Page 266 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

Heat bloomed. My hands flew to my hair, yanking the thing free as it vibrated irritably.

What. The. Fuck.

“If you burn my hair, I will feed you to the fireplace.”

Was it… was the ruby… laughing?

Panicked by the apparent decline of my sanity, I chucked the thing onto the nearest table and staggered backward until my ass hit the chilled windowpane.

What kind of devilry was this?

A witch afraid of masterful witchcraft. Well, that was ironic.

I could blame it on the thing belonging to the late queen everyone was terrified to name. Though I hated admitting it, I understood Bellamy’s—Adrastos’—reluctance to say Rhiannon’s name.

If this was what she left behind—sentient rocks and hidden pathways—no wonder they were all a little freaked out by the promise of her curse.

I used the chill of the window to ground myself, sucking down a long breath as I glared at the still-open bookshelf.

What the hell could she possibly want me to see?

Only…

I’d been asking a question. Desperate for answers that could protect Magnolia.

And the door had…

Fuck.

Fuck me twice.

Scrubbing my hands over my face, I returned to pacing. My fingers swept my hair into a French braid and fastened it without breaking stride.

A dark armoire, a violent slash of light across my eyes, the chilled brush of clothing across my skin…

A monster in a mask…

I blinked the nightmare away and shook my head.

In thirty years, I’d known monsters and I’d known men. None had been as horrific as the ones beyond my chamber doors.

None more so than the king and prince who now held my sister’s leash.

Fuck this.

With a snarl, I all but stomped across the room, yanked on my shoes, snatched the ruby, and forced myself into the darkness.

FIFTY-THREE

LOOKING GLASS

MAGNOLIA

“What is this place?”

“A sanctuary,” I guessed as Lana gaped at the luxurious room at the bottom of the hidden stairwell. Like a bow over taut strings, the space seemed to sing—a melancholy lament of ancient sorrow held so carefully in the cradle of magic that its echo still played for us now.

“Yeah,” Lana breathed, reverence softening her voice as she studied the portraits—breathtaking, all rendered in masterful magical imprints—of who I could only assume were Rhiannon’s children. A boy with raven hair and a cocksure smile stared down at us, golden eyes glimmering with promised mischief. There was no way he didn’t share blood with Adrastos; the arrogance in his grin alone said enough. Tight handwriting scrawled across parchment tucked between the frame and canvas: Bastien Balaskas.