21. Zendaya

Chapter 21

Zendaya

I 'm still running through the terms of the bargain I've concocted inside my mind when Cathal flaps his wings and pivots. Instead of heading toward a patch of water crawling with boats and Crows, we arrow toward a lone ship that bobs just off a beach of black sand. Even without its blood-red flag, I would've known it was Priya's vessel from the number of frolicking serp?—

Black sand.

I snap my gaze off the undulating scaled bodies and onto the beach.

That was the color of the sand in Behati's vision.

I'm still scrutinizing it when Cathal lands. I dismount from the Crow to the sound of Priya's frustrated diatribe, entirely aimed at Cathal, and walk on gummy legs toward the stern of the ship.

"Are you all right, Rajka?" Abrax asks, coming to stand beside me.

"Black sand," I murmur.

"Yes. Not exactly inviting, is it?"

Not a single soul wanders on the beach, yet I can smell burning wood and baking bread, which leads me to think there must be dwellings inside the neighboring forest. "All beach in Luce black?"

"No. Only this one." Abrax says something about the rock being volcanic, then proceeds to explain what it means, but I cannot concentrate on a word he says, because he's just confirmed that this is where I will meet him .

What if I keep my distance from that beach? What happens then? Will the Mahananda change the location of our encounter?

Someone grazes my elbow—Asha. "Your grandmother is calling you."

I blink at her, then float back to where Cathal stands, casting shadows on everyone but my grandmother. Her finger is already bleeding by the time I come within arm's reach of her. In quick strokes, she darkens my hair and brightens my eyes, making me other.

I think of the bargain I decided to strike with Cathal, and consider striking it then and there. But the male is so proud, that if I ask him in front of an audience, odds are that he will scoff, and it'll fan his desire to keep me from the human I'm not entirely certain I want to meet in the first place.

Great Mahananda, what do I even want?

I want to see Fallon. I want that. "Nuptials when?"

"Now. We're just waiting for our escort. Ah, here is Justus Rossi now." The queen turns toward a cloud of gleaming vessels crafted from wood as black as the sand on the fateful beach. "Generali!" she calls out in greeting.

"Sumaca. Welcome." Lorcan's Fae general bows deep, the sun burnishing the long orange and silver braid that rests against his Crow-black uniform.

The soldiers, too, wear black. They all gape at our ship filled with Pink-eyes. Though the Shabbins have ventured out of the queendom since the wards have come down, they apparently remain an arresting sight. I suppose it'll take centuries to repair the damage that my mother reaped.

"May I lend you some air-Fae, Sumaca?" Rossi asks. "Though there's no hurry, it'll make your trip to Isolacuori swifter."

After Priya nods, one of the ships sidles up to ours, which allows two men and one woman to hop aboard—all of them have gray irises like Sybille.

Fallon once explained that magic colors Faerie eyes like blood-magic colors Shabbin eyes. Gray irises master wind; red, fire; blue, water; and green, nature.

Rossi yells orders in Lucin to the soldiers, and then we're off, clipping the waves at a speed that makes me cling to the mast for fear of being blown away. The wind is loud and cool, the air, rife with sun and salt and gyrating Crows. For a heartbeat, my lids close and my worries melt with the thrill and heat of the journey.

But then Cathal's muttering makes them open anew. He's glaring at the dense throng of vessels bobbing on the stretch of limpid water that separates a tiny atoll of white marble and gold from a rainbow city built around thin waterways. Isolacuori and Tarecuori. The latter is where my daughter grew up. Where she swam and befriended a serpent she named Minimus— me . Where she laughed and ran amok with Phoebus and Sybille. Where she worked inside a tavern called Bottom of the Jug , owned by Sybille's family.

As I watch the splendor of Lorcan's kingdom, sorrow curdles my heart for all the bygone years. "Fallon know?"

"Know what, Príona?"

I meet his gaze that is still enflamed by exhaustion and anger. "That I know she ours ."

A muscle jumps beside Cathal's temple. "No. I thought you might want to tell her."

I nod. "Thank you."

The air-Fae must snuff out their magic for the sails shrivel and our ship slows.

"Cathal, I bargain for you."

He turns toward me, his expression wavering between amusement and doubt. "I'm listening."

"Shabbins have many mate."

"No."

I gasp. "I no say bargain."

"You're going to bargain with me to let you run into the arms of your new mate in exchange for which you'll string me along. Am I correct?"

I release the mast and fold my arms. "I Shabbin."

"You're a shifter."

"Not Crow."

He turns more fully toward me, eclipsing everything and everyone. "Perhaps, but I'm a Crow, and Crows have one mate, Daya. And they don't share."

"I no choose this new male."

"But you can. You can choose him, or you can choose me." Cathal, in that moment, resembles the craggy peaks of his mountain home, where few can thrive—least of all a serpent. "You cannot have us both." He searches the face that isn't mine for an answer that will be mine.

"What if Mahananda pick new mate for you, Cathal. What you do?"

His rough hand cups my cheek with the utmost tenderness. "Zendaya of Shabbe, you are and will always be my one and only."

My chest heats. At first, I think it's because I must've struck another bargain, but when the heat spreads, I realize it doesn't stem from magic but from how powerfully my heart beats for Cathal.

I am a breath away from promising him that I will never venture toward the black beach when the air churns with smoke right beside us. Smoke that turns into the most beautiful girl in the world, wearing a gown made of violet stones that shimmer like the trapped bubbles in the Amkhuti.

Fallon glowers at the hand resting on my cheek. "What the fuck, Dádhi?"

My breath skips, and I take a step back, making his arm fall. Was she not informed I'd come? Was I not supposed to be here?

Cathal sighs, then in Crow, he murmurs something that widens Fallon's mouth and softens her stare. When I catch the word Mádhi , I realize the reason for Fallon's outburst: she thought her father was touching some stranger's face.

She says something in Crow that makes the tough male crack a grin as lopsided as his nose. Cathal reminds me of my beloved moat—full of stone shelves, each one hiding a world of color and life amidst the shadow of another. He also feels like the Amkhuti—like a haven, a place in which I can exist without fear and explore without haste.

"I so happy see you, Fallon." I reach out to take her hands. "Miss you so much."

Fallon gulps in a shaky breath. "I knew you'd learn to speak Shabbin fast, Daya."

The sound of my given name on her lips shrivels my joy. "Mádhi. No Daya."

"I…" She licks her lips. "All right." She glances up at her father, but his eyes remain fastened to my face. I know what she's seeking—whether I understand what that word means.

"Behati say history to me. I know I make you"—I meet Cathal's eyes—"with mate."

His chest lifts with a long, slow breath.

I know what I want. I want him. I want Fallon. I want my old life, not a new one.

I choose you. You and Fallon. I choose never to visit that black beach.

As I stare at him, his face dims and becomes another's, as though my conscience isn't pleased with my decision. I squeeze my eyes shut to chase away the image of my intended mate, but it clings to my lids like the Shabbin children had held on to their gold coins.

Go away.

Behati's vision unspools in greater detail until I think I could pick the male out in a crowd: his nose is long, his lips almost as full as my own, his jaw, smooth, and his shorn hair…his shorn hair shines an odd shade of emerald.

"I feel like I've missed so much," Fallon murmurs.

Though I take her in my arms and focus on her, he keeps haunting me.

Go away , I repeat in my thoughts, clasping my lids as tightly as I clasp my daughter. This time, his image fades but the odd hue of his hair lingers. I decide it must be a trick of the moonlight, because as far as I've heard and seen, no one has hair the color of leaves.