A waterfall cascaded into my body and washed me clean as I closed my eyes and leaned my head back. Drenching me through, the glistening currents washed away pain and weariness and lingering feelers from the dream beast.

As we came to another door, abruptly I found myself back in my body. My hair hung, soaked—whether from water, humidity, or sweat, I didn’t know. I glanced around the dimly lit room and caught sight of both Peyton and Chatter, who looked as wet as I was. And, a ways back in the hall, a tall throne.

Thrones are almost always obvious—they’re meant to impress and intimidate. And this one was about as impressive as I’d seen: tall, imposing, and narrow-backed; I realized that it was fit for a king—a king with very large wings.

As Chatter motioned for Peyton and me to scoot close to him, there was a movement toward the back and a tall creature strode forward, knees bent, cloaked in a swirl of smoke, with wings towering above his head. He must have been ten feet tall, stretched thin and gaunt, and the only features on his face that I could see were his eyes, bulbous and faceted. He took his place, wings flanking either side of the tall throne, and pointed to the spot in front of him, then waited.

Chatter pushed me forward, following with Peyton.

He leaned forward and, in a voice so high pitched I could barely hear it, said, “Welcome to the Court of Dreams, Cicely Waters. What do you want from me?”

I wasn’t sure how to address him, so I chanced a guess. “Your Majesty, have I the pleasure of addressing the King of Dreams?”

He grunted. “Pleasure may not be the best word, but yes. I repeat: What do you want?”

Sucking in a deep breath, I took a small step forward. “Your Majesty, I have been sent by the Queen of Rivers and Rushes on behalf of a friend. He needs help that only a shaman from your tribe can give us.”

The King of Dreams did not blink—he did not have eyelids—but his eyes flashed and he tilted his head to the side. “Lainule . . . it has been many years . . .” His voice was soft, almost too soft to hear, and I caught the scent of regret in his words. “What help does your friend need?”

I let out a long breath, feeling suddenly a very small speck in the universe. “I need a spell from one of your shamans for my friend Kaylin. His night-veil demon is waking up and he needs help.”

There was a sudden shift in the room and I could hear a buzz of clicks behind us. The king froze, then reached one long, thin arm in the air and snapped his fingers. Another shadow-bound creature scuttled over to him, listened carefully to a series of clicks, and then nodded, taking off into the gloom.

“Kaylin. I have not heard that name in some time. So he still lives?”

I nodded. “Yes, he’s now a grown man and he’s slipped into unconsciousness. We cannot wake him.” And then, because I could not stop myself, I asked, “Are you one of the night-veils? I know Lainule called you the Bat People, but . . .”

The king let out a loud noise that was either indignation or laughter—I hoped for the latter—and extended his hand to me. “We are not the demons, but the product of them. We are their children. But your friend—he is hybrid, he is unnatural, and there is no predicting what will become of him. We have watched him since his birth.”

“You won’t take him away from us, will you?” I tried to imagine Kaylin—so full of life—locked away in this gloom-filled world of shadows. Though he might be a dreamwalker, he wasn’t cut out for this life. I knew it.

“We will not bring him here, no. He would not survive. We live in the periphery of your vision. We are always a fingertip away from your touch. We speak so quietly that you can hear us whisper but not what we say. We are the shadows that move on their own. We are the people of the Bat, always transforming. Your Kaylin is far too substantial to live among us. But we watch—because there may be more like him out there, and if there are, we need to know what he will become. He embodies the next generation.”

He fell silent, motioning for us to move back. Chatter led us to a corner where there was a pile of rocks, and we sat, waiting.

I leaned forward, whispering into the slipstream. What is this place? I thought the Bat People would be like the Cambyra Fae.

Chatter shook his head. No, they are an entirely different race. They take bat form in our world at times, but they can walk through our world in shadow. That’s where Kaylin gets his dreamwalking abilities. All of these creatures have night-veil demons merged into their souls. The demons have chosen the Bat People as their Chosen Ones. Their children.

He stopped as another of the Bat People entered the room. “Ten to one, that’s the shaman,” he whispered.

I nodded, but inside all I could think about was how much I wanted to go home. I didn’t like the Court of Dreams. It was too alien, too much of a reminder of how little humanity—and the magic-born—actually owned the world in which they lived. The Bat People would forever make me wonder. Was it a bat, or one of the Bat People, watching us as they flew out of the cave? And yet . . . and yet . . . how could I talk? I was also part Cambyra Fae.

Suddenly I longed to turn into my owl self and soar off into the night. I needed to be in flight, needed to be out of reach of worry and uncertainty. As soon as we got home, I’d take wing and leave it all behind. At least for a little while.

“You have the boy? The one locked to the night-veil?” The voice was so harsh it hurt my ears, and I cringed as the creature came up to me. The King sat back on his throne, apparently unconcerned as far as I could tell.

“He’s not with us, no. He’s back in our world—unconscious. Lainule said that his demon is trying to wake and that he needs a spell from the Bat People to help him.” I forced myself to sit up and shake off my fear.

The shadow laughed then, an ugly, frightening sound. His eyes burned, glowing green and sparkling with white pinpricks. “Yes . . . his demon must wake or he will forever drift in the depths of his mind. I will give you the spell, but you must be prepared. Your friend, in his new state, will be unpredictable. I bear no consequence from waking the night-veil. Make certain you want to do this, Cambyra. For once done, it cannot be undone, and I doubt that you can overcome Kaylin once he’s met and accepted his demon.”

“Why did it choose now to wake up? I thought it died when it entered his soul in the womb.”

“When the demon first enters the host, it dies, but it leaves behind a hatchling. After a long while, the hatchling begins to wake. It is simply the life cycle of the night-veil demons.”

I glanced at Chatter, wondering what the fuck that meant. But I’d come to accept in the past couple of weeks that fear was the worst reason for holding back. Fear paralyzed. Hesitation was deadly.

“Give it to me. I’ll take it to him and cast it, if I can.”

The shaman clicked a series of notes, then held out a fetish—it was of a grotesque, twisted creature, and I had the feeling it represented one of the demons.

“To call forth his demon to waking, cast a circle round him with salt and then inside that, a ring of crystals—quartz—and lastly, a ring of belladonna. Then follow these simple steps,” he said, giving me the rest of the instructions.

“Thank you. We need Kaylin, and he’s our friend.”

“Think you friend, think you foe. Either way it can go. But you must not tarry. If he lingers too long in the world of dreams, he will never wake, and his body will fade.” And with that, the shaman abruptly left.

I tucked the fetish inside my pocket, making sure it was zipped shut. As we stood, I turned to look back at the King of Dreams. He was standing now, his wings outstretched in a terrifying wingspan that filled the area around the throne.

“Cicely!” His voice echoed through the chamber. “Go now. But do not forget—we are watching. And you have now caught the attention of the Court of Dreams. Lainule owes us a favor. As do you.”

And then, with a swirl of shadow and fog, he was gone and we were outside the cavern.

Shuddering, I turned to Chatter. “Get us out of here. Now.”

He nodded. “I think it best we leave. Come.”

All the way back to the portal, we kept silent, moving as quickly as we could. We entered the cavern, stepping into the vortex of the portal, and everything became a spinning top of energy as we passed out of the Court of Dreams and back into the cavern on our side.

When we exited the cave, we found morning had arrived.

I was dragging butt. “We were there all night. That’s kind of a good thing,” I said. “The Shadow Hunters will be hiding from the light.”

“Yes, but we have to hurry. I have a great sense of urgency.” Chatter pushed us forward, not allowing us to rest. By the time we were partway through the underground tunnel, I was walking in my sleep, so tired. Peyton didn’t look much better, but Chatter seemed fueled by an inner fire.

The snow was falling thickly when we emerged from the tunnel and began to work our way back toward the road. We’d walked a good fifty miles—since, I supposed, the day before, although time wasn’t fixed in the realm of Faerie—and my body ached. My mind was running on autopilot and I ignored the quiet hush of the snow as it layered deeper and deeper.

As we neared the road, there was a rustle in the bushes and my wolf began to howl. I pressed my hand against my stomach and turned, knowing in my deepest core that he was there—watching me.

And there he was. Panting with pain, leaning against a tree, Grieve stood, his gaze fastened on me.

Oblivious to common sense, I raced toward him, my muscles screaming as I pushed them beyond their limits.

He opened his arms and I fell into his embrace. “Cicely, oh Cicely, my Cicely,” he whispered, covering me with kisses. “I can’t stand this. I miss you. I need you. I have to have you.”

And I knew then, I was lost.

Chapter 7

“Grieve!” I closed my eyes as he embraced me, his lips covering mine, his tongue parting them as he pulled me ever tighter. His hands raced across my back, my ass, my hair, as he held me against him. I pushed him back, cupping his face in my hands, searching for some sense that things were okay again. But the wild streak in his eyes frightened me.

“I couldn’t stay away. I sensed you in the woods; I had to be near you. I needed you,” he panted, trying to hide from the daylight, and my wolf whimpered in pain. “I can’t stand this. I can’t stand being apart from you, but she forces me. She controls me, Cicely—and she’ll kill me if she finds out I’m here with you. But I’d rather be dead than call her my consort.”

He was broken. I could see it in his eyes. Myst had broken him. Or at least she was making a good attempt.

“Hold strong, don’t let her win. I won’t let her have you. Can’t you break free and come with me? We can lock you in the basement during the day. I can . . .” And then it hit me. Lainule and Geoffrey were working on an antidote. I could get hold of it somehow. I could save Grieve. I could take away his rage at—and inability to withstand—the light. If it worked. Then it would be easier to get him out of Myst’s clutches. “I may be able to help you.”

“My lovely Cicely, you have a death wish, don’t you?” His eyes were cunning, but behind them his love stirred. I could feel it wash over me: his longing, his desire, his hunger. I leaned toward him and he wrapped me in his arms again, lingering against my lips with his own, plying them with his tongue.

“Let me drink from you. You give me strength. You give me hope. You are my all, Cicely Waters. You are the only reason I have to live.” And he dipped his head toward my neck. “You’re shaking,” he whispered.

How could I tell him that he terrified me? That I feared him as much as I loved him? I swallowed my fear and looked into his eyes at the emotions waging war within him. The clash of tension, the clash of swords, the desire to hunt and the desire to love, all played out across his face, and all I wanted to do was hold him tight and wipe away the pain.

“Grieve . . . will she know? If you drink from me?”

He shook his head. “She is not all-powerful, though she is a force and fury. She is cruel, and vicious, and I’m terrified I’ll become like her. I can feel myself shifting, every moment I’m with her. She is the corrupter, the Snow Queen with the heart of ice. And she means for me to be her king.” His hands shifted and he leaned down again. “May I drink? It will help me keep my sanity—for a little while longer.”

“Cicely, get away from him.” Chatter’s voice echoed through the snow and I glanced over at him. “Let her go, Grieve. If you truly love her, let her go.”

Grieve stared at Chatter for a moment, snarling. “You would become a turncoat on me, too? You would forsake the one who saved your worthless life?” His voice was harsh and cruel.

I struggled against him as his hold changed on me. He laughed. “Cicely, my own little Cicely. Oh, Myst would have such fun playing with you.”

“Grieve, no—please. Please, hear me with your heart, not with the haze of her madness.” I reached up, stroked his face, forced him to look me in the eye. He quieted then, and again my wolf whimpered in pain, making me want to weep.

Ulean swept around me. He is dangerous, like a wounded animal. Use caution, Cicely. Do not provoke him.

But he let out a shuddering breath and hung his head. “Chatter is right. I’m dangerous. If I drank from you now, I don’t know if I could stop.”

I shook my head, running my fingers through the platinum locks that cascaded down his back. “You will not hurt me, Grieve. Our love runs through lifetimes. Remember . . . remember that. You and I were together before, and we’ll be together again. We are soul mates, stronger together than apart.”