2. Nora

2

NORA

PRESENT DAY

T he Human Realm is dull compared to Faerie; the vibrant autumn leaves are leeched to a mulled brown in the moonlight.

My hair whips around my face as we drive through the empty city streets. The open window lets the wind rush around us, carrying the acrid scents of automobile exhaust and hot garbage on its back. I breathe it all in, a smile toying at my lips—though I can't say the same for Wesley at my left.

His nose is scrunched in disgust, and his olive-toned hands are white-knuckled around the steering wheel as he navigates us to the meeting point.

It's not all that different from Faerie—at least our side of it. We can never quite paint a clear picture of what the Seelie do with their carved-out portion of the land.

Still, the murky river lapping at the city docks and the ever-present haze in the air would be enough to set any fae on edge.

Oddly enough, it's always felt a bit like coming home to me.

"You'll get used to it eventually," I say.

Wes's crooked smile is more of a grimace. "I don't know about that."

He doesn't come human-side as often as others in our House—we try to keep the younger members fae-side until they're more established within the organization. But with our planned expansions, he'll be spending more time here than ever before.

House Pride has always operated in both realms; we're the shipping moguls of Faerie, funneling human-made automobiles, guns, and anything else the upper echelon of the Unseelie Court wants across the magical border. Though our Court has been lacking one lucrative subset of goods for the last fifty years—anything that the Seelie can make.

"Pull over here," I say, pointing to an alley I recognize. "We'll walk the rest of the way."

Wes parks and turns the engine off; without the automobile's rumbling, the silence of midnight surrounds us.

We weave through a familiar path of empty cobblestone streets tucked between brownstones toward the shipping port on the east river. It's meant to be neutral ground for any fae who inhabit the human city, but I tug my gloves off and shove them into my trench coat's pocket.

Can never be too careful.

The city is always quiet at this time of night. The human speakeasies have closed their doors by now and any straggling revelers will be tucking themselves into their silk-sheeted beds. But there's something about the way my boots clack sharply on the flagstone sidewalk that sets my nerves alive. My pointed ears twitch as we stop under a flickering lamp post.

Two minutes pass where I scrutinize the shadows around us.

Of course, they're going to show up late.

I clear my throat.

"I meant to thank you earlier. For volunteering tonight," I say.

Wes shifts uncomfortably. "Just part of the job, right?"

I tilt my head, studying Wes's reddish-brown hair and the perpetual flush on his cheeks. It gives him a boyish appearance, despite being a fae of twenty-one years. His family has been a mainstay of House Pride for centuries, his dad being Pride's Second before me. And while Wes is still young, he shows great promise.

"Dangerous all the same," I say, a grin spreading across my cheeks. "Your eagerness is noted."

I reach a hand out, gripping his shoulder with a quick squeeze. His muscles tense beneath the fabric of his coat; he relaxes a second later, but the fear is still there, underneath. My people know the power that lies in my veins. But, despite their faith that I can control my magic and that I'd never hurt one of my own, their bodies can't help but react.

I don't blame them, though it tugs at something deep in my gut all the same.

The weight of my gloves bears down on my pocket, a reminder that—more often than not—they're the only reason I'm spared from too many moments like this. The gloves make people feel safe.

I release Wes's shoulder from my grip and refocus on the shifting shadows down the street.

"If this all goes well, I'll need you to step up for our House, yeah?" I say without meeting Wes's eyes.

"‘Course, Boss," he replies.

The humming of the streetlamp intensifies, putting up a valiant effort to keep the darkness around us at bay.

"Good. Now only use your shadows if I tell you. Otherwise, stick to your gun."

Two Seelie exiles emerge from the darkness; the lamplight glints off the large guns slung around their torsos. They play a perfect pair of mobsters with their flat-caps, suspenders, and dress shirts pushed to their elbows. The only things that subtract from their attempt at intimidation are the glittering wings, akin to a dragonfly's, peaking over their shoulders. Seelie wings are so fragile compared to their Unseelie counterparts. And worse, the Seelie are always flashing them about.

It's impractical .

"Bit overkill with the machine guns, huh?" Wes murmurs at my side.

It is, but who am I to judge? Most fae don't have magic. They have to rely on human weapons in a fight.

The fae who are gifted with magic are split into two camps, just like Faerie. The Seelie are masters of healing, shifting, and light magic, while the Unseelie are masters of the opposite. We rule over shadows, minds, and souls.

We're meant to be an even match—opposites and equals, forever bound in a tireless fight for dominance. It's a war that Fate refuses to weave an end to, otherwise she risks upsetting the balance .

I'm not interested in balance.

I want the scales to topple over in my favor, for the waters to overflow in my cup. It's the mindset that's allowed me to rise through the Unseelie ranks, earn the trust of House Pride, and prove my worth as their new leader.

No, I don't want balance.

But I'm also not opposed to bridging the gap when it benefits me.

I step forward, leaving Wes to cover my back, and offer my hand out to shake.

"Welcome boys. Nice weather tonight, yeah? Not too cold for fall," I say.

They refuse my hand with matching frowns.

I sigh, folding my hands into my pockets.

So that's how it's going to be, huh?

"You going to hide in the shadows and let your grunt-men embarrass you, Jamison?" I pivot on my heel and call out to the night. "Or are you going to come out and get this deal done?"

"Forgive me if I've offended you already," a slimy voice echoes alongside sharp footsteps. "I wanted to make sure you were alone."

Jamison, the pseudo-leader of the exiled Seelie, steps into the light.

The Seelie Queen doesn't like ugly things, so she and her Virtues cast out their criminals rather than dealing with them. Why spend time and resources on prison and punishment when the Human Realm and us Unseelie can do that for them?

"We've been working towards this for months. Have I given you reason to assume it would be a set up?" I scoff.

With his slicked black hair, hip-first gait, and a gaze that slithers over the object of its attention, Jamison oozes a confidence that makes my upper lip curl into a grimace. I don't know what the Seelie Queen or her Virtues banished him for, but my gut says it has to be something depraved.

He needs to be knocked down a peg. And I won't complain if I'm the one that gets to do it.

At least he's smart enough to keep his wings tucked away. Wouldn't want them to be accidentally sheared .

He shrugs, scratching his nose. "Not particularly."

"Then stop wasting my time with theatrics." I don't hold back my eye roll as I turn to his two grunt-workers. "Let's do this."

This time, they react, one of them throwing their gun over their back and retrieving a wooden crate. He drops it at my feet, and I nod to Wesley; he knows what happens next. Give them the briefcase of cash and count the merchandise.

Jamison's goons do the same, nodding to their boss when they see that every dollar of the fifty thousand is accounted for.

I tap my boot on the cobblestone as I wait for Wes, but his brows furrow as he counts the racks of clinking tonic bottles.

"There's only half here."

"Half?" I confirm.

Wes nods.

I look to the sky, wishing the stars could temper the frustration bubbling in my gut. But they can't.

My glare could cut through steel; it easily spears through Jamison's show of confidence, causing his slimy smile to waver.

"Are you stupid?"

It's the only reason he would stiff me on the first transaction. He must be an actual idiot.

Jamison laughs, but it's an awkward, breathy sound.

"Listen, Pride, I needed to make sure you were good for the money. Your Pa only ever ordered a month's supply at a time, and this case could easily heal a whole battlefield." His arms fold out in front of him in a placating gesture. "No hard feelings. Consider the extra cash a deposit toward your second order."

It takes me all of one second to rush forward and knock Jamison off his feet. My ankle sweeps behind his, hooking and pulling his leg off-balance, which makes it easy enough to push his chest to the ground. I pin him down with a knee in his gut and my hand around his neck.

At the same time, I pull my gun from its holster at my ribcage and train it on one of his lackeys, who steps towards us. The fae's gait falters, and I hear the other mutter a curse at my back. When I tilt my head over my shoulder, I see Wes with his gun pointed at the third Seelie's head.

Smart boy.

An ice-cold smile frosts over my lips at how we got the three Seelie frozen and helpless in seconds.

I slide my hand up from Jamison's neck to his jaw, squeezing indents into his cheeks with my fingertips.

"Don't fuck around with me, Jamie ," I say. "You won't enjoy the aftermath."

His throat bobs as he swallows down his fear.

I'm sure Pride handled business with Jamison differently—with secrets and hush money and third, fourth, and fifth chances because he's the only supplier we have access to.

But that's not how I handle business.

You get two chances. That's it. In that way, I'm worse than my predecessor.

I turn Jamison's head left and right. I could kill him in seconds with ease. My magic wants to. It's a rabid dog inside my chest, barking to be let out.

Unfortunately, the fact remains that he is the only supplier. And it'd be a shame to lose this business before we even start it.

"Next time, you'll give me triple the product at no cost. Or there will be a promotion opportunity for your grunt-men over there. Understand?"

Jamison nods with a high-pitched squeak.

I pat his cheek twice and stand, holstering my gun.

"See? How easy was that?" I smile. "We'll be in touch for the next drop off."

I start towards the car, knowing Wesley is following by the sound of his heavy footsteps behind me.

"Happy anniversary, by the way!" Jamison's voice echoes into the night.

It doesn't sound like the other well-wishes I've gotten all day, it's more of a veiled warning from a petty man.

If he's trying to shake my confidence, it won't work.

I walk into the chilled night without a second glance at the Seelie behind me. Endorphins from the fight pump a dangerous high through my veins, turning my steps into bounces.

A year ago, I killed Pride and took his place.

I've never felt so free.

Happy anniversary, indeed.

I'm not two feet into our main fae-side warehouse before my Second is scolding me, but I wouldn't have it any other way.

"I thought I was going with you as backup," Josie says, matching my brisk pace towards my office. Her short dark brown hair, expertly waved and tucked behind one ear, bounces with each step. "So, color me surprised when Claude tells me you took the Cadillac and drove off with his little brother before I even got to the warehouse."

"Half brother," I correct.

A frustrated groan rumbles from her throat.

"Wes offered, and he needs more experience. So, I thought, why not? I didn't think it'd be a big deal," I say.

"It's not, but you still need to tell me."

"Mhm."

"It's a matter of House security?—"

"Of course."

"And not to mention your safety?—"

"Yes, Mother."

" Nora ," Josie sputters, stopping mid-stride. Her arms flop at her sides with a defeated sigh.

" Josie ," I mimic back to her.

Of the two of us, I've always been the one more likely to jump without looking or to ask for forgiveness rather than permission.

Like right now.

"You forget who you are," she says.

"I'm Pride of the Unseelie."

"That's not what I mean, and you know it."

Her jaw feathers, the warm beige skin rippling as she physically holds back her frustration.

Shit, she's serious.

My shoulders soften at the concern swirling in Josie's deep brown irises.

I grab one of her hands, curling my fingers around hers, and squeeze. She doesn't flinch; she squeezes mine back, a silent understanding passing between us. Josie and I are the same in the ways that matter. Both orphaned young and taken in by the same cruel and power-hungry fae, we're sisters in all but blood and name.

"I'm fine. Wesley is fine. Everything is fine ."

"I know," she sighs. "I just worry."

My lips twist into a playful pout as I swing our joined hands.

"But I don't pay you to worry."

"You don't pay me enough to not worry," she huffs and wriggles out of my hold. "It seems to be a hazard of being your Second that I have yet to find a way to avoid."

"Maybe you should meditate. I've heard that helps with anxiety."

"Oh, fuck off , Nor."

She may curse at me, but her full lips curve into a familiar smile.

"It's all going to work out for us, Joze. This brings us one step closer to what we're after." I jab my thumb over my shoulder. "Can we please go to my office and get this meeting started?"

Josie snorts, walking backwards with her hands perched on her narrow hips.

"I see how it is. You want to ditch us for Imogen."

A flash of blond hair framing full freckled cheeks has me biting my bottom lip.

"Can you blame me?"

Josie laughs, shaking her head as she opens the door to my office.

"No, I can't."

It had taken longer than I anticipated for Wes and me to drop the tonics off at our human-side warehouse before crossing back into Anwynn. We had to use the main portal since we drove, which takes forever between the travel logs and Wrath's security checks. Between that and my inner circle taking an entire hour to review their weekly updates, I'm all too quick to slam our smuggled trophy onto my desk and finish this meeting.

And as much as Josie likes to poke fun, the whole team is joining us at the Den for drinks tonight; I know they're all itching to let loose as much as I am. Especially since I'm the one who's paying.

They sit three across on the other side of my desk. I study them in the silence, waiting for their reactions.

Josie stares at the tonic with her unreadable poker face. With her ability to peer into people's minds—a rare empath gift—she's the most calculated and reserved of my advisers.

Claude leans back in his chair, which is much too small for his bulk, and scratches the dark stubble on his chin. His reddish-brown hair is cropped short, the color much like Wes's and their father's before them. He's not gifted with magic, unlike his brother, but he's loyal and knows the ropes.

Hattie, on the other hand, broadcasts every thought and feeling that crosses her mind without restraint. Her head bobbles in disbelief, her white-blond curls bouncing around her neck. Wide, downturned doe-eyes, which are perpetually smudged with mascara on the bottom lash line, blink once, twice, then?—

"Is that what I think it is?" Hattie asks. She looks to Claude, then Josie, then back to me. She inches forward, eyes nearly crossing as she inspects the amber liquid through the glass. "I thought it'd be more… glittery. Bein' magic and all."

Josie snorts. "Do you sparkle when you shadow-walk?"

Hattie pouts, her pink bottom lip jutting out. "No. But I wish I did. I'd look like starlight."

Meanwhile, Claude reaches forward, grabbing the bottle and inspecting the label.

"Go on, take a whiff," I say. "It's nasty stuff."

He pops the cork and sniffs, immediately coughing at the industrial-strength healing tonic.

"How do we know it works?" he asks.

I pull my dagger from the holster at my ribs—one side holds my gun and the other my knife. The leather straps wrap my weapons around me like an armored cocoon. I flip the blade so the sharp metal rests against my palm and hold the handle out to Claude.

"Go on."

His shoulders stiffen, but he nods, pulling the knife from my grip. He makes to slice his own forearm, but I cut him off.

" No , not yours."

I push one sleeve up and jab my arm at him.

His chocolate-brown eyes meet mine with a sheen of confusion; my predecessor was the type to let others take pain for him. Claude is still learning that I am not.

He nods, then grips my palm with one hand, slicing a line across my outer forearm with the other. Blood quickly wells at the open wound.

I grab the tonic, quickly throwing a shot back. Grassy, herbal notes mixed with rubbing alcohol hit my tongue. Then, the telltale tickle of magic rushes over my arm, dulling the cut's sting and stitching my skin back together.

Josie hands me a handkerchief and I wipe away the pooled blood from my forearm. It takes a few swipes to rid my skin of the red streaks, but once I'm done, my skin is as clear as it was before the blade touched down.

"See? Works perfectly fine," I say. I grab the knife and clean that too. "Claude, you'll be in charge of distribution when the time comes. Usual vendors should work. Bring Wesley along with you too. He should learn the routes."

"About Wes." Claude clears his throat. "He was askin' about his clipping the other day."

I freeze midway in working the handkerchief over the blade, ice filling my veins.

"I'm proud of you." The words are foreign on Pride's tongue, but they are spoken nonetheless.

Blood runs down my back; twin rivers of red bracket my spine. These are wounds that will scar, ones made with iron blades crafted specifically to mark our skin with proof of our clipped wings.

I clear my throat, shifting at the phantom pain that slices between my shoulder blades.

"I thought I made myself clear that while clippings may be a part of our history, they will not be a part of our House's future."

"But, Boss, it's tradition?—"

"If Wes wants to prove his worth to me, he can find another way of doing it. Understood?" I say, my tone laced with ice.

Claude shuts his mouth, a good little soldier.

"Yes, Boss."

"Good. Hattie? Any updates on the paperwork? Then we can head out."

She nods, her curls bouncing with the action. Pulling a folder of papers from a bag at her side, she places them on the desk in front of me.

"These are the permit applications you asked for. They were hard to dig up, being fifty years old, but the library had a copy from old imports that I was able to get my hands on."

I pick up the folder and leaf through the pages. The paper is old, yellowed, and stiff between my fingers. I catch a whiff of musk as I rifle through them, and a tingle of excitement works its way through me at the scent. It's a prickle of anticipation that has me biting my tongue.

"Do you really think Silas will approve this?" Hattie asks. Then she whispers, "Wouldn't it be easier to sell it on the black market?"

"Silas would find out within days. This is bigger than human drugs." Josie shakes her head. "It's better to go to him first. If we follow a semblance of protocol, get people excited about the product, it puts pressure on him to concede. Otherwise, it's likely he'll squash the venture without a second thought."

I snap the folder shut, flicking it back on the desk.

"Then we're all in agreement. I'll bring the proposal to him tomorrow at the Sins meeting." I look each of my inner circle in the eye as I grab the bottle from the desk and tuck it into my coat. "You're all to keep quiet about this until then. Got it?"

Three nods have me smirking.

"Then let's get going. We've got a lot to celebrate."