“But—”
“No, that Fae knows Hellebore’s reputation. She’s from his court, and Fae have been raised from birth to recognize danger. You can’t save her, but if we play our cards right, we can save thousands of mortals.”
More like millions. I run a hand through my wavy locks and exhale. She’s right.
This is our opportunity to dig deeper into Hellebore’s private life.
On cue, Eclipsa peels away from the shadows cloaking the far hallway and jerks her head to hurry. The sleek dress hugging her athletic body reminds me of molten silver. The slick material glints as she glides into the sunlight, her seven-inch platform heels impossibly quiet.
“Fae ears,” Mack breathes, running her hands over her arms as we jog, “I hate it when she does that.”
I hardly hear her. Anticipation laces my blood like a drug.
I forget the poor Fae girl.
I forget Hellebore and his sadistic whims.
I forget that right outside Inara has her arms around my mate.
My entire focus rests on one goal—find Hellebore’s secret and destroy him.
6
Eclipsa’s dark gaze scrapes over me like acid before snagging on my cover-up. “What in Titania’s name is that?”
“A cover-up?”
One delicate silver eyebrow arches.
“I didn’t want to attract too much attention,” I explain, hugging the wall as we round a sharp corner and plunge deeper into Hellebore’s beach compound.
Eclipsa scoffs, her half-moon pendant earrings performing mini-circles on either side of her sharp chin. “Don’t be silly. Bad fashion always attracts attention.”
“She does have a point,” Mack concedes with a traitorous grin. That smile goes full-watt as Eclipsa looks over Mack’s dress and nods approvingly.
“This is your dress,” I remind her.
“Yeah, and I’ve only worn it once, to the Marcus Garvey public pool after our rooftop pool closed for maintenance.”
Only Ruby defends my style. “My master is a goddess and anyone who disagrees deserves to have their defective eyes plucked out and crammed down their lying throat.”
I pat Ruby’s tiny head. Normally I try not to encourage Ruby’s violence, but today is an exception.
She hugs my neck as I plunge recklessly down a modern set of floating stairs. My flippies slap the sleek wood. “I’m not here to impress, remember? I’m here to destroy this mother trucker.”
Shock makes me halt as I catch the curved sickle-blade in Eclipsa’s hand. “Darling, revenge is best served in a designer dress.”
There’s no doubt this is her revenge against Hellebore. Not that she wouldn’t be here anyway to help Valerian and me—but she might not look so gleeful about it.
Mack is the last to descend. I try not to gloat too much as her designer heels struggle to navigate the polished stairs. We all halt in front of a steel-reinforced door.
Locked.
I crack my knuckles. “Time to find out if my theory is right.”
Over the summer, we learned some interesting things about my abilities. The magic I borrow stays with me after its owner has gone. It doesn’t seem to matter how far away they go—I can usually conjure the same amount for a few hours.
The more powerful the energy, the longer I can use it.
My mother’s magic, for instance, stays with me for just over a day.
I haven’t tested Hellebore’s magic yet, but the theory goes that all the locks in his residence recognize his powers. It’s like a signature.
One I’m hopefully about to forge.
Eclipsa stabs a stiletto into the marble floor. “Any day now, Summer.”
Before I can ponder what happens if I’m wrong, my fingers wrap around the metal handle. It’s cold beneath my fingers. The soft hum of powerful magic caresses my bones.
Who are you?
My eyes snap shut as I let the energy I felt from Hellebore earlier seep out. I am the dew on a spider’s web. The wilted leaf of a honeysuckle. The prick of blood from a bramble’s thorn.
The spell hesitates.
I know you, it whispers, yet you are different. How?
I know what it requires; what I’m missing. Bitter hatred. I conjure my emotions from the moment that twisted crown of daisies came to life atop my head. The sinking despair I felt as I realized I’d been tricked. I focus on the blinding rage that all but consumed me as I saw my mate, poisoned and powerless, held aloft in the air like a piece of trash.
The male who had been willing to give up everything for me . . .
Apologies, Master.
The click of the lock snaps my eyes back open.
Eclipsa whistles. “I didn’t actually think that would work.”
“And yet you let her try?” Mack demands.
Eclipsa shrugs.
Breathing out the boiling mess of emotions still clinging to me, I enter the next room, expecting anything but . . .
“Congratulations,” Eclipsa drawls, “we’ve found the place he takes the victims he wants to bore to death.”
I twirl around the bare chamber as disappointment takes hold.
Eclipsa suddenly stiffens, her spine jerking ramrod straight. “Wait. I think I’ve been here before.”
“You think or you know?”
Mack’s fidgeting with her messy bun when her focus darts behind me. “What is that?”
I follow her stare to a wide room down the hall. Just like the rest of this pretentious mega-mansion, it’s sparsely furnished. Two long violet couches are positioned in the center of the room. But it’s the décor on the walls that catches my eye.
“His gallery. I remember now.” Eclipsa’s voice sounds strained as she stalks toward the room. Unlike her usual fluidity, her spiky heels stab the marble floor with each angry step.
“Gallery? As in, his own photos?”
“Yes.” Eclipsa hesitates before entering. She takes a deep breath, as if the air on the other side is poisoned with rancid memories. Her pumps echo inside the high-ceilinged room. She makes two full turns, her dress refracting the gallery lights all around the dome ceilinged room.
Shimmer above, she’s dangerously beautiful in this moment. Eclipsa might think Hellebore used her to get back at Valerian, but I suspect at some point, it was more than that.
I frown. “I thought his camera was for added creep factor, not . . . this.”
Eclipsa exhales. “Even soulless freaks have hobbies.”
“Serial killers like to collect memorabilia from their victims,” Mack points out. “Maybe this is like that.”
“You didn’t recall being here before?” It seems like a detail that’s hard to forget.
“I might have magically scrubbed some of my more painful memories with Hell.” Eclipsa lets two fingers flutter over her left temple. “I made the spell weak enough that it’s overridden with simple reminders.”
Mack examines a picture of an older Fae female with soulful honey-gold eyes and a solemn expression. “These are surprisingly . . . good.”
She’s right. As much as I want my d-bag of a fiancé to be a clichéd hack, I can’t help but marvel at the black-and-white images inside the modern platinum frames. They’re portraits. Some posed, the subject looking straight into the camera to give a discomforting effect. Some taken surreptitiously. All boast impressive knowledge of light and angles and convey an effortless emotion.