1. Bad Omens

Chapter 1

Bad Omens

LORI

S quelch. Squelch. Squelch. The soles of my feet dig in the mud, and the familiar rhythm soothes my soul. But whenever I close my eyes, I can still see them. The spiders.

Their crooked limbs and globulous eyes have burned my retinas. I see them crawl through the cedar hedges that flank my favorite running trail. Scurrying over the gardens to weave their webs. Dozens of them, with big fangs and disgusting darts.

I see them killing my friends.

My chest heaves at the vivid memories of poisonous silk clumping in my hair and clogging my mouth. Choking me. The wretched taste of venom and death sticks to my tongue, and I pick up the pace, trying—and failing—to outrun my own brain.

Trauma's an old friend I have no use for anymore. It makes me sappy and weak, and I swore never to let it rule my life again. So, I run. My shrink would say it's not healthy, but if worse comes to worse, I can always run faster .

Garlands of red fruits sag from the branches of the Shadow Court's Hawthorn. The sacred tree is almost barren by now, and flocks of raucous blackbirds burden the branches to steal a taste of its berries. A thin blanket of snow sticks to the bushels in powdery patches, and snowflakes fill the sky above my head.

Winter's coming…

A tingle of warning tickles up my spine. I'm a Shadow huntress, and like every skilled hunter, I can always tell when I'm running from something.

My heels slide in the mud as I come to an abrupt halt, and my breath frosts in front of my face. The air is ten degrees colder than it was a minute ago, and the loud thunder of boots trampling mud echoes behind me.

Not the nauseating click of spider legs, yet terrifying… An army nips at my heels.

A trickle of anxiety engulfs me. I slip into the shade of a cedar hedge, my magic coalescing into a dark, protective bubble around me. I have to assume that whatever's following my trail wants me dead. That's my lot in life.

Between rogue nightmares and psychotic ex-fiancées, unannounced visitors in these parts are rarely friendly. We're not expecting any guests for my best friend's wedding. It's a very secret ceremony.

What if Morrigan—the evil witch who made the soul-sucking spiders in the first place—discovered that the wedding was tonight and sent another wave of monsters upon us?

My shadow daggers flicker to life in my hands, light and lethal, and I draw in a deep breath. The spider bite that almost killed me tickles my ribcage, a splash of venom still embedded in the bone, but I dig the balls of my feet into the ground, ready to strike.

Nell deserves all the happiness in the world, and I won't let anyone ruin her big day. It's my duty as her bridesmaid to kill whatever's coming.

Wounded or not, I can still fight.

Goosebumps riddle my arms as I risk a glance around the corner of the cedar hedge.

A line of about twenty soldiers marches upon the Shadowlands in perfect unison, not one movement wasted. A well-oiled vision of doom. The men and women showcase the same hairstyle—half-buzzed heads that reveal the shape of their skulls. Silver zippers run down their form-fitting, sleeveless bodysuits, and white ski pants polish off the look.

Ice-blue tattoos have been carved rather than inked around their pointy ears, arms, and hands in intricate, swirly patterns peppered with snowflakes, and the subtle blue tint of their pale skins flips my stomach.

Grim reapers.

The only thing for certain in this life is that death comes to us all. When all is said and done, even immortals aren't impervious to its grip. Fae age in a slower fashion than us mortals, but when they don't have enough magic left to sustain themselves, they die. Or they get murdered by their enemies. Whichever comes first.

Are the reapers all here for me? Logic dictates one would have been enough, given my current state. I raise my arm to check on the spider bite in my side and hike up my jacket. An elongated M-shaped scar runs from the underside of my sports bra to my hip bone. My brown skin turned black and red and oozy over my bitten rib, but it's exactly the same as last night. It doesn't look like it festered, so why is a throng of reapers on my trail?

As if to answer my question, the reapers breeze past me, oblivious to my presence. Behind them, two men close the military march, and the bite of power rolling off the tallest one freezes the blood right in my veins.

By the spindle!

No matter how many gruesome nightmares I've hunted, or how many vicious Fae I've crossed paths with, nothing prepares you for the beauty of pure, unadulterated death.

The Winter King is tall and lean, but not one inch of him could be called skinny. Every single muscle looming under his white army uniform has been meticulously sharpened and toned into a weapon.

A long cape flows behind him, his blonde hair slicked back over his head, and a pure platinum mask—with no jewels or textures or irregularities at all—covers his eyes. The smooth surface reflects the gardens back to me as he angles his face to my hiding spot. A strange shimmer glides along the edges of the mask like it's made of liquid instead of metal, but the pressure of his gaze never finds me.

The squishy mud ices instantly beneath the soles of his boots, and the gardens glisten under the afternoon sun, most of the water in a fifty-foot radius now frozen solid.

My skin tingles all over, numb from the cold, as I take in the shape of his lips and the sharp angle of his jaw. I press my own mask in place to shield me from his hypnotic thrall and yank my full-face scarf over my long black hair.

According to the High Fae, death's never been so nicely wrapped up in a chiseled, angelic bow than under the command of Elio Lightbringer. I didn't give enough weight to this gossip, the High Fae known to exaggerate, but I truly don't understand how his rotten core could be overlooked in favor of his godlike aesthetics.

The cruel face of the reaper he sent after my dad's soul is branded in my memory, deeper than any spider could hope to burrow. The impatient curl of the monster's lips as he barked for me to step aside and the sting of his cold hands when he peeled me off his body haunt me.

The details live in my memory as heartbreaking and vivid as the day my father died. I remember how my tears iced over my cheeks, and the numbing grip of grief that didn't leave me for months .

All because of this power-hungry, soulless king…

If the Winter King knows I'm there, cradled in shadows, he doesn't let it show and turns his mask to the trio of blackbirds fluttering above our heads. After a few, long seconds, he starts walking again.

The man accompanying the king is wearing a reaper uniform, but with golden accents instead of silver. He holds one arm high in the air as the platoon reaches the shade of the Hawthorn. "Halt."

The soldiers stop near the Shadow King's balcony and widen their stances, their arms now tucked behind their backs. I gape at the Winter King, unable to move from my hiding place.

Anger simmers at the back of my throat, and I tighten my grip on the hilts of my trusty daggers. What are those creatures doing here, on our lands? Why couldn't they stay within the limits of their ice city where they belong?

I'm almost mad enough to march over to them and air out my grievances, but a flash of brown hair stops me as Cece sticks her head out of the gym.

The fifteen-year-old girl stares at the reapers, and her hazelnut eyes widen. With her rosy lips parted in wonder, she appears eager to step onto the ice and introduce herself to our deadly visitors.

I dash across the trail to stop her. "Cece. Cece, go back inside," I order quietly.

A white puff of air rises between us, her entire body shaking from the cold. "What are they?"

The distinct pressure of a powerful Fae gaze prickles the hairs on the back of my neck. I wrap an arm around Cece's shoulders and pull her back inside the safety of the large training gym, closing the door behind us as quietly as possible. "Reapers," I whisper.

"As in grim reapers?" She twists in my grip and cranes her neck around to glance at them again.

"Yes."

Nell runs in from the opposite side of the room. A hood covers her white-blond braid, and a long dark cape reveals a glimpse of her wedding dress. Three pieces of black silk are woven and braided through the dress's sparkly bodice, and the off-the-shoulder ivory neckline makes her look like a fairytale princess—a true Shadow Queen.

"You're already dressed?" I check the clock on the wall and realize my melancholic run made me lose track of time.

"I couldn't just sit there, waiting. I keep thinking something horrible is about to happen."

"You and me both."

Nell peers through the diamond-meshed walls, the reapers barely visible between the thick branches of the barren bushes that crowd the sides of the gym. "Crops! They were supposed to come tomorrow."

Cece tiptoes closer to the wall with a dangerous smile. "They're so beautiful. Especially the tall one…"

"Beautiful?" I shake off the urge to scream and focus on her older sister. "You knew about this? And you didn't tell me?" I breathe.

Nell's eyebrows pull together. "I thought you knew. Damian said that they come every year after Morheim."

A hiccup quakes my throat, and I shake my head from side to side. "Believe me, Old World. If I'd seen an army of grim reapers before, I'd remember."

Nell squints like she's seeing me for the first time today. "Hey… Are you alright?" Her gaze falls to my side. "Is it the bite again? Has it ruptured?"

I shake my head. "It's fine."

But she reaches for the hem of my jacket anyway, and I hold up my arm to allow her to double-check. The tips of her cold fingers trace the angry patch of flesh, a crust of dried blood and fibrin still obscuring the center of the bite.

"The scab is stuck in this state, but it's not worse than it was," she says, her voice heavy with relief.

Nell's magic and Baka's salves brought me back from the brink of a horrible death, but their combined skills haven't been enough to extract the remaining spider venom from my rib. The rotten keepsake keeps the scar tissue in a constant loop of renewal and decay, and I haven't had a good night's sleep since.

I tug my jacket and shirt back down to cover the wound. "Told you so." I force a deep breath down my lungs. "Why is the Winter King here with an army?"

"His new reapers finished their training and came to get their masks," Nell explains.

She's still very new to this world, and I sometimes forget that she doesn't have all the baggage that comes with a life-long knowledge of Faerie. Or the truckload of prejudice associated with an upbringing similar to mine. Death hides from non-magic mortals, so she had probably never heard of reapers back home—except maybe in legends. She wasn't taught to dread the sight of them.

Her fresh point of view is part of why I love her, really, but I swallow hard at her naiveté.

After today, another flock of reapers will leave the Shadowlands with the power to walk the worlds freely. They will travel through glass—or even through reflections on ice or water—and wreak havoc on countless mortal lives. Their job is to collect souls as a gardener snaps flowers off their stems, plucking out the ones that catch their fancy.

The door to the courtyard blows open, and an icy wind gusts into the room. I slam it shut and jam a piece of wood through the lock to keep it secure.

Nell rubs the chill off her arms. "Brr— We'll just have to move the party inside."

Party is the word we use to talk about the wedding, and I throw my best friend a pointed glare. "What if they decide to stick around?"

She shakes her head and steals another glance at death. "They should be gone before sundown. It'd be too dangerous to postpone our plans, anyway. We'll make it work."

An army of grim reapers dropping in early, an hour before her wedding… talk about bad omens.

"Do you know why their skin is like that?" Cece asks.

I'd rather talk about anything else, but once Cece asks a question, she won't give up until she gets an answer.

"When reapers take their oath, the Winter King carves a special set of runes in their skulls. The glamor alters their appearance and grants them the power to act in his name," I sum up.

Cece slips her fingers through the diamond mesh wall. "Can we go and talk to them?"

"No!" Nell and I answer in unison.

I rub a path along my brow to the earrings decorating the round shell of my ear. "That girl is going to drive me crazy. I mean—I love her, of course, but fifteen-year-olds are the worst ."

Cece braces her hands on her hips and lifts her chin. "Hey! I'm right here."

I offer Lil' Bit a wry grin. "It wouldn't accomplish anything to complain about you behind your back. Then you wouldn't know how to adjust your behavior."

She sticks her tongue out. "It's not fair. Baka and Damian never hold their age over me, and they're way older."

Nell and I share a giggle, which aggravates Cece even more. We shouldn't hold our narrow age difference over her, but it's just too tempting.

When she turns eighteen, she'll access the deep well of magic inside her. Until then, her powers are bound to remain as wild and untamed as her character.

Ignoring the painful sting between my ribs, I wrap an arm around Nell. "Come on. You have to help me get ready for the party."

The cold air vibrates with an entirely new pulse of magic, and all the hairs on my arms stand up at attention. A smoky cloud thickens into a man-shaped silhouette near the door.

"Crops!" Nell snatches a crossbow from the wall, and I summon my shadow blades back to life.

Seth Devine condenses into solid form, and the Fae prince rubs his hands together. "Did someone say, party ?"

It's not the first time Seth has weaseled his way inside the castle, but with his ill-fated timing, it might be the last. The fiend is absolutely gorgeous—half his magic born out of lust itself. My mask protects me from his lure, but Nell's gaze loses focus, and Cece almost drools at the sight of him.

I raise my weapons in warning. "By the spindle! You've got a death wish, dude."

The corners of his mouth quirk. "It's my prince to you, Lori."

"I could probably kill you, you know."

His purple eyes dance. "Not if I kill you first."

Nell paws at the lace of her wedding dress with her free hand, her voice hoarse and croaky. "What do you want?"

The wedding dress… Seth has seen it. Fuck - fuck - fuck.

Seth holds both palms up in front of him in a carefree, halting motion. "Hey, I'm not the one leading with threats. I just want to chat."

Cece abandons her post by the window, the reapers all but forgotten in favor of the immortal piece of eye candy. "What's your name?" She raises her hand in greeting.

"Seth. What's yours, darling?" He presses his lips to her knuckles with a wink, and a deep red flush brands her cheeks.

"We're done here." Nell grabs her sister's arm and hauls her away with a grimace.. "I'll get Damian. Come on, Cece."

The young teenager stumbles behind her, her eyes never leaving the Fae prince.

Seth offers them a wave goodbye. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Cecelia."

"Likewise," Cece squeaks before disappearing from view.

After they're gone, Seth licks his lips, and his brutal, erotic gaze travels up and down my body. The curve of his lips reeks of sex, but the bite of power rolling off him—the taste of his magic—is desperate. "Alone, at last."

My eyes narrow, my daggers ready to draw blood. "I thought you wanted to talk to the Shadow King."

The prince's chuckle floods the empty room like heavy summer rain—warm and baring. "Oh no, Lori. You misunderstood. I want to chat with you ."