24. Niamh

CHAPTER 24

Niamh

S omeone knocks on the door just after sunset. Only then does Caspian come down from the upper levels of the warehouse. I've been sitting here this whole time, waiting. Thinking. Staring at this portrait of me and trying to find myself in this familiar, unfamiliar being.

The similarities to the reflection I've glimpsed in the mirror are many.

Yet so are the differences. I don't recall smiling like this, so peaceful. Serene. My hair isn't so thick it floats around me like a cloud. My skin doesn't gleam, visible even in ruddy shading and scratching lines.

I wish…

I wish I saw myself like this. Back then. If I had…

No one could have told me I was an ugly, abominable thing. I wouldn't have believed them. No one could have told me those lies and made me believe them.

This image, this beautiful, flawless being, would have been in my head. I could think of her and I would know. I am Niamh, and someone finds me beautiful. Ethereal. As majestic as any fae could ever be.

Yet, though I knew Caspian drew this, it seems his opinion of me has changed. He is cold when he returns downstairs. His gaze is ice, his mind closed off and distant. He barely even looks at me. Doesn't notice the page I have in my grasp. Doesn't seem to care as I slip it into a pocket in the skirt of my dress and watch him march toward the door.

He throws it open.

Behind it, Altaris blinks. He is different today. Something has unsettled him, and on him, unease expresses as pure irritation. His hair sticks out at odd angles. His suit jacket is slightly askew, and his green eyes blaze as though he hasn't slept in eons.

Which makes sense. Vamryre don't sleep.

"I cannot stay long," he warns before strolling inside, his hand tugging at his usually crisp, purple collar. Today, his clothing is a muted shade, nearly black. There are no polished, crisp lines. Even his shoes seem wrinkled and disorderly. "Scythe is on his way. You two must make yourselves useful and track down that blasted little mundane, half-fae. She has that ledger, and that, I believe, will solve at least one part of this mystery."

"Explain," Caspian snaps.

Altaris flinches at his tone. "You seem testy. I suppose all is not bliss during your little lover's honeymoon." His eyes dart to me, more narrowed than ever. "Try not to kill each other now. I already have my hands tied cleaning up your goddamn immigration messes, not to mention the impending court appearance, and murder charges. In any case, if you did kill that wretched piece of dung, I will knock a million arun off your bill. That, my darlings, was not a mundane."

Cyrus.

Cyrus the monster who implied that he violated a fae.

Of course, he was not mundane or mortal.

He was something far worse.

"That was a creature I had castrated myself long ago. Using a proxy since the lack of a heart. His modus operandi was the same, however. Lure fae creatures into his circus. Sell them to the highest bidder. At least, that is the front he maintained. The truth is worse. We must find this half-fae and see what she knows."

"Minchae," I say, picturing her. Was she too harmed by this creature? Did she know the truth?

"Scythe is tracking this creature," Altaris continues. "Ah, there he is now. Go with him. Find the fae being and bring her back. Then allow me alone to question her. Understood?"

Caspian says nothing. He draws his hood low despite the nightfall and leaves, heading toward a distant figure whose blue hair blazes against the dark sky. Scythe.

"Trouble in paradise," Altaris mutters as I follow. "It was bound to happen sooner or later. Good." He looks me dead in the eye, his expression cold. "You do not deserve him."

He blows past me into the warehouse—the space he provided—and slams the door in his wake. What is he doing in there? I do not know.

Caspian's mood, coupled with this, makes one thing clear.

I don't belong here.

And there is nothing, or no one—not even a neglected, dusty space or a conflicted vamryre—that I can call my own.