torment. With his parents’ deaths avenged, Felicity had popped into his head more in the last few weeks than she had in years. He’d blamed Lili at first, the softness of her lips a touch too similar to the ghosts of his past. Why had he kissed her? What in Anja’s name had he been thinking?
But he couldn’t blame Lili for his recent string of unwanted memories any more than he could blame Jett or Aster. The demise of his relationship with Felicity had occurred before Lili’s birth. So why had Lili’s kiss tasted like karma and regret?
Viktor gave his head a forceful shake. The two women had as much in common as night and day. Only a fool would compare his failures with Felicity to his brief time spent with Lili. So why couldn’t he separate the two in his mind?
Not that it mattered. Lili had to hate him after the way he left. He’d stood frozen in place and watched as the light inside her eyes went out. She’d done nothing to deserve it, but he had to hope she might understand someday. The best way to prove he cared about her was to stay as far away from her as possible. She faced enough danger without his presence in her life.
The trees thinned as twilight took over the sky. Smoke perfumed the crisp mountain air. Viktor squinted and peered through the clustered trunks as his fists tightened by his sides. He hadn’t spent much time in Redwood over the years. He did his best to avoid the passive settlements when he could.
But Jett strolled out of the safety of the trees towards the small village as if he were heading home. He whistled under his breath as he walked, his posture relaxed as he strolled through the snow. Viktor’s jaw clenched, but he followed behind Jett with his head held high.
Viktor sucked in a breath as his eyes darted across his surroundings. His fingers flew instinctively towards the daggers strapped to his chest. The passives and their irrationality concerned him more than any manner of Feyfolk lurking in the woods or caves nearby.
The differences between Redwood and Mulgrave or Carramar stood out to Viktor the moment he stepped into the town. His lungs burned with the need for oxygen, the air thinner at their present altitude. Mountains loomed over the town behind them, the tops powdered with snow.
Viktor followed behind Jett down the shoveled streets, his palm still flat against the daggers on his chest. If he’d wandered into Redwood ignorant to the legends about what lurked in the shadowy caves and thick forests around the town, he might have found it peaceful. Quaint, cozy buildings sat on open lots of land. Thick spirals of smoke trailed from most chimney pipes. Viktor’s nose wrinkled; the frigid temperatures outside had to make tending to the fires a constant chore.
“This way.” Jett gestured towards the right.
Viktor cringed at the deep boom of his voice against the quiet of the town. Though a handful of merchants and men still moved about the streets, none of them spoke or allowed their gazes to wander. It took Viktor a moment to notice the identical black capes draped around everyone’s shoulders.
“Did you plan for us to stand out like a pair of whores in a Temple?” Viktor growled under his breath. “What’s with all the cloaks?”
Jett snorted. “Assassins and mercenaries, if I had to guess. Relax, Vik. We won’t stay long enough for anyone to mind our presence.”
“Why come here at all?”
“I told you, we need to pick something up.”
Jett’s eyes scanned the buildings as he walked, only a fraction of a second spent on each hand-painted sign and window display before moving on. When he spotted a pale yellow cottage nestled near the edge of the mountain, his speed increased until Viktor had to run to match his pace.
Cobwebs hung from the white trim of the cottage. Heavy curtains covered every window. A crooked sign dangled from rusted hooks to the left of an ancient wooden door. Viktor squinted and tried to decipher the scrawling script, but the words wiggled and danced in front of his eyes.
Jett caught his eye and smirked. “Good luck reading that. It’s in Elysian.”
Viktor’s heart stopped. “An angel? Why the Fey would we want to speak with an angel?”
“Shh!” Jett hissed. “Hazel is a Nephilim. She likes the angels no more than we do.”
It didn’t explain why Jett wished to speak to a Nephilim. Viktor clenched his teeth as they neared the door. A small oil lamp hung from rusted hooks on either side of the door, the tiny flame inside the glass dancing as if to welcome them.
Jett marched up the aged wooden steps to the painted blue door without pause. Viktor stood at the base of the steps, his fingers curled around the highest dagger on his worn leather scabbard. Jett curled his knuckles and rapped on the door three times, his posture stiff and formal.
At first, nothing happened. Viktor held his breath and strained his ears, but no rustles of movement from inside the cottage answered. He shot a glance towards Jett and said, “Should we try back later?”
The door swung open with a loud creak as Viktor finished his sentence, the last word choking in the base of his throat. A younger woman so pale her skin mirrored the snow stepped out from the shadow of the doorway. Her head supported a crown of golden curls spiraling down to her waist. Her silver eyes flickered between Viktor and Jett as her full lips twisted into a frown.
“Nothing good ever follows wolves at the door,” she said, her voice raspier than Viktor had anticipated from her full cheeks and tight complexion. She wore a sleek ivory nightdress, a thin matching robe draped over it.
Jett chuckled. “Better than a pair of angels, no? May we enter?”
The Nephilim—Hazel—continued to eye them with skepticism. “Why have you come?”
“We’re told you’re the Fey to speak to about ‘lost’ art.”
Hazel’s face turned ashen as she stepped back towards the doorway. “I have no idea who spread such blasphemous rumors, kind sir, but I can assure you I have nothing of the sort.”
Jett shook his head an
d held his hands in front of his chest. “Hey, we mean you no harm. We aren’t affiliated with the Clans or the Guard. We’re two wolves in the market for a gift fit for a king. Specifically, King Dyius.”
Hazel lifted a thin brow and cocked her head. “What business have you with the King?”
“Nothing sinister, I assure you. We wish to speak with him on a personal matter, and the word around town is that he collects rare art.”
“Among other things.” Hazel continued to frown as her eyes flickered towards the town behind them. “Come inside before the passives spot you. I’ve worked hard to blend in here, and I won’t allow you two mutts to ruin it.”
A small laugh bubbled from Viktor’s lips. When Hazel shot him an annoyed glance, he added, “How can the passives not know you’re Fey?”
The woman was tall, even by Viktor’s standards. Though her voice suggested she was at least the same age as him, her skin betrayed no evidence of age. Not a single silver or white hair streaked her shiny curls, not a piece of her body out of proportion or asymmetrical. He’d spent time with plenty of passives, but none who resembled Hazel.
“The people of Redwood value their privacy as much as I do,” she said, her voice short. “Either we continue this discussion inside or we end it now.”
Jett frowned, but followed the Nephilim into the cottage. Viktor hesitated before hurrying in behind them. His heart raced as she slammed the door behind him.
Every curtain in the cottage was drawn. A single candle sat in a brass holder on a small wooden table in the center of the room. Small figurines and knickknacks covered the shelves along the wall. Soft music filled the room as the strings of the golden harp shoved in the corner vibrated without provocation. The Nephilim snapped her fingers, and the harp fell silent.
“What is it you came for?” Hazel asked. “The finest sculpture or oil canvas won’t grant you entry into the King’s court.”
“Not alone,” Jett agreed. “Which is why I was hoping you might be kind enough to sell us a particular piece.”
Hazel swore under her breath as her expression darkened. “You came for the egg.”
Viktor lifted a brow. An egg? If Jett had forced him to travel so far from their target destination to retrieve an egg, Viktor would abandon him where he stood and never look back.
But Jett’s face split into a smirk. “I thought you might know of it.”
Hazel’s eyes narrowed as she wrinkled her nose. “And you expect me to believe you can afford it? You two reek of wet dog, and your companion is in desperate need of a trip to the barbershop.”
Viktor’s fingers curled into a fist. Under any other circumstances, he’d make the snarky Nephilim eat her words. But something about the buzz of tension in the air told him the egg mattered more than he assumed.
“How much do you want for it?” Jett asked, his voice airy.
Viktor froze as he locked eyes with Jett. As far as he knew, they didn’t have two coins to rub together between the pair of them. How did Jett intend to pay the Nephilim for her precious egg?
Hazel’s hand locked on her hip. “Five million, which I doubt you have tucked away on your person.”
“And I can’t persuade you to accept less?”
“Piss off,” she snarled.
Jett gave a low whistle. “Very well. I didn’t want it to come to this, but I can see I have no other choice.”
Hazel cackled. “Is that a threat?”
“Not at all. A promise. Sister Hazel, should you refuse to help us, you will not live much longer. No one in Redwood will.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Your town is the furthest north and has the fewest defenses. It’s the most susceptible to invasion or attack.”
Hazel scoffed. “You underestimate the amount of defense these mountains hold. If the terrain or harsh winters don’t kill you, the Shadowfey will.”
“Yeah?” Jett folded his arms over his chest. “Let’s see if there’s anyone left to support that claim in a month.”
“Attacked by who?” Hazel asked. “You two nimrods and your pals?”
“You wish.” Jett’s eyes flickered between Hazel and Viktor. “Would you care to enlighten Miss Hazel?”
Viktor filled the Nephilim in on the bare basics of what Savina had foreseen. He told her about Lili and her unique parental issues, as well as the pending war between the worlds prophesied to take place in Astryae. When he finished speaking, Hazel’s expression remained unchanged.
“And you learned all this from a banshee?” she demanded. “What makes you think her flighty visions should be trusted? How do you know she wasn’t trying to scare you?”
“Savina isn’t like that,” Viktor said. “I have yet to see one of her premonitions not play out exactly the way she described. The persecution she’s faced for her abilities has left her hesitant to share her visions with anyone. If Savina says a war is coming, I’d bet my life it will arrive before the first day of spring.”
“And where does King Dyius fit into all this?”
“We can’t defend Astryae alone,” Jett said. “Our best shot at saving lives and minimizing the destruction is to enlist the Royal Guard to help.”
Hazel wore her internal conflict on her face. She chewed her lip and shifted her weight, her eyes glued to Jett’s face. Finally, she let out a noisy breath and shook her head. “Unless you have the funds to purchase the egg, I’m afraid the answer is no.”
Jett sighed. “And we can’t change your mind?”
“The greater good is not my concern. I have struggles of my own to worry about without trying to save the rest of the world. Pay or get out.”
Jett shot her an apologetic glance. “I had hoped you’d be reasonable about things. I didn’t want this to get messy.”
Hazel opened her mouth to speak, but she never had a chance. Before the words could leave the tip of her tongue, Jett’s hand flew to his sword and tore it from its sheath. He lunged forward and sliced her throat in a clean, even motion with a flick of his wrist.
Hazel’s eyes widened as her hands flew to her neck. Thick, sticky blood gushed from the cracks between her fingers. She moved her mouth, but only a terrible gurgle came out.
“This blade is infused with the souls of every fallen wolf before me. I’ve had it blessed by every Temple in Astryae. Nephilim or no, I’ve found nothing this sword can’t kill.” Jett spoke casually, as if catching up with an old friend over tea instead of murdering a stranger for his own gain.
Viktor froze. Every hair on his body stood at attention, his skin cold. What the Fey had Jett done? And how much deeper would his childish impulses dig their graves?
Hazel crumpled to her knees. She clutched her neck and choked for air, each breath wet and gurgled. Blood spilled between the cracks in her fingers. Her body crumpled to the side as the glisten of life faded from her cold silver eyes.
“Too easy,” Jett said, almost disappointed. “I’d expected faster reflexes from a Nephilim.”
“Why, so you could play with her before you put her down?”
Jett pursed his lips. “I suspected that might bother you. Under any other circumstances, I would’ve readily agreed with you. But our situation is anything but normal. We must reach Wyvenmere before the war does. I don’t relish in taking life, but her sacrifice will save hundreds of others.”
Leave it to Jett to introduce a point Viktor had no prepared argument against. His stomach twisted as he stared into Hazel’s lifeless eyes. He’d done nothing to save her. What right did he have to place the blame on Jett’s shoulders and absolve himself?
“See the wards all over the place?” Jett gestured towards the strange symbols and runes etched into the floors and walls. “Hazel’s lived life on the run since the Dark Years. While half of Astryae was on fire and at war in the name of some god or other, the crafty Nephilim stole away with priceless pieces of history and art. When her body is discovered, everyone will assume her criminal lifestyle caught up with her.�
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Viktor still said nothing, his tongue heavy in his mouth. On a logical level, everything Jett was saying made perfect sense. They had a world to save and a limited amount of time to accomplish it. Jett had traded one unproductive life for hundreds of others. How could anyone hold it against him?
That did nothing to dull the ache in his chest or the twisting of his stomach as the bittersweet smell of her blood filled the room. It was easier to sustain himself on small game when he didn’t have a juicy meal a few feet away.
“Wipe your drool and help me find the egg,” Jett quipped. “We need to disappear before anyone comes to call on dear Miss Hazel here.”
“Bit difficult when I have no idea what I’m searching for.”
Jett rolled his eyes. “You’re as bad as a passive. The Egg of Esyn is about this big.” He held out his hand and gestured to the palm of his hand. “If the legends are true, the piece is made of gold and firestones from the holy fires in the Elysian Gardens. Any man who stares into the gems for too long loses his mind.”
Viktor winced. “And why does anyone want said egg?”
“Superstition, mostly. The egg is rumored to be blessed by Esyn herself. He who possesses the egg can channel the power of the moon and tides.”
Viktor pursed his lips and said nothing. He didn’t see why anyone would risk madness over a blasted egg. He’d witnessed enough men lose hold on their scraps of sanity after the war to find no appeal in such reckless risk.
But Jett was already digging through the dead Nephilim’s house. Viktor cast one last glance at the pool of blood around Hazel’s limp body and shook his head as he stepped over her towards the row of shelves along the back wall. His fingers grazed the bottom shelf, not a speck of dust in sight. For such cramped living quarters, Hazel had managed to keep her space immaculately clean and organized.
Viktor took a step back and folded his arms over his chest. He tried to use his time with Remiel to step into the dead Nephilim’s shoes as his eyes flickered around the cottage. There had to be a pattern to her organization, some rhyme or reason to why she sorted things the way she did.