Chapter 16

Prohibition of Fae and Magic

Silver Edict #3

“…anyone found harboring fae or conspiring with fae will be executed without trial.”

ARCHER

Istare at my front door and run a hand through my hair. What did I get myself into?

“You good?” Godric calls from my driveway.

I turn, giving him a nod. He stands next to his SUV with one hand on the door.

“Yeah,” I say. “Thanks for the ride.”

He’s been pestering me about Tasia—or rather, chastising me about letting her stay in my house—since I brought her here yesterday. As my oldest and most trusted friend, I respect his opinion. His concerns aren’t unfounded.

I still haven’t told Tasia the truth about her father. She’ll think I’m using her, keeping her close to learn what her dad knew, which is exactly what Godric wants me to do.

It’s what I should do, if I were a smarter man maybe, but I can’t bring myself to use her like that.

In my eyes, she’s not Claude Foster’s daughter. She’s just Tasia. A cute, foulmouthed bartender with a sassy attitude and an inclination to get caught up in things bigger than her.

I never meant to lie to her, but at the end of the day, a lie of omission is still a lie.

“Hey.” Godric steps up next to me, placing a hand on my shoulder. “You can stay with me if you need to.”

Shaking my head, I finally reach for my doorknob. “I’m good.”

“You didn’t have to bring her to your house.”

“She had nowhere else to go.”

He raises a brow. “Are you sure you aren’t going soft on me?”

“She had nowhere else to go,” I repeat, voice flat.

“A girl like her will drive you insane. When you need a break, you know where I live.”

“What do you mean ‘a girl like her’?” I challenge.

Chuckling quietly, he withdraws his hand. “All that ass and sass? You’ll either end up in her pants or in an asylum by the time you two are done with”—he gestures toward my door—“whatever the hell this even is.”

“Watch your mouth, brother,” I growl, getting into his face. “Don’t talk about Tasia like that.”

He smiles, looking as smug as ever. “That’s what I thought.”

I grunt, backing up. I should’ve known he was trying to provoke me. It’s his favorite thing to do these days. “There’s nothing going on.”

“You might have the power to smell death, but I can scent sexual tension a mile away. And you two are rife with it.”

“Considering you’ve been around us for a whole five minutes, I have to disagree with that sentiment.”

“Five minutes is all I needed.” He smirks. My jaw aches from how tightly I clench it. “You’re already this wound up, and it’s only gonna get worse. Might as well fuck her and get it over with.”

“For the love of Gods,” I hiss, rubbing my forehead. “Sofia would love your mouth these days, brother,” I add sarcastically.

“I bet she would,” he taunts, winking.

“You—” I bite down the curse I know he’s trying to goad out of me. “She was practically your sister.”

“Fuck no she wasn’t. She was your sister, and if you think I ever once thought of her like that, you’re a fucking idiot.”

Instead of letting him rile me up, I take a deep, steadying breath and respond with an, “Enjoy your solitude.”

We both need it.

I have no idea what to expect with Tasia staying with me. I’m sure she noticed I’ve been gone all night and day, and even though her opinion shouldn’t matter, I do care what she thinks. I feel guilty for leaving her on her own for so long. Hopefully she was able to distract herself with the art supplies.

Godric chuckles, offering me a “Good night and good luck,” and retreats across my yard toward his parked SUV, his shoes squishing atop the freshly watered lawn. I watch his broad shoulders disappear into the darkness. The moonlight glints off his vehicle as he drives away, and I turn back toward my door.

When I enter my house, I’m greeted by silence. Exhaling heavily in gratitude, I drop to a knee and untie my boots. Though I’m envious Godric is going to spend extra time in the greenhouse—time I could use to recharge and ground myself as well—I didn’t have it in me to abandon Tasia another night. I was hoping to see her at least for a minute when I dropped off the food last night, but I couldn’t stay. Not when my team was down in the city center working to find the truth about these recent deaths.

Groaning, I swipe a hand over my face. Godric thinks it’s sexual tension between me and Tasia, but he doesn’t even know the half of it.

Good ol’ regular tension is more like it. I need to tell Tasia the truth about her dad’s possible connection to the recent spate of deaths…and soon.

I rise, shucking off my leather jacket and hanging it beside the door, and notice Scathe hasn’t come to greet me like he usually does. He’s uncharacteristically quiet today.

Frowning, I stride into the kitchen. I flick the switch beside the stove, and a pale light illuminates the kitchen counter.

There’s a pile of neatly stacked trash beside the sink—the takeout boxes in a paper bag. I rub my neck, and some of the tightness immediately subsides at the confirmation that Tasia ate the food I dropped off last night. It was…specially made to help her beat whatever cold or illness she’s been fighting.

My gaze snags on the art books I got her. One of them lies open on the floor. I crouch beside it. A portrait of Scathe stares back at me. My breath catches as I take it in. The color of his eyes is slightly off, his appearance more exaggerated than real life, but it’s an incredible piece.

She has real talent.

My fingers itch to sift through the pages, see if she’s worked on anything else, but it feels wrong. Though I’m no artist myself, art seems…personal to me. I’d rather her choose to share it with me of her own accord one day.

Quietly making my way upstairs, I head to my room. The door is cracked open. I gently push it open the rest of the way, and sure enough, I catch sight of a sleeping Tasia.

The room is almost pitch-black, but my vision is enhanced enough that I can make everything out with ease. Tasia is curled up in a ball on the bed, the sheets pulled up to her chin, with Scathe pressed against her back.

She looks so peaceful, so soft and innocent in her sleep.

Her mouth is relaxed, not held in the tight line it’s usually in. The lines of her face form a serene expression, as if she’s found solace in her dreams.

My heart rate picks up slightly, an unusual warmth blossoming in my stomach.

Scathe flicks his eyes open. The vivid orbs of icy blue glow in the dark as his admonishing words fill my head.

You left her all alone. She’s scared, worried, confused, and surprisingly, still thinks highly of you despite you running away!

Shame heats my face, my throat growing thick. I slowly nod in agreement.

I know, I think, using our connection to mindspeak. I’ll do better.

Fix it, Scathe tells me. He yawns, his eyes shutting as he nestles closer to Tasia. I like this one. Fix it.

Rooted in place, I stare at Scathe as he snuggles against the human girl I’m unraveling over.

It’s curious that the hound took to her so quickly. Normally he’s indifferent—at best—around humans.

And now, despite our soulbond, Scathe is at her side—protecting her, it seems.

My brow furrows. How in the Gods’ names has she won him over so quickly?

Shaking the odd feeling off, I stride to the bathroom, intending to grab a few products so I can shower in the spare bathroom. A pile of folded clothes on the floor snags my attention.

Considering the state Tasia’s apartment was in when I was there, I’m surprised to see how neat she is—organizing her trash and dirty laundry. Chuckling softly to myself, I scoop up her clothes so I can wash them for her.

Something falls out of one of the pockets, hitting the ground with a soft swish.

I bend to pick it up. My fingers skim the package, and I freeze.

No.

My blood goes cold.

Fury works its way through my veins—whispering at first, getting louder and louder until my skull throbs with its screams.

Just the sight of the powder—a grey dust with silvery specks—in the small baggie brings an indescribable ache to my heart.

Squeezing the bag in my fist, I try to process how I missed the signs of Tasia being on the dust.

I missed them in my sister, too, until it was too late. In hindsight, I should’ve known. Should have seen the way her smile slowly faded. The way her liveliness dimmed out. The way she stopped enjoying our moments together—instead becoming lost to her own mind.

Sofia’s face pops into my mind. Not the bright, beautiful, smiling girl I adored, but the girl with dull eyes. The girl with the faded pallor of someone too far gone.

One night she took too much.

Her scent in those final moments had a soft hint of anise that grew stronger by the second. But by the time I smelled her impending death, it was too late.

Always too late.

Sniffing the air, I begin to pace, my heart beating erratically as I try to figure out what to do with this revelation about Tasia. I’m relieved to detect no sickeningly sweet scent of imminent death.

Maybe it’s not too late for Tasia to quit. She doesn’t seem as hooked on it as Sofia was.

But that does little to quell the roaring in my ears.

I grip the edge of the bathroom counter, steadying myself, taking one breath at a time.

My heart rate comes down, finding a baseline. With one last lengthy exhale, I walk back into the bedroom and lean against the wall across from Tasia, watching her sleep, outraged that she brought the dust into my home but also deeply concerned that I almost didn’t catch the signs.

“I can’t do this again,” I whisper. “I can’t lose someone else.”

A short while later, Tasia wakes and mumbles something to Scathe. She plants a kiss on his head. The tender adoration there almost dissolves my anger, but I glance away, fingering the baggie in my hand. Reminding myself that Tasia can’t be trusted.

Not if she’s on the dust.

My phone buzzes, and I fumble with it, quickly turning the vibration off so it doesn’t disturb her. Zeke’s name pops up.

Zeke: The bodies from the bar tested positive for an unknown substance. Matches something I found in a few others.

Zeke: Would’ve found it sooner if my labs weren’t messed with…

Frowning at my phone, I text him back, letting him know we’ll talk in person. Then I delete the messages before swiping out of the thread and stuffing the phone into my pocket. If Zeke’s work is being messed with, I guarantee it’s being done by someone powerful with something to hide… Maybe even the same someone trying to scare—or harm—Tasia.

It’s almost a guarantee that whoever it is will be at the masquerade.

Tasia screams, and my heart stops.

Something soft but firm hits me in the face. I stagger backwards. The pillow she threw at me rests at my feet. I pick it up and toss it back onto the bed.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she asks, her voice a few octaves too high.

She sits up in bed, the blankets pooling around her lap, and puts a hand on her heart. The soft glow of light from the bathroom leaks into the room, illuminating her. With her wild blonde hair framing her bare face, she looks like an angel.

My jaw clenches as I finger the baggie in my hand.

“Archer? Is everything okay?”

I take a deep breath, trying to find the words.

When I don’t reply, she says, “Why the hell are you watching me sleep?”

“To ensure you don’t die,” I whisper.

“What?” she asks, genuine confusion infused into her tone. She pulls the blankets up higher and scoots back against the headboard, looking around the room. Then she pats the bed beside her, beckoning for Scathe to join her.

He obliges, the traitor, giving me an annoyed look.

This is not fixing it,he says.

“Stay out of this,” I mutter, mindlessly running a hand through my hair.

“Excuse me?” Tasia eyes me cautiously, as if I’m a threat now.

Shutting my mouth before I make the situation worse, I hold up the baggie of dreamdust.

Her eyes widen, and she stands, abandoning the blankets. Scathe is quick to jump out of bed and join her—glued to her side.

“Shit,” she mutters, a guilty look crossing her face. “I forgot about that.”

“How do you forget about carrying drugs around in your pocket?” I say, working hard to keep my voice steady.

Her eyes narrow at me. “I never use my front pockets—only the back ones, for my phone and lipstick—” She crosses her arms. “Why the hell are you going through my shit?”

“I wasn’t—”

“And why are you of all people so bothered about it? Isn’t your little gang the one responsible for distributing that crap in the first place?”

Running a hand through my hair, I avert my gaze. She truly doesn’t seem to know that her father was the one responsible for creating dreamdust.

Whoever hired him did also hire the Nightcrawlers to distribute it on the streets, but that was before I took over. We stopped doing that years ago. It’s one of the main reasons I bothered glamouring my way through the ranks, Godric at my side.

In my rage after losing Sofia, infiltrating the drug ring and dismantling it from the inside was one of the few actionable things I could do to affect change. By shutting down the distribution, I could protect the people, prevent others’ loved ones from becoming addicts and wasting away.

And it worked.

Until now.

Godric is right. The dust is back.

“Are you okay?” Tasia asks, her voice full of concern.

The baggie of dust is heavy in my hand, a weight that will never be shed.

I thought Tasia was different. That she was strong-willed.

Instead of explaining any of that, I grit my teeth and tell her a different truth: “I do not allow drugs in my household.”

She flinches.

Disappointment, anger, betrayal—something—must show on my face, because her forehead wrinkles and she tilts her head to the side, studying me.

“You think I’m using?” she asks, her voice barely more than a whisper. Her expression holds something akin to hurt. “Even after our talk in the alley?”

Do you think I would keep it from you if she was? Scathe says. He yawns. Don’t project your own trauma onto others, Archer.

I swear the hound narrows his judgmental little eyes. Glaring at Scathe, I don’t bother to respond. He trots out of the room, likely to give us some privacy.

On his way out, he shoots one last message to me: She’s right—you can be an asshole.

“We’ll talk about your attitude later!” I call after him.

Frowning, Tasia looks from the doorway to me but doesn’t say anything else.

“I found the drug with your belongings,” I tell her. ”Of course I think you’re using.”

“Well, jackass, I’ve never touched that shit in my life.” Setting her jaw, she crosses her arms.

I don’t know if I’m more relieved by her admission or by the fact that her fiery attitude has returned.

My shoulders relax a fraction. I open my mouth to reply, but she cuts me off.

“I found that at the bar. It belonged to the two men you rescued me from.” She puts air quotes around rescued. “I honestly forgot it was there. Meant to give it to you.”

She shrugs and fiddles with her septum piercing.

Maybe in her mind, it isn’t a big deal, but for me, it opens floodgates of memories I’ve tried long and hard to keep buried.

She briefly spares me a glance, then turns back to the window, chewing her bottom lip. “If the Scouts found me with that…”

“They didn’t.”

I know what she’s implying, though. Dreamdust is infused with magic. Lab-made or not, it’s highly illegal. She could’ve been arrested for petty possession.

Stepping up beside her, I gently tug the curtain from her hand, letting it settle back into place over the window. I reach beside the bed and turn on the lamp.

She squints as the bright glow illuminates the room. Her blue eyes are rimmed in red, and she blinks back tears.

“What’s wrong?” I ask her, concerned.

“I forgot I had that on me, swear.” She glances down. “They could’ve killed me…”

A few moments ago, I was downright furious with her, thinking she was hiding an addiction—using in my house. I was filled with rage, sorrow, and a fear of my own, at the thought of finding her like Sofia.

I couldn’t tear my eyes from her for more than a second while she slept, desperately hoping the scent of death didn’t come.

But I had it all wrong, and now, I find myself concerned for a whole new reason.

I’m the one betraying her, by accusing her unfairly and causing her stress when I promised she’d be safe here.

The urge to protect her, to fix her pain blossoms in me fiercely and suddenly.

“Hey,” I say softly. “You are safe here. With me.”

I reach for her, then let my hand drop, unsure if she’ll welcome my comfort. She’s terrified of the Scouts, and that fear apparently runs deeper than I first assumed.

Tasia sniffles a few times, blinking away the tears before they can fall. Then she clears her throat, squaring her shoulders. I can recognize a mask sliding into place when I see it.

Her strength, her fierceness, she uses them to conceal something that’s been shattered deep within her soul.

“They killed my parents,” she says detachedly. “In front of me.” Her eyes leave my face, finding something behind me to settle on. “It’s not something I’d like to rehash.”

“Fuck,” I whisper, the guilt once again finding its way into my bones.

She snaps out of her fog, giving me a weird look. Slowly, an amused expression replaces the distress that was there a moment prior. The corners of her lips tilt up ever so slightly.

“What?” I ask.

A chuckle bubbles out of her.

“Archer Acciai, you just swore at me,” she says in a sassy tone.

“It wasn’t at you,” I correct.

After a beat, I return her smile. Despite the grim nature of our conversation—of the shadows of our past haunting us—my body relaxes in relief.

Her eyes scan my face. They settle on my lips, and she blinks a few times, her own smile growing even wider.

“Why do you hate cursing so much anyway?” she asks.

After a second, I answer her with an unbridled honesty that catches me off guard. “My sister.” She tilts her head in curiosity, so I continue. “My ma died when we were young…” Tasia’s eyes fill with pity, crinkling at the corners. “She wasn’t much of a maternal figure for us. She was…often occupied.”

She worked the streets at night, often choosing to stay with her clients long after the job ended—preferring their fancy apartments to the rundown one she shared with her kids. One night, she left and didn’t come back. We thought she’d left us for good until the city showed up, telling us she’d died. Natural causes, they said.

It wasn’t looked into any further. And Sofia and I were too focused on staying alive to make any inquiries. Or maybe it was that we didn’t care, considering it was easy to believe Ma had simply left us finally.

“My sister, despite being only a few years older than me, raised me,” I continue.

Tasia plops onto the bed, swinging her feet off the edge, while I lean against the wall. I’m growing lighter by talking about Sofia with someone other than Godric.

Lighter, but also irritated with myself at how easily the words are pouring out.

“Are you still close with her?” she asks. “Your sister?”

Pressing my lips together, I shake my head. “She died. Over a decade ago.”

When I was sixteen and she was barely eighteen.

“We’ve both lost our families,” she mutters, shaking her head. “That’s a pain I understand.” A comfortable, sorrowful silence stretches out between us before she says, “You were lucky to have a sister who loved you, who took you in and cared for you.”

I don’t bother asking who raised her since I already checked out her background—Fantasia Foster, ironically, a foster child.

From what I read, accusations of abuse and neglect were leveled against a few of her former foster families, but nothing ever came of the reports. I can only imagine what she had to go through.

“Yeah,” I agree. “I was lucky. It wasn’t easy, but I was lucky. We could’ve easily ended up on the streets in the PD, but Sofia worked her ass off.”

She glances around my room. “Seems like you made out all right.”

“Seems like it.”

“If the trick to getting out of the city is to join a gang, guess I’m on the right track?” she says.

“You’re not part of the Nightcrawlers,” I tell her. If I can help it, she’ll stay far away from the others. My circle is trustworthy, but that trust only extends so far, and I don’t need Tasia getting caught up in the messes I so often clean up.

Her eyes flick to the skull tattoo on my hand, then back up to my face.

Twisting one of the rings around my finger, I glance at the photo on my dresser—the one of Sofia, Godric, and me.

Her line of sight follows. “That her?”

I nod.

“She’s stunning,” Tasia whispers.

“She was.” I clear my throat. “She tried her best to be the ma we never really had. Raised me to be polite. Well-mannered. Decent. Scolded Godric and me anytime we cursed. It stuck for one of us.” I chuckle, shaking my head. Godric was always a handful growing up. He spent most nights at our house, seeking refuge from his own unstable family. “I try to be a decent man, in her honor.”

Tasia narrows her eyes as if trying to make sense of something. She hums to herself, then stands, mumbling.

I’m not sure what exactly she says, because I finally register what she’s wearing. I’m wholly encapsulated by the sight of her in my shirt. It swallows her whole, the bottom of it falling mid-thigh. Colored ink sprawls across her left thigh. This piques my interest. I’m studying the design—a watercolor butterfly with its wings wrapping around her leg—when she yawns, stretching her arms up overhead.

Heat builds at the base of my spine as her shirt rises and…

“Are those my boxers?” I narrow my eyes accusingly.

She glances down at herself, her cheeks reddening.

“I didn’t go through your shit,” she quickly says.

Fighting the primal instinct to stare at her—to do much more than just stare—I pry my eyes away and spin toward the dresser.

Her going through my stuff is the absolute least of my worries.

“I’ll wash your clothing,” I tell her, my voice rough.

After all, that was my intention initially. Not to snoop, not to find dreamdust—which we still need to have a conversation about—and not to embark deep into the bowels of our emotional turmoil.

I stuff the baggie of dreamdust into my pocket before tugging open one of my dresser drawers. Without looking, I pull out a pair of sweatpants and toss them onto the bed, battling the urge to sneak another look at Tasia.

My throat bobs as I swallow thickly. Scooping up her dirty clothes from the bathroom, I navigate out of the room without looking back.

“Archer?” Tasia calls, sounding unsure.

“Yes?” I say, pausing.

“Thanks for the…food and the tea. I feel a lot better.”

I don’t turn to face her. I don’t want her to see the stupid grin forming on my lips. “Glad to hear it,” I say, working to keep my voice steady.

With that, I make my way out of the room. Downstairs, Scathe stretches out on my new Yvonné, eyeing me judgmentally.

Told you so, he says.

“We’ll talk about it later,” I grumble.

Leveling him with a pointed look, I pass by, heading into the laundry room. I put Tasia’s clothes in the wash, set the cycle, and turn my attention to my phone. I locate Godric’s number and press the call button.

He answers with a grunt after the first ring.

“Hit your limit?” he asks.

“You were right.” I pause, licking my lips and steeling myself for the words I’m about to say, knowing they’ll affect Godric as deeply as they do me: “The dust is back on the streets.”

Silence, then he roars into the phone, “Fucking knew it, man!”

“And it’s worse than before.”