Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
And now he’s gone.
“Hans,” I whisper, smoothing his blood-matted hair away from his forehead. “Mein treuer Freund.”
The grief crashes over me, doubling me over his still form. Hans, who died protecting people he barely knew because I asked him to.
Gone.
I look up at the night sky, at stars barely visible through the forest canopy, and let the words come. Words that I’ve heard Hans give over other fallen men in our past. It was always his ritual. His way to pay respect. Words I know he’d want said over his body:
“Hear me, spirits of the night. Take this warrior from my sight. Hans the faithful, Hans the brave. Deserves far more than earthly grave.
“Seven years he stood with me. Now his soul flies wild and free. Blood and iron, steel and bone. He shall never fight alone.
“In the mist between the worlds. Where the ancient banner unfurls. Wait for me, you stubborn friend—this is not our story’s end.”
My voice cracks on the final words, and something hot spills down my cheeks. When was the last time I cried? I can’t remember. But Hans deserves tears, deserves grief, deserves better than dying in a forest while protecting people he chose to call family.
I smooth his blood-matted hair one last time, then gently close his eyes.
“Wait for me on the other side, mein Freund,” I whisper. “See you soon.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Saylor
I slam through the front door of Maison Rouge like a hurricane with black feathers in a rage. Wren looks up from where she’s checking window locks, her witch costume making her look like she could hex someone just by glaring at them. “Saylor, dear—”
“Don’t.” I rip off the thorny circlet and throw it onto the marble floor where it clatters like broken promises. “Just don’t.”
My wings catch on the doorframe as I storm toward the staircase, and I have to wrestle with the harness to keep from tearing the damn things off completely. Everything about this costume that felt magical an hour ago now feels like theatrical dress-up for Blue’s entertainment.
“The security team is on their way,” Wren calls after me. “Blue wants—”
“I don’t give a shit what Blue wants right now.” My defiance echoes off the vaulted ceilings as I hit the stairs. “Blue can kiss my ass.”
Wren’s shocked silence follows me up to the second-floor landing, where I stop in front of the portrait gallery like I’m preparing for war.
Cordelia beams down at me from her gilded frame, all platinum curls and radiant confidence. The same face I just saw at the Dryad’s Dance. The same woman who was sobbing into Blue’s arms like her world was ending.
“What the actual fuck?” I whisper to her portrait.
Margaret’s portrait hangs next to her, then Eleanor, Vivian, Catherine, Penelope, Sophia. Seven secrets watching me from gilded frames. Seven reminders of just how much I don’t know about Blue. Seven women who all look content in a way that’s hard to define, all holding his signature blue roses. Seven mysteries I should have pushed harder about when I had the chance at the Cavern.
I know what I saw. That was Cordelia—the same face, the same bone structure, the same platinum blonde hair styled in those perfect finger waves. I’d stake my life on it.
Which means Blue has deep, personal relationships I know nothing about.
“Who the fuck are you?” I whisper to her portrait.
But Cordelia’s painted expression offers no answers, no explanations for how someone can be both in a portrait here and crying in a forest at the same time.
So many fucking secrets . . . like the third floor . . .
“No more guessing,” I say out loud. “No more wondering. No more being the clueless girlfriend who gets all her information secondhand.”
I’ve never been the dumb girl in any story, and I’m sure as hell not starting tonight.
The third floor beckons from above like a challenge wrapped in Blue’s explicit instructions to stay away. Well, fuck his instructions. I’m tired of locked doors and careful explanations and being dismissed whenever things get complicated.
The hallway of skeleton keys stretches before me, a curtain of metal that clinks softly as I push through. Keys of every size and era hang at eye level, forcing me to duck and weave between them. Tonight they’re not mysterious or romantic. Tonight they’re just obstacles standing between me and whatever fresh hell Blue’s been hiding up here.
I start grabbing keys at random, working my way down the hallway with systematic fury. The first key I try is too big for any of the keyholes. The second is too small. The third fits the lock on the burgundy door but won’t turn no matter how hard I twist.
“Come on,” I mutter, moving to the next key, my wings bumping against the hanging metal with each movement. “One of you bastards has to work.”