I dreamed.

A strange dream... A face floating over mine.

I knew that face...the light gray eyes with flecks of charcoal, hair as pale as moonlight, sharp cheekbones, and freckles scattered over a straight nose. Knew the crooked smile, the top lip a little fuller than the bottom.

I knew that face because it was my own.

But the sobbing... The sound a lament that tore at my ears...

That was not my own.

***

I wasn't going to sleep anytime soon. Not because I was keyed up over hunting the tithe or dealing with Byron's pathetic attempt at ending me, but because I didn't sleep. Only my family knew that I was an insomniac—awake for days until eventually I'd crash, dragged under to sleep half the day away, sometimes a full day if I was lucky, and left undisturbed. Until then, I filled my nights with working out or running through drills with my blades, reading, sifting through music, or down in the garage fine-tuning engines and making performance adjustments to our vehicles.

It was maybe three or four in the morning. The storm had bypassed this area, but wisps of clouds shadowed the moon. I'd already showered and changed. Now I was on the lawns heading toward the woodland. I was curious as to where my little bird ran every morning and evening. Maybe, somewhere in the trees, I'd discover her secret.

There were a few lights still on in the mansion and guards stalking the perimeter.

Heavy curtains were half open and a dim golden light spilled from Wychthorn's bedroom. A night light perhaps. I didn't think she was awake.

At least I hadn't thought she was awake until I heard the soft whine of a wolf floating through the night air. My gaze whipped toward the direction from which it came. Sage's wraith form bounded across the lawn, following on the heels of Wychthorn as she darted over the grassy blades, her nightie clinging to her petite figure as she ran. I grinned. White nightie, a little see-through, and certainly not ruffled and patterned with pink unicorns and sparkly rainbows.

Then, I frowned. Something was twined around her neck and shoulders, flashing intermittently—

What the fuck is that? Fairy lights?

I went to chase after her, and that's when I spotted in the corner of my eye, a figure lurking in the shadows near her bedroom window. I was upwind of whoever it was and couldn't scent them. They had a hood pulled too low over their face for me to make them out either. We caught one another—both staring—across the vast distance of the lawn. I tensed, my fingers curling into fists, every part of me ready to surge forward.

Who the fuck is that?

Were they stalking Wychthorn or had I just interrupted their midnight stroll? Whoever it was slowly melted into the darkness and disappeared around the side of the mansion.

I went to hunt them down, then stopped myself.

Fuck it. Wychthorn, right now, was more important. Besides, I'd just realized the hemline of her nightie was riding high on her thighs, and I needed to know...if she was wearing panties underneath.

She'd headed in a direct line right into the dark forest. Launching forward, I ran silently in her direction, plunging into the forest to trail behind at a safe distance. Sage danced beside her, whining and tugging at the end of her nightie as she scurried, barefoot, along a flagstone path and across a short bridge over a murmuring brook. The path led her to an outbuilding: a three-storied circular building much like a silo, made from stone. She started pawing at the rough brickwork, shouting, "I hear you! I'm here! I'm here! You're not alone!"

From my position hunkered down beneath a hawthorn, hidden in the undergrowth surrounding the building, I could see the glistening of adamere that infused the stone. She'd never dig her way in, and whoever it was she was shouting to wouldn't hear her.

Who the fuck is she shouting to?

Except I knew, because every single House had a building like that on their property. A tithe prison. I'd handed our Bird of Prey and Gaptooth over to my eldest brother before returning to the Wychthorns. The serial killer, Jett and I had caught this evening, would now be locked within our own tithe prison.

Wychthorn ran along the curved walls of the prison, back and forth, agitated, her wild hair wavering through the air behind her. "I'm here! I'm here!" Her hands didn't pause in her search for fuck-knows-what, her tiny fingers scratching at the walls as she frantically searched for the seam of a doorway.

A shiver of soft leaves.

Curious, I cocked my head from side to side, glancing about the periphery of trees surrounding the tithe prison. It was a still night, but the leaves of every tree—oak and ash, hawthorn and willow and birch—rustled in pulses.

I rubbed my chin with a knuckle as the answer slowly filtered through my mind. The leaves were rustling in time with her heartbeat...mine as well. Fuck, she'd been right earlier on the patio, our heartbeats did sync.

"I can hear you! I CAN HEAR YOU!" she yelled, growing more frantic.

All the hair on my body prickled.

My nostrils flared. The air was tainted with aether and it stirred just like it had done in her bedroom when I'd been kissing and biting and licking my way up the graceful column of her throat. But instead of the heat that infused the room, the wind coiling around my body, raking through the trees, buffering branches and leaves, was bitterly cold.

Gods, I didn't think it would be this easy.

Just what are you?

My heart faltered—

Blood—

Droplets of blood dripping off her fingers splattered over her nightie and her voice had reached a heart-wrenching pitch. Something in my chest caved. Something I didn't understand. An overwhelming need to comfort her erupted, scrambling my senses. Before I knew what I was doing, I uncoiled my length, straightening, stepping toward her.

Just wait—

Give her time to reveal herself.

I gritted my teeth, fisting my hands, forcing myself to halt.

What is it about this girl, about us?

Fuck, why did I want to protect her when I had every right to kill her for who she was.

I felt it then.

The earth beneath me shivered, just the slightest tremble, a hint of an earthquake.

"You're not alone!" she cried out, and her voice broke as if she were on the verge of tears. "I'm here! I'm here! I'M HERE!"

Shit, she was messed up. Her fingernails were torn and the pads of her fingers were bleeding as she continued scratching at the walls as if she could dig her way through. "Where is the door? Where is the door? Where is the door?"

It was there, carefully hidden. She might find it in time, but only a special key would fit the lock.

All that pounded between my ears—Stop her, stop her, stop her!!

In the intermittent flashes of the fairy lights wound around her shoulders, I saw the sheen of wetness slicking down her cheeks, and I gave in.

I approached carefully like she was a cornered wild animal. This time Sage didn't lunge at me ready to bite my face off. He backed off, whining and lowering himself in submission. As if asking, just this one time, to help him.

Wychthorn didn't even acknowledge me when I reached her side. She scratched at the wall, her fingers splaying wide and digging, frantically searching for the outline of a door. "Whereisthedoorwereisthedoorwhereisthedoor—"

"Wychthorn, you're only hurting yourself."

She glanced at me then, and her eyes were wild and wide in her tear-soaked face. She didn't seem surprised to see me standing by her side, it was as if she were still caught in that place between waking and dreaming. "I need to get her out. She shouldn't be here!"

The power vibrating from her slight form was an intoxicating beat, brushing over me in pulses, practically singing to my own senses. I'd felt it before, always a subtle hint. But this, this was an almighty thrumming that bombarded my senses. And yet, I knew instinctively, she hadn't revealed herself fully.

"Wychthorn..." I slowly reached out to carefully rest a gentle hand on her shoulder.

I don't know what or why, maybe because I was here touching her, but whatever dark might that radiated from her died. The jostling earth beneath my boots, branches creaking and groaning, and the pulsing shiver of leaves—just stopped. As simply as that. Like a candle being pinched out, a calm settled over the area.

Her fingers snapped around one of my forearms, and her blood smeared my jacket as she tugged urgently at me, demanding I listen. "I can feel her on my skin. She's scalding hot. Bright as a summer's sun beating upon cracked barren earth!" Letting me go, she continued searching for the door. "She woke me up. I can hear her!"

"Her? How do you know—"

"She's crying!"

The walls were one meter thick, partially made from adamere. Even I couldn't hear anything behind it. So how could she? And not even here, she'd been first roused in the mansion.

She pounded on the curved wall with bloodied fists. "I hear you! I HEAR YOU!!"

Grabbing hold of Wychthorn, I dragged her away to create distance between us and the tithe prison. She fought me, scrabbling to return to the building, crying out that she could hear, that whoever it was trapped in that place, wasn't alone.

"For fuck's sake, shut up," I hissed. It was a still night and sound carried.

I shook her in a violent motion. Her gaze snapped into focus. Blinking, she shook her head as if swiping away cobwebs from her mind. "Graysen?" Her tiny hands skimmed my arms, drifting upward to run across my shoulders and down my chest. Maybe just to reassure herself that I was here and real. "Graysen?"

For some stupid, fucked up reason, I liked hearing my name spill from her mouth. She rarely used it, and when she did, she always spat it out like filth. This time, the softness she inflected almost made me smile.

She darted her gaze about the clearing, to the building, then back to me. Dark eyebrows nudged together as she whispered with confusion dusting her tone. "What are you doing here?"

Remaining still, she allowed me to brush the tears from beneath her eyes. "I was up. I heard you."

She cast a dark glare at the tithe prison. "I hate this place. I never come back here." When her gaze returned to mine, the hurt haunting her red-rimmed eyes, startled me. "This is where my father keeps his tithes." Her hands balled my t-shirt. "Tithes." The word dripped with distaste. "They are people, tithes...people."

"Yes."

She pushed free of me and began pacing back and forth, tugging at her hair, her bare feet shuffling through a litter of dead leaves, twigs snapping underfoot. She wrung her hands before her fingers fumbled for the adamere beads of her bracelet. "We stole them. We're going to hand them over to—"

"The Horned Gods."

She took a quick step back from me. The look she delivered, fearful and accusing, cut me up. She pointed a finger at me. "You...you stole a soul tonight."

I nodded. It was true, I had. But I didn't want her looking at me like that. Like I'd stolen an innocent. "His soul was black, little bird. He killed pretty girls just like you."

She blinked, surprised. Distrust dissolved from her face.

Worry tightened in my chest when I saw her bloodied fingers. "Shit. Your hands, Wychthorn."

She glanced down, turning her palms upward. Surprise flared in her expression as she realized how messed up her fingers were.

I jerked my chin in the direction of the low bridge. Striding for her, I took her gently by the arm and guided her toward the stream of water.

The brook foamed a little as it flowed beneath the bridge. I'd led her to the marshy edge and she crouched down beside me. Carefully, I held her hands beneath the cool water, washing the wounds. Afterward, I tore a strip off my t-shirt and bound both of her hands like mittens.

She shivered, her voice barely a whisper as she looked over her shoulder toward the tithe prison. "What will they do to her?"

I frowned as I finished tying the strip of soft material around her hand. "You don't want to know, little bird."

Her teeth chewed her lower lip as she glanced back at me. "Have you seen it? What they do to them?"

I nodded. Too many times.

She slowly shook her head, rising, the ends of her wild, pale hair gently swayed with the motion. She stared down at her bound hands, flexing them a little. "I've never...I've never been to a Blessing, not even Annalise and Aldan's." Her gaze was drawn back to the tithe prison. "My mind, it imagines things... Terrible things..." She moved toward the shadowed structure. Her voice rose, "This is wrong. It's wrong—"

I rose swiftly, lunging forward to snap my hand around her wrist, stopping her. I said softly, "It's too late for her. She's caught."

She went to protest, but I shrugged. What could Wychthorn do? Let the tithe escape? They'd only hunt it down, and Wychthorn would be punished for assisting with the escape.

Everything about Wychthorn slackened. Her shoulders slumped, her expression fell, and that bottom lip wobbled a little.

Something painful cut through me, seeing her like that. So small, wanting desperately to help whoever was caged behind a meter of brick, finding herself unable to because of what we were, who we served.

She looked up, her gaze flitting away before bouncing back with a question in her eyes. Somehow I knew what she was going to ask. "Do you ever..." she said, letting the words drift apart but sensing I knew exactly what she was asking.

This was dangerous territory. I sent my senses swirling outward, checking for threats. We were alone. I led her over to a fallen tree trunk, our feet traversing long blades of grass and dead leaves. Wrapping my hands around her waist, I lifted her up and placed her on the tree trunk. Standing before her, we were almost at eye level with each other. Her nightie was a thin scrap of material, and the heat of her body singed mine. I wanted to brush her hair over a shoulder. I wanted to draw her closer and cage her in my arms. But I did neither.

I lowered my voice to a whisper. "Ever—what?"

"Do you ever regret this life we're ensnared in?" she whispered back, her breath teasing my lips. "Doing those things? Stealing souls to give to the Horned Gods, knowing what they're going to do with them? To them?"

Yes.

No.

This life afforded us riches and luxury but in exchange for our souls. All we had to do was devote ourselves to the Horned Gods. My hands were stained with blood. I wasn't innocent. Sometimes, afterward, I'd catch myself washing and washing my hands over and over again as if I could scrub away everything I'd done and cleanse my soul with liquid soap. Stupid.

"We are what we are, Wychthorn—born into servitude. The only way out of this life is death."

She closed her eyes and breathed out a sigh of pain, of defeat. When she opened them again, her gray eyes shimmered with unspilled tears and pleaded with mine. "I need to stay with her."