1. Leni

The sentries promised I’d be hogtied and flogged by now. Dealt a light tar and feathering. Dumped into a vat of toxic sludge, flung off of a runaway Ferris wheel, forced to sip boiling hot ghost pepper stew with my pinky finger raised.

It’s supposed to be inevitable.

The sky will fall, mortals will proliferate, and any who seek the Blackguard will die. With horrendous bloody flourish.

I flew across the ocean for true gut-wrenching torment and what has it gotten me?

Nothing.

No knives to the throat or guns at my temple. Zero impalements. Not even a measly threat to make my theoretical children weep.

I could be on a beach in Fiji right now. Salt sprayed hair, lips pink with grenadine, white sand bunched under neon nails.

Instead, I’m freezing non-essential toes off in this Apollo cursed winterland.

All for him. And does he even care? Has he even noticed?

No.

Males.

For weeks now, I’ve been stalking an endless cycle of dark wash jeans, worn leather jackets, and waterlogged combat boots.

If Yaya were alive, she’d swat me with the tip of her feather pen. Don’t punish them for having style, Eleni.

Typical wisdom for a female who cut her jeans apart at the crack to remix them into skinny-flares: ideal for the rare fashionista bicyclist.

The Blackguard’s style is ubiquitous—ruthless. Once nothing more than human soldiers, they were elevated to immortal warriors to become the great King Kadmos’s personal arsenal: the glimmering Kingsguard. Limitless in power, bound by a strict moral code, the Kingsguard was hailed as near Divine.

Better.

They were better than Zeus and his righteous Olympians, for they were proof of the King’s mission: peace among creatures and mortals.

They were beloved and revered. Temples were forged in their names. Until they betrayed the very male they’d vowed their loyalty.

In less time than it took for Hermes to escort the fallen King Kadmos to the Underworld, the Kingsguard were cursed and their gleaming title warped into an odious and wicked brotherhood: the Blackguard.

The curse decimated their virtue, leaving them cruel beyond imagining. Dripping with heinous power, they went on to wreak havoc across the realm, flaunting lethal skills and detestable perversions.

The savage assassins of the former King Kadmos. Killers of the Vein of Elpis, the Unifier, Dawn’s Rise, the Last of his Blood, Final in the line of Hope.

The Blackguard are the destroyers of hope.

And they’re who I’m after.

“Don’t look at me as if I don’t realize how it sounds,” Nadja says, mistaking my rising irritation for disbelief. She’s perched in front of me, dusting breadcrumbs off her mittens, ignorant of the danger lurking around us. “Believe me,” she doubles down. “I know exactly how it sounds. But Fritz is not usually like that. He’s so frickin’ sweet. He wants the best for me.”

I’ve known Fritz for two-point-five seconds and I can guarantee he and his chain wallet are far from sweet.

To shield an eye roll, I stir my mulled wine with a stick of cinnamon, watching as the smooth reflection of twinkling golden lights above us spins and vanishes. The sweet smelling steam gently warms the tip of my nose, and my cold toes scrunch in my latex boots.

“Well,” I say casually, as if I haven’t spent my life despising males like Fritz. “I happen to think the best version of you should be able to eat and drink and do whatever she wants whenever she wants. Especially on vacation.” Another suppressed eye roll. “Honestly, what was he thinking? Vacation in Estonia? In December? What was the alternative? A cave in the Artic? A snake pit on a hunger strike?”

Nadja makes a universal out of my hands gesture. “Fritz really, really likes Christmas.”

Sweet Hera, I’ve been pronouncing that wrong for two weeks. All those confused faces on the receiving end of Happy Christ-Mass—I fiddle with the brass zipper on my coat and peer at the crowd behind me, stomach rolling.

No. Stop.

Draven’s not here. He doesn’t know where I am, he can’t punish me for the slip up.

I force my face forward and give a slight smile to my new friend. Rather than dump on Fritz the Dick further—because honestly, where does one begin? The mohawk or the misogyny?—I nudge the to-go box across the red top of our picnic table. “Try the kringle. I can’t tell if it’s white or milk chocolate.”

It’s dark. And I’m procrastinating. A chronic skill. It started off innocently enough. General stalling because my plan was riddled with holes and half insane. Not half. Full-blown straitjacket crazy, hit-the-emergency-eject mad.

Could my fiancé—ex-fiancé!—really be worse than sadists who quite literally eliminated the realm’s last hope?

Coin-flip.

Then, precisely three days ago, halfway through a party-sized cheese plate and still chowing, I realized what I’d been missing. What an idiot I’d been, distracted by a change of scenery and a dash of freedom. The truth was dangling in front of me, begging for attention.

None of the scary campfire stories were true.

How could they be?

The Blackguard had been in a major creature city for four days and there was a complete lack of terror, an absence of gruesome murders. Zero shrieks of horror at twilight.

I had to investigate.

And tonight—yes, definitely tonight—was time to test my theory.

After Nadja ate.

Earlier, when I determined it’d be impossible to succeed without dessert first, I overheard Bag of Dicks Fritz tell Nadja she’d had enough to eat, before promptly instructing her to sit and wait for him.

Like a pet. Like he’d swat her with a rolled up SkyMall if she didn’t.

“It’s easy for you to say,” Nadja remarks, savoring her wine. “You’re every guy’s dream.”

Ha! “Try telling that to my ex-fiancé.” Draven hates me. He only tolerates me for my potential. A wife too terrified to defy him, willing to be used and abused at his convenience. “There isn’t a single part of me he intends to keep.”

Nadja’s wool mitten curves over my pink coat sleeve, offering a comforting touch. “You’re heartbroken now, but you’ll find someone else,” she assures, her voice filled with genuine affection. “He was wrong to let you go.”

Innocent, misunderstanding mortal. I pat her hand and force a smile, pushing aside thoughts of Draven. “I wish he’d let me go. I’d love to be alone.”

“And then what?” she asks, finishing her wine, then the kringle.

I don’t understand the question. “And then … everything?”

She waits as if I’m about to spout the bullet points of my ten-year plan, and a stream of embarrassment scours my stomach. I wipe my palms down the front of my coat. “Whatever I want.” I shrug. “Read. Learn how to bake. I don’t know. People seem to enjoy knitting.”

The details are fuzzy. They’ll work themselves out. Right now, I’m focused on the main goal: gaining freedom.

Nadja looks at me intently and if her cheeks weren’t flushed bright red, I might guess she’s a Morai, reading my fate. “Honestly, that’s like so sad.”

“No, it’s not,” I snap. What does she know anyway? She’s not a Morai, she’s a mortal. And she’s dating Fritz.

Squelching the twinge of worry, my attention slips from our roped in dining area to the street.

Tallinn’s town square has been transformed into a dazzling Christmas market. Makeshift shopping stalls share flapping white linen walls and curved paths lead shoppers through pure holiday wonder.

I’ve never seen so many mortals out of doors in the winter. The subfreezing temperatures nip my cheeks and I’ve only read one book on mortals thanks to the Argos laws against fraternization—i.e., not allowed—but I’m amazed to learn the cold doesn’t blister their weak constitutions.

It’s incredible how the feeble species endures, embroiled in a scheme of merriment and capitalism.

Some amble aimlessly, chasing sparkles and sales calls. Some walk with determination, clutching lists, tightening wool scarves at their necks. Others simply enjoy. Clogging the cobblestone aisles, marveling at the lights and color, laughing, nursing drinks, relaxed and at ease.

If the Blackguard of myth were here, blood would flood the roads, blue lightning would snap overhead, mutilated creatures would dangle across telephone wires like icicles, dripping down pink and blue and green.

My gut flips at the cheap, 2D fictional gore. I tip my mug away, lightheaded, palms suddenly clammy and force myself to inhale brittle ocean air.

Being sheltered has its drawbacks. Primarily, it fails to adequately prepare you for unspeakable horrors.

Buck up.

This is the calm before the storm, and I’m striding into the eye.

“You really don’t want anyone?” Nadja asks, oblivious to my sudden bout of nausea. “No one to take care of you? No one to hold you? No one to share with? What’s the point of life?”

“I’d rather be dead than treated like less than a pet.”

“Fritz is—”

“Nadja—” a harsh German accent pierces the air. Fritz. A vein pulsates on his overlarge forehead as he charges toward us, glare zeroing in on me. “What are you eating? And who the fuck is this?”

I’m gone. Sisterhood and friendship and girls-lifting-up-girls race down the drain. I’m out. No hesitation, no one final wine chug, no please-dump-him-he’s-toxic farewell, just self-preservation.

Threat? Run.

Creatures of prey learn it fast.

I sprint down the nearest aisle, stumbling through slush piles and dodging extension cords, fear hitting me harder than a physical blow, stinging my skin, constricting my breath.

It was stupid to intervene. Risky.

No more procrastinating.

Better alone. That’s my motto.

I glance behind me, cursing the least malevolent Gods for a lack of night vision and warrior strength.

Then I hit the jackpot.

The sentries in their infinite wisdom—double air quotes—implied the Kingsguard would rise from murky waters in flapping midnight cloaks, death singing at their fingertips.

In reality, Lev Mikhailov rocks a leather jacket made from ten cows and jeans that could put Wrangler out of business.

He’s taller than the stories. Thick as a battering ram with a nest of luscious, I-could-smother-you-with-these locks in rich brown.

Russian born, with fists deadlier than swallowed bullets, the former Kingsguard is best known for slitting his own father’s throat, and apparently, growing muscles on his muscles. Adorned with the signet of the Blackguard—a collar of impenetrable darkness tattooed around his neck.

I wince.

A needle pulled along skin is painful. I know this from experience. The tattoo on my chest still throbs.

Armies of needles shooting against pulses, getting dragged over and back until the skin is drenched in onyx? It must be excruciating.

Holding my breath, I divert into a jeweler’s stall as Lev stalks by, his chin high, dark eyebrows slanted together.

Without realizing why, the mortals cower, stare, or feign fascination with the ground and their phones.

The others, the creatures like me, betray themselves. A trio of hook-nosed females pause their inspection of one hundred percent sheep’s wool yarn to glare. A beautiful emerald eyed Triton spits his disdain for the Blackguard.

Lev’s stride falters, the front of his boot catching on dark purple stone.

I stop breathing. My hands shake as I mimic the mortals, slipping a mother-of-pearl bracelet from a display and draping it around my wrist. All the while, my ears ring, waiting for the next crunch of his boot.

One last test. A final confirmation of my theory.

My lungs burn, desperate for him to leave. Go. Walk away.

Inexplicably, he does, allowing the offense to go unanswered. The Triton heaves relief while the females titter.

They think they’ve been spared.

They’re wrong.

They were never in danger. Not from Mikhailov. But there’s another in play. One far more dangerous.

In the mirrored surface of my bracelet, wreathed in shadows of onyx, I catch a glimpse of another figure—the spymaster.

No one notices him.

Unseen by the crowd, the spymaster drifts through like black smoke in the night sky—everywhere at once and yet impossible to pin. One moment, he’s disappearing under knitted gloves dangling on twine, the next he’s ducking between a lush display of juniper pics.

My stomach plummets into my shoes.

Easy—Yaya once trilled while raking my annual allowance into her lap—is a synonym for worthless. Do you want a worthless win, little bird? No? Then earn it.

Right. I ditch the bracelet, fluff my hair, approach heart-attack level pulse.

There should be a guidebook for this. A Creature’s Guide to Liberation. Twenty Steps to Claim Your Power. How to Demoralize Yourself without Causing Mass Bloodshed.

Maybe I’ll write it.

The salty breeze assaults my cheeks as I scurry after him, instinct guiding me like checkers sliding off a tipped board. Adrenaline courses through my veins as I squeeze through a narrowing gap, determined not to lose sight of my target.

Glancing back, I count the looks that skip past him and land on me instead. I add them up as points on a scorecard. Five. Six. If I could read minds, I’d have a repeating transcript of she doesn’t belong here.

It’s nothing new.

I pull my hood down until my lashes stick to the bright pink trim and persevere, closing in on the dark silhouette. Blustering winds strip scarves from necks, and snatch bright red berries from shuddering wreaths, but they don’t touch him. Not a single hair on his head moves, as if Boreas, the very God of the North wind cannot see him.

Fascinating.

He stops to enter a shop and I press myself against the outside wall, coarse canvas rubbing roughly at my knuckles. The faint scent of damp leather and soap teases as I peer through a small gap in the fabric, capturing a glimpse of the dimly lit interior.

Stern, hushed murmurs reach my ears.

“No,” someone whispers, voice bleeding with frustration. His voice. His. Has to be. It hovers like night. Hiding secrets, blurring corners, swallowing questions. “End of discussion.”

Cautiously peering through the gap in the curtain, I catch a fleeting glance of strong fingers tracing silver embroidery on a tablecloth. Casual, he’s shopping, considering a gift, or perhaps planning an intimate holiday soiree. Nevermind that he’s six and a half feet tall, solid as an oak, and dressed to curb stomp some teenagers. Combat boots, dark jeans, black jacket.

A second voice joins the first. Bombastic, deeper than the spymaster’s. “I’ll draw it out. Keep the crowd wanting. No bodies. Pulled punches. Three rounds and I’m done with it. In. Out. No one’s the wiser.”

I tug the curtain tight to get a better view.

Lev Mikhailov is perusing a pair of lilac fur trimmed earmuffs. “Hey, I need this. I need a release.” He’s pleading. “If I don’t—” he stops suddenly, palm ensconcing one muff. “Just allow me tonight. You can chaperone. The drunk talk, they won’t know you’re there. We can—”

“We’re not on vacation.” The spymaster isn’t happy. His back is to me, chin tucked. The swinging bulb above his head has burned out. “The Ballasts are swarming with creatures whose deepest desire is to see our heads on pikes. It’s too high of a risk. Stay with me. Atlas said—”

“Atlas expects me to be sharp.”

“He wants you alive.” The spymaster maintains a steady tone, unyielding in volume. He continues browsing, venturing toward over-embellished knitwear. “If you must, you can fight me tonight.”

A knot forms in my throat around a jagged, selfish denial.

The originator of organized crime, of syndicated murder, the Russian does not end a fight without death, and I really, really need the spymaster to live.

Lev’s gaze lingers on the spymaster’s hands. “I’ve heard that promise before.”

When the spymaster responds, his words carry a faint trace of amusement, “Have you?”

“Not funny.”

“Wrong,” returns the spymaster, now a definite teasing edge there. “Three out of four times, you laugh. Over half is pass-fail funny.”

Lev’s expression softens momentarily, a mix of pity and affection. None of it reaches his voice. “Half the time I pity you.”

“Bullshit.” The spymaster turns smoothly, silhouette becoming features, light unveiling a stare that fixes directly onto me.

The warmth vanishes from his face, replaced by an unreadable mask.

My heart stops.

The wind snatches the ties off the tent and slams it shut.