Chapter 32

”My involvement in faeology has transcended the confines of mere employment; it has transformed into a profound and enduring life passion.”

-Excerpt from the personal journal of Dr. Claude Foster, Director of Faeology at Mesmeric Labs

FANTASIA

When I awaken, my head throbs, and my throat is dry and scratchy. Peeling my eyes open, I squint at the sight before me. It looks like there’s a layer of thick glass between me and an industrial ceiling overhead. With a groan, I sit up on my elbows. The floor beneath me is hard cement.

Frantically, I search my surroundings. Sure enough, I’m in a glass cell of some sort. It’s about the size of Archer’s king-sized mattress. There’s enough space to stretch out, but it’s still cramped. The enclosure looks to be at least twice my height.

I check my pockets for my phone, and my chest tightens when I come up short. My pulse picks up, the blood pounding in my temples.

Beyond the glass cell, the room is empty. I appear to be in a warehouse of some sort. There’s an unmarked door a few steps away and a few more doors across the room.

A carton of water and a plate of food sit beside me.

Greedily, and without hesitation, I open the carton and chug the water.

What happened?

I close my eyes and wince against the headache, trying to remember how I got here.

Dreamdust.

Holy shit.

I’m alive.

How am I alive?

“Hello?” I call out, listening for any movement in the distance.

Silence greets me.

When I bang my fist against the glass, I’m unsurprised to discover it’s sturdy, likely shatterproof. There’s a door built in, but it’s almost seamless with the rest of the glass. It has no hinges, only a handle on the outside and a small food slot at the bottom. As I work to keep my panic at bay, I inspect the door closely for any weak spots. Nothing gives. I search each wall of the cage, finding nothing of significance.

“Fantasia,” a familiar voice says.

Spinning around, I spot the newcomer. I didn’t even hear him enter the room. I’m easily able to make out his features in the harsh fluorescent lighting. His skin is a deep olive color, his irises and hair pitch-black. A stern, formidable expression sits on his face.

His expensive tailored suit hugs him perfectly, highlighting his pristine posture.

“Arlo Osiander.” My blood goes still. “The man behind the mask,” I say. Metaphorically and literally.

He steps forward, hands in his pockets, until he’s just beyond the glass separating us. He tilts his head down, scrutinizing me.

“You’re a very difficult woman to get a hold of.”

He’s been trying to reach me? I frown at that. Why would—

“You,” I say, stepping forward and slamming my hand into the glass in front of his face. He doesn’t even flinch. A single brow rises on his face, and the corners of his lips tilt up ever so slightly. “You’re the one who plastered my photo on the UIS. You sent the Scouts after me.”

“Like I said, you are very difficult to reach.”

“What could you possibly want with me? You knew who I was at the masquerade.”

The humor fades from his eyes, and he frowns. “Yes, but unfortunately, due to unforeseen circumstances—”

“You mean the massacre?” I hiss. “That you set up!”

“That was not at my hand. Humans are often beyond my control, glamour excluded. They love to flout rules and make poor choices. They often destroy themselves.”

“So you have nothing to do with the dreamdust?” I say, crossing my arms.

“I never said that. But I had nothing to do with the mass overdose at Splendor Hall last night.”

Last night.

How much time has passed? It was almost two in the morning when I made my way to the bar. Before Mellie turned me in. After Archer took Reed’s soul. A sharp pang shoots through my chest.

“See, I was hoping to find my answers in the lab,” he says, “but when I didn’t, I figured you might have the information I seek.” He hmphs to himself. “The journals were useful, but not exactly what I was searching for either.”

My blood runs cold. So it was him behind the UIS blast and the robbery at Archer’s apartment. “What the hell were you hoping to find?”

“His other studies, of course.”

“What other studies?” My confusion must show because Arlo laughs.

“Useless,” he mutters, shaking his head. I frown, racking my brain and trying to connect the dots. Before I can say anything, he continues, “Fitting you would find solace in my brother. You don’t quite fit in with the humans, nor do you fit in with the fae.”

I stare, letting his words sink in.

Brother.

“Archer?” It hits me all at once like a bag of bricks. After seeing the extent of Archer’s power last night… “You’re the Reaper.”

“A reaper fae, yes, but the nickname is rather unoriginal.” He sighs, pulling his hands out of his pockets and adjusting his sleeves. “I’m not the only one of our kind, clearly.”

It clicks into place, why he would want dreamdust on the streets—so he can consume souls. For power. For control. For ego.

“You killed my parents,” I growl, fire coursing through my veins.

“No, no, no,” he says, shaking his head. “I do not kill anyone. I ferry souls—”

“You sick bastard!” I yell, my voice echoing through the warehouse.

The Reaper’s hands tighten into fists at his sides. “Listen to me…” My stomach turns into a ball of nausea, but I don’t say anything. “If your father is dead, it was at the hands of the city. For breaking the third edict.”

Pausing, I go through the edicts in my mind. The third edict is the Prohibition of Fae and Magic. “He was a faeologist!” I say in disbelief. “Of course he dealt with magic!”

He tsks, his expression grim. “I’m not talking about his job.”

I stare at him, trying to understand what he’s implying. “Are you saying my dad was in cahoots with fae?”

“Ah,” he says, tilting his head and smiling softly. “Was? No. I wouldn’t say he was.”

I place my palms on the glass and sneer at him. “You and Archer are despicable. You soul-sucking monsters.”

He leans forward, studying me. Only a wall of glass separates our faces. “Archer, a monster?”

My brow furrows. “No shit. Taking souls clearly runs in the family.”

Something similar to alarm flickers through Arlo’s dark eyes, but then it’s gone. “Where is he?”

“I don’t fucking know. And I don’t care.” I slam the glass once more before turning around, striding to the other side of the cage. “Dumping my ex-boyfriend’s soul—if he’s not keeping it for his own power.”

After an extended pause, I turn around. Arlo is nowhere in sight.

“Let me out, you fucker!” I scream.

I kick the water carton, and it hits the glass with a soft thwack.

He has to come back soon. If he wanted me dead, I’d be dead. He certainly wouldn’t bring me water and food.

Inspecting the food on the tray, I notice it’s cold. It must’ve been here for a while. Regardless, I do need to preserve my energy and stay sharp, so I slide to the floor, grab the chicken breast, and bite into it.

It’s thick, chalky, and awful in my mouth. I taste nothing and force myself to swallow it for the sake of keeping up my strength.

What does the Reaper want with me?

As I chew, I close my eyes and rest my back and head against the glass. I sift through my brain, trying to put this fucking puzzle together.