A cluster of small spiders crawled across the wavering web strung in the glass ceiling of the atrium, high above the gathered higher-ranking members of our society. Wraith-wolves prowled, their strange eyes aglow and fixed on those attending the meeting.

Jett glanced over his shoulder and saw Sirro and I hadn't entered the atrium. Perplexed, his brow creased. He stopped walking and widened his stance, his hand briefly rubbing his wounded side. He stood a polite distance away, but with his keen hearing, he'd be able to listen in to my conversation with the Horned God.

My gaze drifted over the four main players here—the short, stocky Battagli who cleaned our illegally earned wealth; Zielenski, who was in charge of the brothels; the gambling arm was overseen by Lukus Reska; and Yoran Novak ruled the crime syndicates that distributed our magic-infused drugs, created by the Pelans or, as Sirro rightly said, by their Lower House Simonis.

But the rest of the attendees were Hunters.

Upper House Förstner and the Heads of their Lower Houses—Estlore, Văduva, Qillisan, Lyon, Troelsen, and many more were seated in opposite-facing rows.

Byron's hand was fisted by his side as he strode between them. His gray three-piece suit was the same shade as his salted tawny hair. His square jaw was clenched as he spoke through the different kinds of mortals and lesser otherworldly creatures he wanted the Houses to hunt. He wasn't a man for smiling much. I'd only seen that side of him when I'd spent my obligated days with Nelle over the past year. He loved his daughters and had barely tolerated my presence. And I'd caught, very rarely, moments when he'd been overcome with fear at what I intended to do with his youngest daughter after claiming her with the Alverac.

He'd known that I'd been with my mother the night the Horned Gods had come for her. Me, claiming Nelle with the Alverac—he thought it was straight-up revenge.

But last night he'd finally begun to understand just what my family was after. Tucked away in Byron's treasury was a small piece of a god that had been Zrenyth's Warlord, whose power lived and breathed in an ancient relic. We were going to use Byron's daughter to bend him to hand it over to us—Brangwene's Hjarte.

We needed it.

Desperately.

Pulling my cell phone from my pocket, I flicked my father a text—a short message informing him of Sirro's advisement to keep quiet about Jett and the crossbow bolt.

In a blur of movement, so fast it could barely be detected, my father checked his phone and discreetly pocketed it. He adjusted his position in his chair, affecting calm bordering on boredom. He didn't look my way, only slightly tilted his chin in reply.

Sirro shifted his weight from one foot to the other, drawing my attention back to him. He slashed a swift smile, a sly glint in his amber eyes. The ombre light glowing from the lanterns overhead gilded his long eyelashes, curving along his high cheekbones and dusting his short beard. "Rumour has reached my ears that you're angling for an invitation to the Witches Ball and that you're offering Nelle as your prize. But so far...?"

There was a moment of silence in my head. The heavy weight pressing on my mind and soul had been lifted once I'd stepped out of the solar. All those things that had sent me spinning onward after trapping my little bird—the coverup of the battleground, burying the dead, threatening Byron, coming out of this meeting alive with Sirro, thwarting and redirecting him from the truth that our House had been the one who'd attacked his tithe convoy...it had all disappeared. But the one person this had all been about came to the forefront.

Nelle.

And that weight descended once again, pulverizing me beneath its might.

"Nothing," I replied, my tone flat.

But inside, I was anything but flat. Revulsion for myself bubbled like a stagnant pond fermenting in a baking-hot sun.

So far we hadn't stirred enough interest with Nelle to entice an invite for a Goods Appraisal—a fact that was making my family extremely nervous.

To be invited to The Witches Ball, one needed to have their goods appraised for value, and then an invite to the event would be issued afterward if the prize offered was deemed worthy. Time was running out for my family. In only a few weeks' time—a day or two after Nelle's birthday—the appraisals would be closed off. Once again we'd lose our shot at getting into the one place we hoped to find the Horned God that would lead us to our mother's whereabouts.

I didn't know if I was relieved or not. If it was better that the choice was taken away from us, and Nelle didn't gain the interest of the Horned Gods, which would force our hand to do something desperate...

Nelle would be safe...

But we'd lose the chance altogether to find my mother.

Sirro slipped a hand into his pocket and shifted his weight to one hip. His gaze left mine to track Byron's movements as he spoke to the Heads. The Horned God's polished voice was quiet with introspection. "You Crowthers really are quite ruthless. Putting Nelle up for sale at the Witches Ball. Is it retribution you seek for Tabitha? Revenge against Byron for betraying your mother? Your way of tearing Byron Wychthorn apart by selling his daughter to those creatures who only see body parts set upon an auction block?"

I didn't respond, but I couldn't stop the anger from burning the blood in my veins to a blistering heat.

Anger that was directed at myself.

There was an eager gleam in Sirro's eyes when they met mine. "It's a pity you can't offer up anything else if you are so desperate to get in there. And once you are, what are you going to bid on? What do the great Crowthers want?"

He surveyed me as if he could learn the truth from the nuances in my expression. I gave him nothing in return. His mouth pulled wide as he chuckled. "I thought perhaps something might blossom between you and Nelle. Both of you spending all that time together leading up to her twentieth birthday, before the Alverac bound her soul to yours permanently. I'd wondered if someone like Nelle might win you over. But not you, Graysen Crowther." His gaze silently spoke approval. "Such a cold, black soul. Selling her at the Witches Ball...how mercenary."

Disgust, thick and acidic like bile, clogged my throat—at what I was, what I was part of, what I'd done.

"There's a particular Horned God, one of those creatures that spin spells, that creeps out of her hole in the ground before the Ball," Sirro said, then offered, "She's rather partial to the Emporium. I'm sure Jurgana will be there before the month is out."

Jett's ears pricked. His eyes slid our way, and the violet glittered like a faceted gem meeting sunlight at learning what Sirro had chosen to impart.

Sirro leaned closer to whisper, "If I were you, I'd have a word with Zielenski, and have him let you know when Jurgana is in attendance."

The Emporium... Holy hellsgate.

Everything inside of me died a little bit further.

Sirro flashed a smile that showed all his teeth. "I'm sure a little display from your Wychthorn Princess would entice a Goods Appraisal. That is if you want an invitation to the Witches Ball?"

I wanted to roar at the injustice I was going to serve to Nelle—an innocent caught in the sticky webbing of deceit.

"She was such a spirited child, full of fire," Sirro continued, stepping closer. He was a whole head shorter than me but right now I felt like I was standing in his shadow. "I've watched her grow through the ages. Not so much in the past few years, our paths didn't cross and I was detained...with..." His words drifted apart as his gaze slid along the rows of men and women in their expensive suits and handmade leather shoes, but I could tell he wasn't focused on them at all. No, he was thinking about Nelle. Lust, heady and potent, pinched my nostrils, making me want to throat-punch the fucker. He turned his gaze back to me and smiled in that way that set my teeth grinding against each other. Then his golden eyes went molten with the desirous thought he spoke out loud. "Well, she's all grown up now, and ever so delectable. I wouldn't mind a bite of her." He canted forward slightly, getting into my space. "Perhaps I'll bid on the Wychthorn Princess at the Witches Ball."

It was a sucker punch I should have seen coming.

I almost fucking detonated.

Almost.

Something in my expression satisfied Sirro. Whatever he saw in my eyes made his smile grow broader, more delighted, and reflected in his eyes like a mirror. I caught a glimpse of myself, the flash of silver in my irises as territorial fury rampaged through my entire being, spinning my mind into a haze of red. It wasn't that thing snapping its fangs and hissing. It was me. He wanted her and he was going to get his hands on her no matter how.

And yet... I was the fucking bastard with no backbone to go against my family and save Nelle from the likes of him—a Horned God. Worse, I couldn't save her from the likes of me, my family. I was going to be the one who would put her up on that auction block to be sold. Me.

I can't...

But without Nelle, we'd never save my mother.

My mother or Nelle.

My mother...

The weight of it all crushed the air from my lungs and had loathing clutching at my ankle with sharp claws, tugging me down into black despair.

Sirro seemed to read me so easily.

He pressed even closer, so close I could smell his minty breath that almost covered up the scent of his decay, and the coldness radiating from his age-suspended body had my body prickling all over with gooseflesh.

"Choices." He pushed the word out and it sounded harsh and cruel. There was nowhere else to look but into those eyes gone bronze and half-feral. "We all have to make choices. Some divide us right down the middle, cleave us in two. We have to pick one side or the other. Make one choice over another." He stared at me, scanning my face as if trying to pierce through my inner thoughts and unearth the turmoil I was in. One blink, one heartbeat later, that hard glare softened and the color of his irises changed to warm, buttery sunlight as if he understood the perilous position I was in.

He smiled, angling his head just slightly and raising an eyebrow. The words were a low purr, rich with challenge. "So what will you do, Graysen Crowther? What choice will you make?"

It was the clang of a crash cymbal that reverberated through my soul.

What choice will I make?

But it wasn't a question he was waiting for me to answer.

He pushed away, twisting on his heel, and strode into the atrium.

And the sound of shuffling feet, shifting fabric, and chair legs scraping across the tiled floor as everyone rose to bow, filled my ears. But it couldn't drown out the question in my head that looped over and over again, wrapping itself around me like rusty barbed wire, tearing into flesh.

As I followed my brother through the atrium, past all those gathered who held such vast power in their own right, yet were on bended knee before the Horned God, Sirro's question rattled around in my head. In my heart.

What choice will I make?

***

When I finally dragged myself out of bed for the day I found Penn placing a second cloche next to the first—obviously my untouched breakfast—on the dining table. "You've slept late," she said, her back to me.

I almost rolled my eyes. What else was there to do but pace the room or sleep?

"You said he'd be back by now," I insisted. The words rasped my tickly throat and I coughed. I pressed a hand to my chest, where my lungs felt a little moist and phlegmy. I squeezed my eyes, clearing my throat, before asking, "Where is he? When will he be back?" It was now three days stuck in this room, this prison cell.

She lifted the cloche and I drew closer to see there was a light lunch—salad and cold meats. Turning around to face me, she said, "I'm not sure what is detaining the Crowthers, or when Graysen will be back."

I didn't care what was detaining him, or where he'd gone, on whatever business for which the Crowthers were needed. I didn't even care if he returned safe and unharmed. I just wanted him back so I could roar at him to free me. I wanted to chip away at the ice wall he'd built around him and make him let me go. I couldn't do any of that if he wasn't here, and the only person I saw was Penn. She couldn't remove this thing around my neck—only a Crowther could.

She pulled back a wooden chair. "Please, sit and eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"You need to eat. You must be starving."

But as I checked myself—my stomach and its twisting emptiness, the listlessness in my body and mind—I realized I had no desire to eat. No desire, really, to do anything.

Because I was sure she'd argue if I told her the truth, I sat down in the chair and picked up the fork and knife, stabbing at the crisp salad. I tasted nothing at all as I chewed, but I ate enough to satisfy her. As I crunched down on lettuce and capsicum, their juices bursting along my tongue and teeth, I heard her retreating footsteps, and the door shut softly behind her. I swallowed the measly mouthful, dropped the cutlery on the china with a clatter, and pushed the plate away.

A few days he'd said, then he'd be back.

Liar.

Spinner of deceit.

Bastard.

I rose. The soft carpet muffled my footsteps as I paced the room. I was surprised I hadn't worn the looped fibers away with the endless pacing I'd done over the past few days—around and around and around.

Silence was welcome.

Silence filled my head, pushing everything else out.

I welcomed the emptiness of my mind—the nothingness.

My skin wasn't warmed by sunlight or caressed by moonlight. A breeze didn't slink around my limbs or kiss my cheek—just the steady, controlled flow of conditioned air filled my lungs and skated over my flesh.

***

As the next few days passed by I could only tell what time of day it was from Penn's arrival, carrying her godsdamned silver tray—breakfast, lunch, and then supper. I didn't speak to her. It was too exhausting to even bother trying, and she'd only tell me what I already knew—Graysen hadn't come back.

There was nothing but endless time and the same curved walls of stone that seemed to press in on my very soul. Lethargy sank into my body. A racking cough had started to prevail, and shivering—my body shivered all the time as if I'd leeched an ice-biting chill from the stone walls and it had settled deep inside my bones.

There was nothing to do but stare at stone and wait.

Was this to be the rest of my life—an eternity spent staring at stone walls?

No.

In a few months' time, I'd step upon an auction block, my body prodded and poked at like a cow while I was deliberated over. My qualities assessed—which parts of me would be best carved up, ground down, the fat boiled and rendered off. The parts that could be weaved into spells to lengthen their life span, or cast a glamour of beauty over their repulsive features, or other hideous creations.

I dragged myself into the wardrobe that had been turned into my makeshift bedroom, closed the door, and slid into bed.

I slept, and when I awoke I wasn't hungry but I tried to force a few bites of something small to eat. An apple, I think, that tasted of nothing.

And I went back to bed and did not rise again.

Not the next day, nor the next, or the one after that.

And each time I was roused to consciousness, a glass of water or a spoon of broth pressed to my lips, it was too much to bear. I didn't want to face where I was or what was to become of me. I wanted to sleep it away.

There were almost-lucid moments—brief windows of reality breaking through my dream state.

Penn's blue eyes staring down at me, shining with worry—

Her voice drifting like music being played in another room, begging me to wake—

Hands as hot as a burning furnace on my forehead, my cheeks, my upper arms.

As I fell back into blissful nothingness, even I recognized how my lungs rattled in my chest, the wet rasping of my breath, and how shivers racked my body. It was too hard to raise a limb that felt weighed down as if it were bound with iron chains.

And on I slept.