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The imps shrink back, retreating into the darkness. Something trickles from the inner corner of my eye, and when I dab my fingers to my skin, they come away wet with blood.

Iestyn has damned me. This is Mephistopheles.

The devil smiles. His teeth are perfectly pointed, glinting in an unnatural fiery light that comes from everywhere and nowhere. “You fear the vampire has sent you to your death. I assure you, had he thought I would be here, he would never have allowed you to come.”

The violin has stopped, but the sharp scream of its strings thrums behind every word. Whatever tongue the devil is speaking in, it’s not meant for my ears. I don’t know how I understand it, only that every syllable scratches and claws, leaving my eardrums bloody.

Somehow, I summon the strength to speak. “You know about him? About what he wants?”

Mephistopheles licks his lips, his tongue pointed and black. “The same thing he has always wanted. It is of no concern to me. What I am interested in is what you want, Alderose Mortimer.”

What I want? The answer burns beneath my ribs, as painful now as it has been every day for the last six years. It has hollowed me out, left me a shell of a woman with ash in place of a heart. There is only one thing I want. Only one thing I’ll ever want. And the devil knows it. He’s just waiting for me to say it aloud.

“Henry,” I whisper.

His name lingers in the air—an echo, a promise. Part of me regrets giving it voice, but I know it is already too late as Mephistopheles’ smile widens.

“And what,” he asks, “would you give to have him back?”

I recognise the look in his eyes. It’s hunger, just like Iestyn’s. It may burn differently, but it’s no less dangerous.

He delights in toying with mortals, Iestyn warned me weeks ago. Enticing them with bargains they can never fulfil and damning them to hell when they fail.

It’s a foolish thing, to see the trap and walk into it willingly. It’s not the first time I have made this mistake. But the truth is on my lips, demanding to be set free.

“Anything.” The word is a confession, an oath, a desperate plea. “I would give anything to have him back.”

All around me, the imps sink back into the dirt, soil pouring into their ears, their nostrils, their throats, as they are buried once more. The air falls silent; not even a trace of the violin’s infernal music lingers on the breeze.

Finally, Mephistopheles fades too, his smile the last thing to disappear into the night.

When he is gone, I turn around, and someone else is there.

“Henry.”

23

Part of me knows this can’t be real, but that doesn’t stop my body from reacting like it is. I try to breathe, but no air reaches my lungs. The quartzite falls from my hand. I don’t need it anymore. Henry is standing right in front of me. It’s not like the gwyllion’s illusion, when he was shrouded in fog, forever slipping out of reach. I see the traces of the world on him: the wind ruffling the wayward locks of his blonde hair, the moonlight reflecting in the blue of his eyes, the smell of the hillside clinging to his clothes in clouds of damp soil and heather.

When he looks at me, the soft bow of his lips stretches into a smile, and my heart shatters all over again.

It’s him. It’s really him.

I don’t think about it any longer—I throw myself into his arms and trust he’ll catch me. The moment I collapse into his embrace, I am undone. A wracking sob rips from my chest as I bury myself in the place I once called home. His arms tighten around me, holding all my broken pieces together, and I sob, shoulders heaving, until it feels like all my tears are spent.

“Alderose,” he whispers, and it is him, it truly is. His voice wraps me in warmth, chasing away the shadows around my heart. I’d know that light, airy tone anywhere. It has called to me in my dreams every night for the last six years.

I pull back, gasping through my tears as I press my lips to his. The kiss is desperate, broken, wet with grief. But if it is not perfect, at least it is right. This is how things are meant to be.

Henry is the one to break the kiss. He cups the sides of my face, gently extricating himself, and I try not to flinch at the hurt that shoots through me.

“Alderose,” he says again, thick with sorrow. “We don’t have much time.”

I shake my head. “What do you mean? You’re here. Mephistopheles returned you to me.”

“He doesn’t have the power to do that. Nobody does.” Henry’s hands slip to my shoulders. “This is a stolen moment, a transgression that will soon be corrected.”

His words glance off me like a dull blow. I don’t believe him. I don’t want to believe him. How can I, when I can feel the beating of his heart against my ribs? When I can taste his breath? He is here. I won’t let him be snatched away again. I can’t.