40. Nora

40

NORA

LATER

I wake from suffocating darkness in the water-logged bowels of Casimir.

There's no natural light. Only a single torch burns on the wall outside the iron bars of my cell, casting everything in an eerie glow.

I lick my dry, cracked lips, wincing as my tongue swipes over a raw and bloodied crack at the center. I lean my head back against the cold stone, the spot at my crown still aching.

I'm still wearing my dress from Solstice, even though weeks have passed—at least, I assume it's been that long. Without the sun, I would count the passing hours by the meals the Seelie brought me. The food resembled something like breakfasts and dinners at first, but then I got my hands on their delivery boy.

It didn't end well for him.

They haven't sent down a meal since.

Fae can live without sustenance for a month. But it isn't a pleasant experience.

My stomach is long past the point of rumbling its frustrations; it wails on about the constant ache that I try to ignore.

The stone wall is cold as ice at my back, but at least it makes me feel something other than numb. I close my eyes and focus on the one thing holding my sanity together: the tether of magic still linking Patience and me.

It's the only thing to do in the dungeons of Casimir.

I'm tempted to snap it every time I wake from my nightmares. But I wasn't lying to him when I said I wanted to savor his death. It's more than a want now.

I need to see the life drain from his eyes, feel his pulse stop under my fingertips. Simply snapping this tether isn't good enough anymore.

Still, the tether is a fail-safe, so long as I maintain it. I build it up, slow and steady, siphoning all the magic I can into fortifying the connection.

Either way, his fate is sealed. In that alone, our plan worked.

The image of Imogen, shock and desperation stricken across her face, flashes across my mind. I wince at the onslaught of memories. They strike me without warning, sharp and to the heart, more often than I'd like. The way betrayal burned in those amber eyes before she was consumed by darkness replays in my head over and over again.

It's a new ghost, haunting me the same way the memory of Patience once did.

This is worse, I think.

All I can hope is that she is safe. That Josie and Leo are safe. And that they can take better care of her than I did.

I palm my thigh, where the gun Imogen gifted me still rests, strapped to my flesh. I'm keeping it safe.

In my fantasies, I shoot Patience between the eyes with it.

Hours or days pass; I'm too tired to count the minutes.

But then the air shifts with a strange breeze, the shadows in the corner of the dungeon swirling in a familiar pattern. I know it's him before he even steps through.

It's not a relief, like it should be, because I'm not Pride anymore. How could I be?

Silas's nose scrunches at the dank smell of the cellar. He is all casual nonchalance as he stands on the other side of my iron cage, fresh blood splattered on his shirt and white hair glowing red under the torchlight.

He frowns.

"I owe Wrath fifty dollars," he mutters. "They really kept you down here this whole time?"

No " Hello. "

No " How are you? "

No " You traitorous bitch. "

My throat is rough from disuse and dehydration, but it still holds the same snippy spark I reserve for the Unseelie King.

"Yeah, well, I don't think they trust me enough to keep me in Avalon."

A silence passes between us where we study each other. Silas tilts his head as he takes in the damp dungeon and my state of appearance. Any wounds I sustained from the altercation in the ballroom are long healed, but the fact remains that I haven't bathed or looked in a mirror since before the ball.

"So," I say.

"So?" Silas mirrors. He leans back against the stone wall, crossing his feet and shoving his hands in his pockets.

I roll my eyes. Even now, he has to be a pain?

"Are you going to kill me now? Because if you're going to do that, I'd love to get on with it."

Silas laughs, a full-bodied chuckle, as if I'm the crazy one for asking such a question.

I think it's a valid one.

"Nora," he says, wiping away a stray tear. "I'm not here to kill you."

"What?"

"I already knew."

Shock reverberates through my body, down to my soul.

"No." I shake my head. "No one knew." I sit up on my knees, crawling to the iron bars and gripping them in my hands. " How did you know? "

We must have been too loud because a metal latch slides, echoing down the stairwell. Steps sound, a quick patter of boots on stone. I watch as Silas watches me, all with a quirked brow, like he's challenging me to tell him to leave.

He doesn't move as the Seelie guard rounds the bottom of the stairs.

"Hey, you can't be down here?—"

Silas simply touches the Seelie guard, and the body crumples to the ground, unmoving.

Dead.

Dead by touch.

My brain processes the information, then tries to cross-reference every memory of Silas to see if I missed something —a hint that he was more than he let on. But there are none.

"You're a soul-stealer?" I whisper.

"Shadow-walker, empath, soul-stealer—a king can be many things." Silas levels with me, crouching on his heels and folding his palms together. "You must have noticed in your guided research at Mt. Bramble that soul-stealers haven't emerged outside Royal bloodlines since before the split of Faerie. So, imagine my surprise when Pride revealed you to society."

"Is it wrong of me to have pretended I was special?"

"You are special. Just not in that specific way." Silas rubs the day-old stubble growing on his chin. "Pride kept your magic well disguised and kept you well hidden from my spies. I always had suspicions, of course, but it wasn't until I saw your magic up close that I realized what you are."

His tongue darts out and licks his lip.

"Something different entirely. The magic of a healer twisted in such a way that instead of life, you gift death." He huffs a short laugh, an awe-filled smile dimpling his cheeks. The way his black eyes roam over me has gooseflesh rising across my skin. "I wasn't lying back then, in your office, when I said I couldn't get a good picture of you."

"Is it clear now?" I ask. "The picture of me?"

"I see you clearer now than I've seen anything."

My throat is tight as I swallow. My eyes drift away from Silas and to the darkness at the edge of my cell.

"Why doesn't anyone know about you?"

"Because I don't want them to."

"But you want me to know?"

"You and Wrath." He shrugs. "It's not nearly as fun a power as yours. There's no pain with me. No finesse. No control. It's just, poof ."

On the last word, his eyes widen, and his fingers stretch out in front of him, a mimed explosion.

"So, you really aren't here to kill me?"

"No, Nora."

A tense beat passes between us. My hands fall from the bars to my thighs, my fingers digging into my flesh through the dirtied fabric of my gown. Then I let myself ask the question I'm yearning to know the answer to.

"Are they okay?" I ask.

I don't have to specify who. He knows.

"Yes. All three of them."

Relief cuts through me, the release of a deep-rooted ache inside my chest.

"Greed and Envy lost their Seconds though. And Envy was grazed by a bullet. He's being a big baby about it, if I'm being frank," Silas adds, but his humor is lost on me.

"Are you telling me the truth right now, Silas?" My voice cracks; I have to tamper down the sudden flux of emotion rolling through me.

"Do I have a reason to lie?"

"Answer the question," I snap.

"I've only ever told you the truth when you've asked." Silas smirks, quoting the words I'd so perfectly crafted for him months ago.

"So only lies by omission, then?"

"Of course," he says.

I nod. I can live with that.

"What happens now?" I ask.

His resulting grin chills my blood.

Silas stands with a groan, and leans forward against the iron bars. I sit back on my heels, peering up as his head pokes between two bars, his forearms stretched above him.

"The past few weeks have been… frustrating. I've officially pardoned you, but the Sins are split on whether they want you back," he says. "Your House is also unsure if they should stand by you. Seems there's a faction growing behind a young man giving your Second a hard time. It's all unwanted chaos, given the war that's brewing. Patience has Oonagh's ear, and he's practically foaming at the mouth for bloodshed. But I'm sure you expected as much."

"I think we've established I expected to be dead by now."

"You need to have more faith in your friends, Nora," Silas chuckles. "We came back for you, after all."

"We?"

"Wrath is upstairs," Silas says.

To that, I have no response. Instead, I watch as tendrils of shadow wrap around his hand and snake down to the padlock on the cage door. It takes only a second for his shadows to pick the lock.

It falls with a clank to the floor.

My tongue darts out, tasting freedom in the air as Silas pulls open the cell door.

"C'mon. Your lover is worried," he says. "And we still have a Virtue to kill."

He holds his ungloved hand out to me.

It's an offering. A claim. A statement of unquestionable trust. I didn't understand it before, but I get it now.

We're the same.

I take his hand.