Celeste, to her surprise, had actually slept.

She'd slipped into slumber mere moments after the hooded figure had procured another pallet for her, arranging it quickly beside the resting Gandriel before awkwardly gesturing for her to use it. She hadn't even thanked him before laying down and swiftly falling into oblivion, her body too exhausted to do anything else.

The sound of bullfrogs croaking and a splattering of faint, foggy sunlight across her face woke her hours later, the oppressive humidity and heat soaking her from head to toe. Frankly, it was better than the beast of ice she'd faced the night before.

Anything was better than that.

Rising, she rolled her stiff shoulder, the joint locking painfully as she worked the knots free. She'd nearly forgotten what it was like to sleep on the floor after doing so for nearly a decade, before becoming accustomed to her current soft, down mattress.

Those times felt like an eternity ago now, a time and place that no longer existed.

Fragments of memory.

Shaking the fog from her mind she turned and found Gandriel now sleeping peacefully and deeply, his chest drawing breath with ease.

Stark relief flooded her.

Whatever manner of poultice their host made had done the trick.

Checking him over, she found color had bled back into Gandriel's face, the fever gone as she swiped her hand across his brow, now only sticky with sweat from the humidity and heat. On his arm, she noted that the hooded male had repacked the wound during the night, wrapped tightly with fresh linens from another shirt.

She would repay him, tenfold.

That was, if she could get out of this blasted swamp in one piece and find that damned caoin. She still had a little over a week's time, the moon in its waxing phase the last time she'd seen it.

Time to track the creature before its curse set in, and time to cut down Dermot and Dune before they wreaked anymore havoc.

The creaking of the stairs outside caught her attention as the door to the hovel opened and revealed their still-hooded savior, far less terrifying in the misty daylight but still as gargantuan and shadowed, an unidentifiable mass in his arms covered in green buds that looked suspiciously poisonous.

Grunting, he shoved the door shut before dropping the bush unceremoniously before her.

She cocked her head in question.

"Breakfast."

Celeste looked between her savior and the bush, her brow shooting up. He wanted her to eat this? The lime green buds covered in what appeared to be razor-sharp spikes—

Sensing her unease, he reached a gloved hand down and pulled one from the bush before popping it in his mouth beneath his shadowed cowl, biting into it with a satisfying crunch. Celeste suppressed a flinch at the sound; fearful he'd torn his cheeks wide open with the spikes.

As though amused, he plucked another of the berries and held it towards her as he prodded it, the spike bending easily beneath his finger, nothing more than an illusion.

"Fresh."

This swamp was filled with nothing but oddities, and the male in front of her was no exception.

At the insistence of the gnawing in her belly, she took the bud and popped it in her mouth, biting down tentatively. A mild sweetness spread over her tongue, the strange fruit tasting something akin to an apple and pear with the texture of an apricot. She blinked in surprise as her stomach noticeably filled as she swallowed the single bite.

Fascinating.

Her stomach gave a growl.

Suddenly aware of just how hungry she was, Celeste quickly began pulling the buds from the bush, eating them with a vigor that likely made her a terrible house guest. Her host didn't seem to mind, however, side-stepping her as he knelt down beside Gandriel, prodding gently at his wound.

"His fever's broken," Celeste offered between bites, watching as the male expertly removed the poultice to reveal new skin underneath, as though the wound had never been there. "Whatever you did saved him. Thank you. We're . . . I'm in your debt."

At her thanks the figure stiffened, before clearing his throat and rising abruptly, turning from the pallet to the weapons littered over the table, his face hidden even more deeply beneath his hood as he rummaged through his belongings. As though he were . . . embarrassed?

Such a strange male.

Odd but . . . kind.

Or considerate at the very least.

Wiping the juice from her chin, Celeste watched as the figure made himself busy, pushing through his objects as though he were looking for something without really needing it. She frowned at him, knowing what she needed to ask but hating herself for it, for dragging others into her business, especially a complete stranger who had done so much for them already.

But she had come here for a reason.

She cleared her throat.

"I am afraid I must ask for one more thing." The male's rummaging stopped, his humped shoulders going still. "I'm here looking for slavers, the men that were hunting us in the forest. I need to find them, and quickly. And since you've already found their weapons-" she gestured at the discarded arrow beside his hand, "I have hope that you might know where I can find them."

He knew this swamp, knew how to navigate this accursed place, surely he could lead her to where she needed to go. And if not to the precise location . . . surely he would know how to track them.

And potentially how to track the caoin.

It was her only shot.

"I'm not asking you to fight," she clarified as he appeared to hesitate, she would never go so far as to ask that of him, "but if you could lead me there and back . . . I would pay you handsomely."

With more than new shirts that actually fit, but with gold and true resources, and a new home if he desired. She'd offer to relocate him anywhere he wished, though she suspected this was precisely where he wanted to be. Suspected there was a very good reason he was here.

"Plus, it would get all of us out of your swamp." And to leave you in peace, she thought a bit mildly.

The male turned toward her, cocking his head as though considering, before gesturing at Gandriel. He seemed to ask, And what of him?

"I was hoping he could stay here, that the kelpies, the herd," she felt foolish for saying it, even if she had found herself fond of the monstrous creatures, "might protect him while we're away."

You trust them, the male seemed to say, surprise emanating from him as he crossed his arms over his chest.

Celeste gave a single nod.

She could have sworn the faintest ghost of a smile appeared beneath the cowl before the figure pushed away from his table and gestured towards the door, as though waiting for her to lead the way.

". . . So we have an agreement, then?"

The male merely grunted.

Rising, Celeste made to leave when she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. She blinked, watching as one of the lime green buds remaining on the discarded bush detached itself from the branch, dropping to the floor with a soft plop. Slowly, it began to inch its way across the floor, spines pulling it along like some sort of bulbous caterpillar.

They were sentient.

She watched in mute horror as the cloaked figure stomped down on it, squishing it beneath his heel.

"Not fresh."

Silken skin, the overwhelming scent of violet and plums, a never-ending array of bad habits and guilty pleasures that had nearly swallowed him whole—

Fallon had told him he was inadequate.

Had had the nerve to tell him he was inferior after he'd utterly wrecked her against the wall that morning, having taken her so thoroughly she'd been little more than an incoherent lump sprawled across his chest after, panting and groaning from the pleasure.

Lucien would have been lying if he said there hadn't been a sense of male pride in that, a swelling feeling of satisfaction from where he had felt her heart thundering against his own, her scent intoxicating as wine as he'd slowly and gently coaxed her back to coherency with an array of kisses along the length of her spine, her freckled skin supple beneath his lips as she'd let out that breathy chuckle he'd come to cherish—

Part of him had started to wonder if he might have come to like her, to maybe even love her. If he was already starting to.

But not her, apparently.

Oh no, he'd been nothing more than a pity fuck to her.

A charity case she'd slathered in affection to make him feel better about his tiny dick.

The same little appendage she'd nearly choked on when she'd woken him from a nap the evening prior, kissing down his hip bones in a rare show of affection—

He shook his head in disgust, horrified at his own feelings even in his deep state of inebriation, shame filling him at even considering such a vulgar thought.

She made him foul, brought out the absolute worst in him. The only female who could have ever sparked such immature fury and rage over such trivial slights, the only one who made him want to bark petty insults back just to try and get under her skin.

He felt like a disgruntled child, woefully unaware of the workings of the world and sticking his own foot in his mouth again and again. She was no good, he should have been glad she was gone—how long had he spent trying to escape her clutches?

That beautiful, horrendously wicked siren who'd pulled him in like a current drawing in a ship wrecked on the sea.

She'd wrapped him in a veil of illusion and pleasure, drawing every sorrow and regret from him like prayers, making him forget the one thing he couldn't have, the one thing the Cauldron had shamelessly taunted him with—

Elain.

The rebounding pang of lust and fury shot through him like a bolt of electricity, more stinging and painful than lightning. They would likely have finished their nuptials by now, would likely be in full swing of the reception.

The urge to kill the Shadowsinger rang through him, the need to cut the male down and claim what was rightfully his own-

He poured two knuckles' worth of whiskey into the crystalline glass on the low-lying table before slamming the smokey liquid back, the burning in his throat a welcome discomfort.

Another thing that wicked female had stripped from him.

It wasn't small.

"Do you think she'll ever forgive me?"

Lucien slowly pivoted his gaze toward the plush sofa across from his own, having nearly forgotten Tamlin had joined him in this little . . . pity session. The High Lord was sprawled across the cushions, his hair a knotted mess and linen shirt askew as he stared blankly at the ceiling.

Lucien mindfully ignored the stench of sorrow and regret wafting from the male, no doubt stemming from the news that the Aella sisters had been sighted on the outskirts of Marchedor, Marianna amongst them. Alive and well.

Another demon-possessed female who had seen fit to come into their lives, fix things, then tear them down in a fit of destruction.

A majestic pair he and Tamlin must be, Lucien realized, sitting in a dark room, barely suitable for existing much less company, drinking their regrets away.

He was glad they had sent the sentries away from the evening and given the servants early leave.

Spring Court at its finest.

"Who?" His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. "Marianna?"

Tamlin leveled a look at him that said Who else?

Lucien didn't bother voicing the fact that there were more than a few women that had yet to forgive the male.

"It's been almost forty years."

And knowing Marianna it'd probably be another forty before his friend saw the female again, if ever.

"This is the same female who threw you through a wall with a thunderbolt," Lucien reminded, failing to hide the hint of amusement in his voice. The yelps of surprise from Bron and Hart when Tamlin had come crashing through the upstairs study into the garden below still rang clear in his mind all these years later. "She'd be more likely to spit on your grave."

Would likely dig it and put him in it too if he so much as crossed her path.

There had been a time Lucien would have paid gold to watch her do it.

"Any acknowledgement would be better than this silence," Tamlin muttered, rubbing at his eyes. "I'd take her screaming and raging if she'd just speak to me, if she'd just . . . explain."

Explain why she'd run off in the middle of the night after summoning a downpour from hell that had nearly flooded the Court, disappearing into the darkness so swiftly that no one had been able to intercept her.

And Lucien had tried.

He'd left as soon as word had reached him that she'd departed, the whole estate in a hushed frenzy trying to figure out why the lovely temptress of the continent has left in such a rush, scrambling to figure out how to get back the only thing that had every truly brought their High Lord joy.

The only female he had ever loved as an equal.

And the estate, when she'd been present, was the happiest it had ever been. The people, the servants, the soldiers . . . they'd all adored her.

And, though he loathed to admit it, Lucien had as well.

Tamlin had only been days away from asking her to stay permanently.

And when she'd left . . . he had admitted defeat. Hadn't even bothered chasing after her, resigning himself to sorrow.

"You're welcome to go to her family's estate," Lucien offered, trying to ignore the gnawing rage in the pit of his stomach, "and take your chances with her hell sisters. Though, we likely won't have a High Lord left after."

A tick appeared in Tamlin's jaw, annoyance at the truth in Lucien's words.

The Lord sat up, swaying slightly in his seat.

"And what of you," the male grumbled back, his cloudy eyes clearing slightly, "have you spoken to the sea harpy since she decided to dump you in front of your mate and tell everyone you're inadequate?"

Lucien nearly snarled at the word mate.

"You know that answer."

"Then don't suggest foolish things."

It was to be one of those nights then. The urge to fight . . . it felt good.

He slammed back another shot before digging his heels in.

"Perhaps if you hadn't mistaken Marianna for an Aella serving girl the first time you met her you could have avoided this mess entirely," Lucien groused, narrowing his eyes. "Perhaps her family wouldn't view us as a group of misogynistic fools and would open their home to us instead of throwing bolts of lightning anytime someone approaches the gate."

He could still feel the singe from Lady Carmen's lightning the first time he'd tried to contact her sister. He hadn't had the courage to risk it again since. And the way she'd attacked . . . she'd intentionally botched the strike.

Marianna didn't want them dead, just . . . away.

The thought of it had left him uneasy, making him suspect the one thing that he'd never breathed a word of to Tamlin. And the way the two had copulated like bunnies in her final months before her disappearance . . . he had prayed to the Mother that it wasn't the case.

That the low conception rate of fae had prevented that disaster from unfolding.

And blessedly, it had.

There had never been word of an Aella birth in the year following Marianna's departure.

"If I had known, I would have never said something so foolish to her." There was truth to those words, regret, remorse . . . maturity.

Something Lucien was lacking at present.

Irritation gnawed at him. "Perhaps if you'd been mindful of your words you would have told her you loved her and she wouldn't have left you."

Something simmered in Tamlin's gaze at that, a sudden understanding that it was more than the alcohol that was now speaking. As though, for once, the Lord was the one in control of his emotions rather than Lucien.

Tamlin rose on surprising stable feet, his hand raking through his mused hair.

"I am fully aware of my mistakes and feelings, Lucien." His friend looked at him in a way that told him he knew exactly what Lucien was feeling. "Perhaps it is you who should become more aware of your own."

Celeste had followed the cloaked male for a couple of hours mounted atop one of the kelpie mares, the beautiful creature colored like dark pond water, dappled coat shifting in the dim light as they traversed paths that even her fae sight would have never caught.

Mercifully, they hadn't attracted the attention of anything.

No, the stroll had been . . . quiet. Borderline peaceful.

The kelpies beneath her and the cloaked figure seemed oddly cheerful, as though they were strolling through the loveliest green field on a warm autumn day. Like they didn't even notice the occasional bubbling and screaming of creatures as larger monsters fed on them, or the bird-sized insects buzzing about.

To them, this was home.

Celeste's companion, still obscured by the shadows of his cloak and the darkness of the swamp . . . silent as ever.

It was a welcome reprieve from the constant chattering she had grown used to while traveling with Gandriel, even if there were questions that were brimming at her lips.

One such question had been dancing on the edge of her tongue since her snooping the night before, the twining letters that had spelled a very clear name on the scabbard of the discarded dagger still prominent in her mind, its style so odd she hadn't been able to place its make.

Familiar, and yet not.

The blade had been beautiful, razor-sharp and of the finest steel, but it had been buried beneath things, as though it had been tossed away an age ago and forgotten.

Perhaps it had been a gift…something the male thought best forgotten.

She broke the silence.

"So," she started tentatively, waiting for the slight shift in the figure's stance as he acknowledged her, "you really don't talk much do you . . . Icarius?"

At the mention of the name the figure froze, the kelpie beneath him coming to a disgruntled stop and whickering her annoyance, not pleased with her stroll being so rudely interrupted. Celeste's mount gave similar complaint.

She tried to suppress her smirk as he turned his attention to her, his shadowed gaze burning through her beneath his dark cowl. He wanted to know where she had gotten such information, no doubt.

"That is your name isn't it? The one etched on your dagger?"

For that had been the word embossed into the simple but well-crafted leather scabbard with fine silver foil, the letters aged but still sharply legible in the dim firelight.

Something befitting a prince.

Or at the least a fine soldier.

The male paused for a long moment, only the buzz of insects and the cries of distant creatures breaking the silence. He seemed to contemplate whether he'd speak, as though there were something he wished to voice, before shaking his head and gently nudging his kelpie forward once more.

Celeste did the same, patting the cool neck of the mare beneath her, before trotting further into the bog. "I suppose that's a yes, then."

"You were such terrors!" Mor cackled from her seat, a half-full glass of wine sloshing dangerously in her hands as she leaned forward onto the table where the plates from dinner had just been cleared. The chattering of the guests filtered through the night behind her as she stared Cenric down. "I will never understand how we never caught you two doing such nonsense."

"We did," Azriel replied, Elain tucked into his side, glowing in the fae lights twinkling above. Cenric had never seen such joy on his uncle's face, such happiness. "They just weaseled their way out of it. A lot."

"Yes, because you'd help them hide things." Cassian's teeth flashed in a grin. "Celeste would come running to you with that puppy-eyed look and you'd cover for her every time."

Rhys quirked a brow as he looked at his brothers, as though this information was new to him.

Azriel leveled a look at Cassian, not even bothering to deny it. "You weren't any better."

He gaped in outrage. "I didn't help them get away with things that would actually hurt people—"

"No, you just let them terrorize the house and break everything," Amren snapped, draped in her signature silver, monstrous diamonds dangling from her ears. "If I recall correctly, it was YOU who let Celeste into my apartment to steal my jewelry for a scavenger hunt."

"And you got all of it back," Cassian supplied smarmily, "every last jewel."

"Not in one piece!" Amren hissed, annoyance flickering through her silver eyes, as the memory of loose emeralds and sapphires all over the floor bloomed in Cenric's mind. He watched as Varian dropped his head trying to hide his grin, his aqua gaze briefly meeting his own.

He'd been the one who'd found them rummaging through said jewelry box in the first place, and the Prince of Summer had let them slip away without a word. All because Celeste had told him he looked dashing and how much she "loved her Uncle Varian."

Celeste could have charmed her way out of a drake's nest with nothing more than her wit and devilish grin.

And, frankly, she had.

Fortunately, Amren had eventually forgiven him and his sister, but poor Cassian . . . it'd been several weeks of torment from her that had resulted in several broken pieces of furniture before they'd made peace.

Of a sort.

And Amren was still clueless it'd actually been Varian's fault.

Cenric was willing to bet that Cassian also had no clue that the Prince could have stopped them at any time.

He certainly wasn't going to say anything about it though.

"In my defense," Cenric countered, wincing slightly as the memory of all the terror he and Celeste had wrought spooled open in his mind, "Celeste was the mastermind behind all of it. I was just doing as I was told."

And he had.

Whatever she'd demanded, whatever she'd asked, he'd done all of it.

They'd been downright frightful sometimes.

With his power and his sister's strategizing . . . it still amazed him that they hadn't burned the city down.

Numerous times.

"Like the good brother you were?" Cassian jested, snickering from behind his cup. Nesta, seated next to him, smirked as she listened to his recollections of the secrets he'd promised Celeste he'd take to the grave.

Those secrets . . . now treasured memories.

Even if his mother looked somewhere between horror and amusement.

Fortunately for him she was still posturing to be in his good graces, having been the pinnacle of well-behaved since he'd arrived.

He'd never admit that he had missed his mother fiercely, having never felt such relief as when she swept him into a hug after the ceremony. Even if he'd acted the disgruntled mess.

He was glad to be home, even if his mind kept slipping back to Valka who awaited him in the Steppes, no doubt sprawled out in their bed reading, as she liked to in his absence.

He'd be back to her soon.

"I cannot believe that's what happened to the poor archivist, and the fact that Clotho covered for you both—" There was exasperation in his mother's voice, even if it was tinged with amusement. "And I defended you! He resigned from his position the next week, you know."

"Which was exactly what Celeste wanted," Mor interjected, huffing in amusement. "No one ever told that child no and got away with it, especially not when it came to her books."

Cenric had never forgotten the crotchety elder that had snapped at his sister to put the books she'd selected from the library away.

Tomes of such caliber are not fit for the grimy hands of a child, he'd rudely told her as he snatched them away, shooing her out of her library like some sort of pest.

Celeste hadn't stood for it and neither had Cenric.

Even if it had developed into a bit of a . . . debacle.

"He shouldn't have told her she wasn't allowed to read them," Cenric groused, "she was perfectly careful with them. He was just a grouchy old male who was keeping her from what was rightfully hers."

"One who ended up with hallucinations of wasps in the library," his father smirked, clearly remembering the instance. Rhys had fully intended to tell the archivist to leave Celeste alone before they'd beaten him to it. "Though apparently they weren't an illusion at all, just very well trained."

Cenric wouldn't have called them "well trained".

Just . . . easy to corral.

Mostly.

They'd been particularly fond of the fruit and sugar paste they'd slathered on the male's robes, so it really hadn't taken much convincing. Just a little magical nudge and some well-timed hide and seek behind bookshelves had done the trick.

"Celeste found the nest on the outskirts of the city; we only got stung twice bringing them to the house."

"And where were you hiding them?" Elain asked, her eyes bright, the flowers in her hair still fresh as they'd been during the ceremony hours ago. "Or do I want to know."

"Under Cassian and Nesta's bed," Cenric flinched as his aunt whirled on him, disbelief marring her features. "Look, I had them warded, they were never going to actually get out."

He'd hoped.

"You stored wasps beneath my bed?" Nesta said, her brow furrowing in horrified disbelief.

"Yes?" Cenric offered her a sheepish smile, hiding his flush in another healthy gulp of wine.

"Oh he was just a child, Nes," Cassian goaded, turning a knowing, loaded gaze towards Cenric, who braced himself for the onslaught he knew was coming. "But he's a grown male now, especially if the female he's been bedding in the Steppes is any proof."

Cenric choked on his wine about the same time his mother spit hers across the table.

Everyone froze around him and sent him questioning looks as Cassian and Azriel gave him knowing glances, even a hint of knowing sparked to life in his father's eyes.

How had they known?

He'd completely purged her scent from his clothes, had been so mindful about keeping her hidden—

The wine he'd been sipping loosened his lips as he panicked.

"How did you know about Valka?" he asked, heat racing up his cheeks as he locked gazes with his uncles and father, truly confused how'd they'd gleaned such information about him, especially with the wards he'd erected and the measures he'd taken-

It was their turn to spew wine across the table.

Or . . . perhaps they hadn't known.

"You . . . slept with Valka?" That was Cassian, incredulity filling his voice, "As in, the missing Valka we've been hunting for months—"

"You've been hiding with her this entire time?" His father sounded somewhere between impressed and flabbergasted, as though this news were just icing on the cake from his little impromptu stay in the woods.

"You knew where she was the entire time?"

That tone, icy death encrusted with the coldest hoarfrost.

This was about to turn into a fight.

A silence filled the room as Cenric locked gazes with Nesta, fury burning behind her stare.

And there she was, the most terrifying female he'd ever had the misfortune of knowing. The witch of the Steppes who'd bested every warrior she'd ever faced down, primed to strike and furious.

And he wasn't going to back down.

"She's been hiding, trying to keep herself safe." Cenric hadn't even considered that Nesta might have been looking for her, might have wondered where her lieutenant had gone . . . no, it had been Valka's choice to disappear and she owed no one an explanation.

Not even his aunt.

"Her choices are none of your business."

A pulse of power reverberated around him, frowns beginning to bloom on his family's faces as the High Lords at the table nearest to them sent over curious looks. He met the challenge with a pulse of his own, refusing to relent.

To his surprise it was Azriel who stopped it, shadows slicing between them silencing their power in a way that stunned everyone into silence.

"Enough." The quiet tone that came out of the Shadowsinger's mouth had both of their attentions flickering to him, goosebumps rising on their skin. Cenric's uncle had never once used that voice with him, ever. "Not tonight. Take it somewhere else."

And the look Nesta cut him, annoyed but also full of regret—

They'd both been stupid.

Nearly ruining a reception for a wedding that had nearly not happened.

And the murderous look his mother was giving Nesta, the disappointed frown from his father . . . they certainly weren't helping the situation. Only Amren looked more curious than annoyed, no doubt impressed he'd kept the secret for so long until his uncle had made a lucky guess.

One that had nearly wrecked the night.

"We will discuss this later." Nesta rose from her seat swiftly, nodding apologetically in Elain's direction before quickly sidestepping the hand Cassian had reached out for her before disappearing into the now dark gardens, no doubt where she would remain until he joined her.

If he joined her.

"Couldn't keep your mouth shut could you," Mor grumbled at Cassian, before taking a swig from her wine glass. "Always gotta poke somebody 'til there's a fight."

"How is this my fault?" Cassian spluttered, still taken aback at the fact that Cenric had known where Valka had been the whole time, had been bedding her.

Cenric was just about to voice his blame when Elain's delightful voice cut through the tension, amusement in her tone.

"Well, no wonder you needed to steal that spare bed."

Celeste wasn't entirely sure where to look as they rode into the camp, Icarius's quiet 'wait' having done little to stop her as she'd pressed ahead of him, her breath billowing before her as the temperature once again plummeted.

He'd found the slavers for her, the entire massive camp that had been set up as an ambush.

Filled to the brim with soldiers, fae and human alike, all armed to the teeth and prepared to slaughter anyone from the rebellion who had ventured into this wasteland.

It would have been Anelisse's death, as well as Gandriel's and her own.

The information Ithaca had received—it'd been a trap, just as Avi had feared.

And each and every one of those soldiers . . . now dead.

Nearly two hundred corpses from her estimation, now nothing more than frozen carrion strewn across the ground, their faces contorted in terror from their final moments as they'd faced their demise, frozen so solidly they would likely only melt into puddles once the frost thawed.

If something that cold could thaw.

"Lurker," Icarius murmured next to her, his hand resting on the neck of the kelpie as he shooed the pale mare away from a corpse that she'd started nibbling on.

The thought sent shivers dancing up Celeste's spine, the fact that they had almost fallen prey to the same beast . . . she chose not to dwell on it.

Another wave of gratitude to this mysterious male who had happened upon them and had taken them to safety welled up in her.

She owed him a lot more than a few new articles of clothing and some coin . . . she owed him her life.

Slipping from the kelpie's back, she began picking her way through the camp, searching for any sign of Dermot and Dune, hoping that perhaps the creature had done her a favor and killed them as well. She heard Icarius dismount behind her, slowly following as she began rummaging through the tents.

More and more bodies, all having faced the same fate.

The lurker had fed well. Perhaps too well.

She certainly didn't want to stick around long enough to find out if it'd return looking for new prey.

After nearly an hour of searching she cursed under her breath; there was no sign of Dermot, Dune or any of their inner circle. It had been a death trap and only that.

One she'd nearly fallen prey to.

She'd nearly picked through all of the tents when she found the most ornate at the center of the camp, the braziers that had been burning outside of it crusted in steaming hoarfrost, its white canvas stiff. Pushing the tent flap open, she watched as the fabric dissolved into icy dust beneath her fingertips.

This had been where the lurker had hit hardest.

Slipping inside, she found a fine bed and desk, covered in pages and pages of paper.

She eased one into her hands and was relieved to find it still pliable, having thankfully survived the frost that had decimated the rest of the camp. Scanning through the page she felt her stomach drop, an oiliness beginning to bloom.

Dermot had ramped up operations, dozens of more ships and hundreds of new soldiers at his disposal, entirely new trade routes and new wards, fresh shipments of faebane and weapons—everything that they thought they had intercepted.

It was only worse now, and better concealed.

And the numbers-they didn't have the forces to face it.

Didn't have the trained soldiers who could stand shield to shield with the newly hired mercenaries from the east.

Flipping through the papers frantically, Celeste hissed as she sliced her palm on an edge, blood pebbling in its center. Cursing, she made to wipe it across a discarded page when Icarius materialized behind her and caught her wrist, pressing his cloak into the cut, soaking the blood into the fabric.

She looked at the male in confusion but he only shook his head, struggling again to find his voice.

"It will scent you."

The hair on Celeste's neck stood at that and she immediately relaxed her hand so Icarius could mindfully wrap it with a piece of linen, ensuring that not a drop of her blood spilled.

This wasteland was beyond dangerous . . . yet it had done her work for her.

And these papers . . . Fallon needed to know.

She quickly gathered the ledgers in her arms, taking all that had survived the attack and crumbling the others that had turned to dust.

They needed soldiers, trained ones. And a plan, a way to draw Dermot out so that he could no longer run, to cut the head from the beast entirely.

They would find no allies in Night or Spring Court, would be hard pressed to get Summer or Day to send men—she half wondered if Avi could call the selkies to arms, if for only a short time. As for other allies, people she could call on—

The presence of an old, faded coin at the bottom of her bag bloomed in her mind.

Celeste knew where they could find soldiers, highly trained assassins at that. They would need to travel north then, quickly, if they had any hopes of intercepting the newest forces before they dispersed. She needed to get back to Gandriel and then to Anelisse and Ithaca, needed to get word to Fallon and her crew . . .

She would need all of them if they were to have any hope of halting this.

But before that, one final task in this hellscape.

She looked towards Icarius who had released her hand, his hunched, looming form watching her in the dim light.

"I have one more favor to ask." Her voice tapered off, and she cleared her throat. "Have you ever heard of a caoin?"