Page 153 of Prince of Darkness and Deceit

“What?”

“You lied to them.” He jerks his head toward the bars. “When they asked you about the book, you lied.”

The unease I barely tamped down surges back into my throat. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He tilts his head, his battered face filled with unwavering certainty. “Yes, you do.”

“I—”

Before I can speak, something about Silas changes. His features blur, edges warping. His entire body shimmers like water disturbed by a tossed pebble.

One second passes, then two. By the third, gone are the bruises and cuts marring his flesh. His clothes are dirty but free of bloodstains. His jawline is sharp, pronounced. His face… It's beautiful.

And his ears…once rounded, now taper into points at the top, peeking through waves of auburn hair.

My pulse spikes. Disbelief chokes me, warring with confusion that tears at the threads of sanity I wove to hold myself together in this cell.

Silas isn’t human at all…

He’s Fae.

30

I stare at the man—no, the Fae—my eyes snagging on details I wish weren’t there.

The faint ripple of shadows under his boots. The inhuman shape of his ears. The subtle, yet loud, changes to his handsome features, lending him the otherworldly air all Fae seem to possess.

I blink once. Twice. Willing the sight in front of me to change.

But as much as it would make my life easier to believe this is some illusion, it’s not. This is real. The person the Fae dragged into the town hall is not, in fact, a rebel. Not a human one, at least.

Magic flows in my palms, giving off a defensive vibe, though still unable to rise from my skin.

Silas holds my gaze, eyes steady and expression neutral, as if he’s trying not to scare me.

Too late for that.

“You’re…” I lick my dry lips and then swallow the lump in my throat, pitching my voice lower. “You’re a⁠—”

“Let’s not speak it aloud, shall we?” His eyes flick toward the corridor.

I pinch my lips together and slump against the wall, shaking my head, then murmur, “How?”

“Shadows, of course.” A dark cloud obscures him from sight.

When it clears, he once again looks like a beaten mortal. Dried blood crusts his temple. His clothes are torn and bloody.

“I…” More questions spin in my mind, none of which I can fathom an answer. “I don’t understand.”

Why would he remain trapped here for days, allowing himself to be beaten, when he has the ability to escape?

“It’s all part of a grand plan, sweet healer.” He flashes a smile. “Though I imagine your involvement has complicated matters for him greatly.”

“Him?” I shift, uncomfortable with the knowing gleam in his eyes. “Him who?”

“Apologies, my dear, but I cannot say. These stone walls have ears.”

As if on cue, the faintest sound of a muffled cough floats into the cell.