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Eira goes white, her gaze darting around the room as the smoke in Rowan’s bowl turns black.

A woman’s voice drifts from the open doorway, velvet-soft and amused.

‘Well,’ Selphine Rousseau says, stepping into my Tower as if she has been invited all along. ‘Isn’t this a dramatic little gathering?’

Eira’s hand finds the edge of the table.

My fangs descend.

Rowan’s face turns colder than death as Selphine smiles at Eira, the affection in it is almost perfect.

Almost.

‘Hello, child.’

20

EIRA

The shock of her voice… of her very presence freezes everyone in place.

Like a demon summoned out of ninety-nine nightmares, Selphine Rousseau appears inside Valentin’s Tower as if the wards don’t exist, as if the woman she once taught how to survive hasn’t just watched the floor fall out from beneath her life.

She looks exactly the same.

That’s the first cruelty.

The same dark dress, silver-threaded braids pinned at the nape of her neck, weathered skin and mouth composed into disapproval. The same scent of magnolia, rain-wet earth, old books and something smoky enough to make the back of my tongue prickle.

For six years, that scent brought with it safety. Sure, it was dubious as hell, but it was the only kind I could afford.

Tonight it enters Valentin’s war room like a blade being slid very slowly between my ribs.

‘Hello, child,’ she says.

My hands tighten on the edge of the table.

Do not call me that.

The words stay inside my head because suddenly, I don’t trust my voice or my throat. Hell, I don’t trust anything she’s ever touched, and that thought hurts so badly my breath almost catches.

Valentin hears the fracture in me anyway and his head turns by a fraction.

Through the bond, his presence comes swift and dark, the psychic equivalent of an arm locking around my waist, pulling me into his powerful body. Steady, tesoro.

A handful of days ago, that command would’ve annoyed me. Tonight, it steadies me.

Rowan moves first.

The bowl in her hand cracks. Pale smoke spills over her fingers, turning black before it touches the floor. Her face has gone colder than I’ve ever seen it, and considering the witch looks like winter learned how to judge people, that’s an achievement.

‘Selphine Rousseau,’ Rowan says.

Selphine’s gaze drifts to her with mild disappointment. ‘Rowan of the Red Fen. Still alive? How industrious.’

Rowan’s mouth tightens. ‘Still collecting children, I see.’

Something vicious stirs in the room.