I sat beside Mela, nursing a cup of tea. Right across from me, perched on the writing desk, was a silver tea tin with a pretty pattern of wildflowers etched into its sides, candlelight folding around its form. My mother had kept this tin, filled with fragrant dried tea leaves for her personal use when she visited the Purveyor of Rarities. After the shitshow that had been the past six hours, I'd have preferred to drink something a lot fucking stronger, like straight-up downing a bottle of Glenfiddich, but apparently, Florin was a teetotaler. And, despite not getting my favored hit of whiskey, my mother's camomile was a pleasant respite that warmed my belly.

I took another large swig of tea and checked on Mela, pressing the back of my curled fingers against her forehead, noting the warmth and flush of vitality to her dark skin. While she'd slept, I'd cleaned the ash and grime and blood from her exposed flesh with a damp cloth, carefully tucking a feathery blanket around her prone figure, and sought a soft pillow to cushion her head. I'd prayed to Skalki, giving my thanks for sparing my friend's life. When I extended my gratitude to Florin as well, he'd quickly waved it off, grimacing as if my thanks had offended him.

The fire crackled and spat, bathing Florin's profile in shadowy orange as he stooped over to ladle himself a fresh cup of tea. He straightened and ambled back into his shop to continue cleaning up the mess of destruction I'd caused by kicking in his door. "Take your time, Tamer," he advised as he passed by where I sat. "Finish your tea."

This was my third cup, and honestly, I couldn't sit here and stew in a puddle of thoughts that all centered around Nelle.

As soon as Mela had recovered from the Gestelt poison, I'd mentally searched for those threads of life that bound Nelle to me. A touch of relief washed through my lungs when I found them. They were there, faintly glowing in the cold, black depths of my soul.

Life still burned in her.

She'd experienced a myriad of emotions since then, joy being one of them. But now I was worried. More than fucking worried. I could feel Nelle's anger beneath my skin bubbling like hot, painful blisters. My knee bounced, the heel of my boot rapping on the stone floor as unease found a way of release and I performed my own form of jittering like my little bird.

I can't...

What the Uzrek had urged—to let Nelle free from my heart—when I'd raced through the catacombs was advice I needed to heed. But it was far easier said than done. Everything in my body, my soul, seethed with urgency to go to Nelle, to find her and calm her.

But how could Nelle ever leave me if I was still holding onto her?

I have to let her go...

The teacup rattled upon the china saucer when I put it down, rising to chase after Florin in long, quick strides to help put his shop back together.

We'd talked a lot in between working and endless tea breaks. For someone who claimed he was constantly irked at my mother's incessant chattering, he was certainly fucking calling the kettle black. He was intrigued with the abilities and qualities of a Tamer and had asked a slew of questions. There wasn't much that I could offer in return. I didn't know a lot, myself. All I'd been able to share was how it felt to cross vast distances through a void that folded space as easily as my fingers bent paper.

I crouched down and hefted up the door from where it had ended up after I'd kicked it in. It was tall and heavy, and fucking cumbersome to navigate through the alleyway of freestanding shelving. Leaving it leaning against the wall, I headed back to the mess in the shop and retrieved an old toolset, which was positively ancient. I got to work repairing the holes on the door jamb and hinges, before realigning the door and screwing everything back into place.

Florin had placed his cup of tea on a low table and had gone back to sorting through the debris. The kicked-in door had sailed through his shop and smashed a lot of wares. Glass jars had exploded into shards that glittered upon the soft loops of wool like frost. Curiosities were strewn wide. Some were even crawling or wriggling away. Liquid rarities had soaked into the rugs and were lost. Some were the size of tiny grains of sand and were now embedded in the fibers beneath my feet.

My destruction had cost the Purveyor of Rarities a small fortune, which he continued to grumble about under his breath, "You couldn't just knock?" shooting me annoyed scowls as he gathered what he could salvage and swept everything else up, dumping it all into a metal bucket.

After rehanging the door, I eased it back and forth, checking my handy work. The bell above the door chimed tink-tink-tink with every forward and back pass. As I swung the door to and fro, the hinges squeaking, a new thought bloomed inside my mind and overshadowed everything else.

It slowed my movement until I stilled, frowning, my gaze darting outside Florin's lair to the staircase landing. Tiny pix fluttered against the glass bowls in which they were contained. The radiating glow painted the chipped stone wall in soft lavender.

I'd not been able to enter Florin's domain when I'd been holding Mela's poison-ravaged body in my arms. She was mortal, I got that. And I understood that I was somehow different. Perhaps being a Tamer had allowed me past the wards when I'd first arrived with Nelle.

But there was something else in all of that. Something that kept tapping an insistent beat in the back of my mind. I spun slowly back around to face the Horned God who finished gathering up miniature bones and dropped them into a wooden bowl—plunk, plunk, plunk—sitting on a newly-righted display table. He ambled forward to retrieve his teacup, taking a long slurp before sighing in pleasure and chomping away at a piece of a dead animal floating in the goopy tea.

I braced a hand on my hip, the other resting on the edge of the door as I cock my head, considering the Horned God. When I'd first arrived here with Nelle, he'd wanted to know which of us had opened the door topside. At the market inside the utility closet was a secret doorway to the staircase that led down here. It had seemed important to Florin to discover which one of us had opened it. When he'd asked us that question, he didn't know either of us. He hadn't known that I was Tabitha's son. Nelle herself acknowledged to Florin that the magical doorway hadn't opened for her—it had opened only for me.

How had Nelle, born with a wyrm inside her, one of the most powerful creatures of our world, not been able to get the secret door to open up for her? I pondered on the fact that perhaps Zrenyth's rope collaring her had prevented the wards from detecting the wyrm.

I tilted my chin up and addressed the Horned God. "Florin." He glanced upward, the teacup hovering at his lips as he raised one furry eyebrow, silently waiting for me to speak. "Can an other enter this place?"

Florin snorted into his cup of tea. "Not likely."

My frown deepened as I let go of the door and took a step closer. "Then how did my mother find you?" Even if my mother had found clues and guessed the Purveyor of Rarities's location, exactly as Nelle had done—the door hadn't opened for Nelle. So why had it opened for my mother?

She was other.

The kind of other that could steal pain and detect her own kind, nothing compared to a girl with an actual fucking wyrm tethered to her.

Florin gave me a sly look over the rim of his teacup, his smile sharp-toothed and so ruthless it chilled my blood. "Now that is something your mother never thought to ask."

Startlement cracked through me.

What the actual fuck?

And then that shocked feeling was obscured by my awareness of a loud, ominous noise traveling up the stairwell and the stone floor trembling beneath my boots.

Whatever it was grew louder with its approach. Rumbling with threatening power.

I spun around, whipping out my daggers, and lowering myself into a defensive stance.

A writhing mess of silvery threads exploded through the open doorway, blustering inward to shake shelves, jostle rarities, and flail the strings of intestines and the tapestries hanging from the ceiling. I leaned forward, my hair whipping about my head as I braced myself against the tempest of roiling might.

The storm blew apart, the otherworldly strands of power calming to shimmer and hover through the lair like a thick fog. And Sirro stepped through the doorway, accompanied by his Familiar.

The Horned God looked as if he'd woken up from a four-day bender. His light linen clothing was torn and splattered with black blood. Flakes of ash dulled his deep coppery skin and grime was smeared around his tired features. He looked bone-deep exhausted, which was a look I hadn't seen on him before. He had his arm banded around the waist of his Familiar, supporting her as they walked deeper into Florin's lair. She looked just as bad as he did. She'd lost her shoes and her elegant dress was tattered, her hair wild and snarled.

Sirro's dark magic curled around her limping figure, offering soothing strokes.

I straightened, my grip relaxing on the hilts of the wyrmbone blades. The Horned God had gotten here fast. In fact, when I thought about it, he'd arrived in the catacombs rather quickly after I'd caught Yezekael and sent out a message, hailing him there. He obviously had some method of traveling quickly. Since he was alive, it couldn't be swifting, so it had to be something else.

Sirro arched an eyebrow, his narrowed gaze sliding astutely from Florin to myself. "Graysen. Yet again you surprise me."

"Master Sirro," I greeted, about to say more when he slashed a hand through the air, cutting me off curtly. Deep lines gouged his forehead as he frowned, distracted by something behind me. I half-twisted around, my boots swiveling on the geometric patterned rug, to see where his gaze had shot. He was staring into the office, taking in Mela. His gaze sliced to Florin, eyes flaring wide in astonishment. "The Văduva girl's still alive? How?"

"Skalki's joyful tears," Florin replied smugly, before taking another slurp of his tea.

"You have our goddess's tears?" Sirro breathed, his eyes widened even further.

"I am a shop of curiosities, Sirro," Florin snapped back, bristling in annoyance. He brandished a condescending, talon-tipped hand at his wares. "I am the Purveyor of Rarities. Have you aged so much you need glasses to see where you stand?"

Sirro's expression morphed between incensed anger and amusement. He turned his head to his Familiar, angling his chin toward the office. "Come, my sweet." He continued to support her as they moved past us both skirting the rubble of rarities. I hurried after him, Florin ambling behind me, the shop ringing with the crunching of glass beneath my boots.

Sirro eased his Familiar into one of Florin's huge chairs. She sank back with a weary sigh, strands of his power coiling around the autumnal patterned pillows to rearrange and fluff them behind her body. Content, she tucked her feet to the side, rested her hands on her lap, and stared straight ahead with a glassy, lackluster gaze.

Sirro moved over to stand beside the workbench, his fingertips brushing across the worn, nicked surface. He scanned Mela, sleeping peacefully, the steady rise and fall of her chest beneath the feathered blanket. Not a single sign of the vile effects of the Gestelt bolt remained on her body. Even the burn scars on her throat had faded away as if she possessed unnatural healing.

My friend's eyelids twitched, and she let out a contented murmur as if she'd slept for a good 12 hours. I grinned as the blanket shifted slightly when she stretched her limbs like a cat before snuggling back down for more sleep.

"Extraordinary," Sirro murmured in awe. He glanced upward, craning his neck to stare at the Horned God. "So this could negate the poisonous lance a Gestelt weapon would have on our kind?"

Florin grunted, tearing his goat-like eyes from Sirro to stare at Mela thoughtfully. "Perhaps. It's not like I have a lot left to experiment with." He flicked his gaze back to Sirro. "Maybe it only works on humans."

Sirro's lips twitched with mirth, and he drawled, "I'm sure if you did come up with an antidote, the price would be atrocious."

Florin grinned gleefully. "No doubt."

Sirro angled himself sideways, relaxing his weight onto one hip while rubbing a knuckle across his chin, his forehead furrowed in deep contemplation as he studied Mela. His voice was soft and thoughtful when he asked, "What effect would our goddess have on a human?"

Florin and I shared a startled look. I hadn't thought that far ahead. I hadn't even considered if there would be any lingering side effects on Mela. Hells, I'd injected her with a goddess's tears. What could that do to someone?

However, as my gaze bounced back to Sirro, there was something more pressing I needed to know. Even though it was utterly useless asking, I couldn't help myself. I'd been there when our chance to discover Yezekael's secrets had been killed by Silas and a crossbow bolt meant for me. "Who has my mother?"

Sirro blinked rapidly at my abrupt question, his hand dropping away to his side. Dark locks of hair ruffled as he shook his head, his mouth pressing into an apologetic line. "I'm sorry that creature didn't live long enough to help us uncover the truth about your mother."

I'd been the only one present with skills sharp enough to overhear the Horned God whispering angrily to the otherworldly creature, desperate to learn who had betrayed my mother.

So many emotions careened through me as I stood in Florin's office—a mire of twisted guilt, aimless anger, and clouded confusion rushed through my chest, tightening the air in my throat. "You knew all along that someone else betrayed my mother. That it wasn't the Wychthorns at all." I dragged a hand through my hair, bunching my fingers around the ashy strands to tug sharply. A sting of pain burned across my scalp. I knew deep down, that it still wouldn't have saved Nelle from us. We needed to use her to put pressure on Byron to obtain Branwene's Hjarte.

But Gods, my family had blamed the wrong people.