On the opposite page to Zrenyth's Mites was information relating to the Tears of the Brokenhearted. My gaze wandered over the words, not really seeing them as I thought on, planning and scheming.

A heartbeat later my gaze sharpened on something I'd not detected before. The ink was smudged as if something wet had splashed on the parchment, making the midnight-inked words warp and smear. I traced the splatters with a fingertip. Tears, I realized. Someone had cried while reading this very page in the old dusty tome.

A pang of sympathy speared through my heart as I wondered what awfulness had befallen the reader that they'd wept over this particular page.

My attention was torn away by the sound of muffled footsteps behind the closed bedroom door and a short burst of exhilarated yaps from Sage. Drumming my fingertips on the parchment, I called out, "Who were you with when you were at the Purveyor of Rarities?" If Graysen had been a child at the time, surely he'd have accompanied an adult.

From behind the closed door, Graysen answered me. "My mother."

A jolt of surprise snapped my spine ramrod straight.

"From what I remember of the moment, she seemed to be his friend," he added.

My mouth fell open. "Your mother was friends with a Horned God?"

"It would seem so. I don't even think my Dad knows about her friendship with him. That's why I want to find Florin," he called back.

Tabitha Crowther had secrets she kept from her family?

As reluctant as I was to admit this, Tabitha was becoming more and more fascinating to me.

My gaze dropped to the book splayed open on my lap, and as I retraced the smudged ink with a fingertip, I wondered yet again whose tears had warped the words.

Closing the dusty old tome, I rose and put it away with the other novels sitting beside the reading lamp on the bedside table. Striding toward the bedroom door, I pulled it open and lingered at the threshold. My gaze had inadvertently been tugged toward Graysen's bed with the black lacquered woodwork glistening with sunshine. The wyrm burrow had been dismantled. Graysen had remade his bed, and neatly folded all the blankets and sheets I'd pulled from my own bed. He'd placed them on the leather couch, along with my messenger bag, which he'd retrieved from where I'd dumped it on the floor inside our residences before I'd ordered him to undress last night.

The tips of my toes curled into the carpet as an echo of the sway swept through me. I'd lost myself somewhere along the way after I'd wrapped my limbs around Graysen's trembling, clammy body to soothe and untangle him from the cruel nightmare he'd been ensnared within. As I'd confessed earlier, the sway wasn't awful at all. It had been a peaceful, dreamlike state. Harmonious. I'd distantly felt his commands, the intrinsic pull to please him, please myself too.

Until he'd crossed the line with Sage.

I fidgeted with the tiny button on the front of the dress, relieved that I still had full authority over myself during the sway.

The frivolity occurring near the tiled area of the kitchenette drew my gaze to Sage bouncing on his hind legs, his forepaws tucked neatly as he begged. I leaned my back against the door frame watching Graysen play with my wraith-wolf. He was dressed in his usual uniform of a dark t-shirt and jeans with heavy boots. His raven-black hair had almost dried and the curls were deliciously disheveled. A spike of heat razored down my spine at the unbidden memory of those wet locks tickling the side of my face as he'd kissed my cheek, his hard chest pressing up against my back, the roll of his hips driving mine forward and back as he plunged that that iron length in and out of my body.

Oh gods...

I rubbed my thighs together to extinguish the ache building inside my core while flapping the collared neckline of my dress to send a flurry of cool air downward to wash against my heated skin. And reminded myself to calm the hells down, before I lost my senses and pounced on him again.

I could almost imagine I'd heard the chinking of silver chains bound around his wrist as he raised a hand with a boyish grin and twirled a finger. Sage threw himself across the carpet, rolling over, and then back again, before rising to his paws, wagging his tail and barking, eager for more fun.

I caught the subtle double click of Graysen's fingers and Sage immediately keeled over with a heavy thump on the carpet.

My wraith-wolf remained deathly still.

And I blew out an annoyed breath, crossing my arms over my chest.

The little show-off had even perfected a blank gaze to his silvery eyes and let his fat tongue loll out of his mouth while he played dead.

Graysen's soft chuckle shivered over my skin. He squatted down and leaned forward to rake his fingers over Sage's side, ruffling his ghostly fur in a vigorous pet. "Good boy," he murmured.

While it was sweet, it also pissed me off. My godsdamned wraith-wolf was such a pushover for Graysen these days.

Shoving off the doorframe, I approached the pair and cleared my throat. Sage's head popped up from the floor, while Graysen's gaze slid along his shoulder.

Drawing to a standstill, I clicked my fingers, ready for Sage to join us on our escapade. My wraith-wolf's muscles bunched as he surged to his feet.

"He's not coming," Graysen informed me, wariness shadowing his dark eyes.

My stomach went into free fall and my smile slipped. "Insurance," I replied weakly, "So I'll return to the Keep."

He nodded as he rose, shifting around to face me and walking closer. "You won't be able to run if that's what you were thinking of trying." That thought had crossed my mind briefly, but I knew he was too cunning to falter in keeping vigilance over me. He confirmed it a moment later when he reached out to thumb the collar around my throat. "You'll only get a short distance from me before this will snag."

The sour sting of betrayal thickened my throat. After the sweetness of what we'd shared together this morning, I'd forgotten just what I was to Graysen. A pawn to be used to save his mother.

"Okay," I nodded, swallowing down my hurt. "Sorry, puppy."

Sage flopped onto his belly to stretch out by my feet with a sad whine.

Graysen arched an eyebrow as his gaze dipped to my feet. "Shoes might be a good idea today."

Shoes!

My mouth gaped open in shock and then pinched into a pout. I glanced downward, wiggling my toes. He knew how much I hated wearing shoes.

He tucked his hands inside the back of his jeans before sliding a booted foot forward, pointedly tapping it toward my toes. "The outing to the subway freaked the hells out of me with you in your bare feet and all that fucking litter, broken glass, and whatever-the-fuck spilled over the ground. Can't you wear shoes for a day?"

No!—I was about to bark back.

However, he was right about the subway. At the time it'd been better to go about in bare feet than shoving my feet into shoes with that horrid feeling of being smothered and confined. But, perhaps it would be easier if I agreed to do as he suggested rather than continually keeping an eye out for shards of glass and gross stuff littering the sidewalk. I caved completely with a vexed huff and spun around to traipse back into my bedroom to find something to slip on my feet.

Graysen followed closely behind, and as I picked out a pair of white ballet flats, I gave him a cursory glance, curious as to why he was rifling through the accessories Penn thought I might appreciate, neatly stacked on the open shelf above my bed. He retrieved something soft and luxurious and it swept through the air in a flourish of peach as he turned around to face me.

He drew nearer, towering above me with his height. An electrifying current of energy sparkled against my skin as he carefully brushed my heavy hair, air-drying into spirals and loose waves, over my shoulder and wound the scarf around my neck. Concentration lines feathered out from his narrowed eyes and bracketed his mouth as he flipped the feathered ends of the scarf around one another and made a pretty knot around my throat, effectively hiding Zrenyth's rope beneath the pleated silk. His hands fell back to his sides as his mouth pressed into a thin line of apology. "It'll be best not to draw attention to us."

The last of my good mood faded away with the reminder.

A heartbeat later, I sparked with renewed excitement. Who the hells cared?! I was leaving the estate, about to go out on an adventure!

And the rope collaring me might not stay wrapped around my neck for very long if the Purveyor of Rarities did indeed possess the mites.

I half-bent over and slipped the ballet flats on my feet. My teeth clacked together as the irritating sensation of losing my connection to the ground, of being confined, scratched itself all over my body and almost overwhelmed me.

I breathed through my nose, stomping a foot until I got a grip on my senses.

For a moment I'd wanted to rip the shoes off my feet, free myself from all my clothes, and tear the tower down to its foundation with my bare hands.

"You okay?" Graysen asked.

"I'm fine," I gritted out, before whirling into motion and storming from my bedroom. "I just fucking hate shoes!"

I heard him say behind me, "Yeah, no kidding," with that godsdamn smile shining through his voice.

Striding toward the ornate door to our quarters, I stopped in front of it and Graysen halted beside me. He fished a set of car keys out of his back pocket and spun them around his forefingers absentmindedly. "Where do you think this Horned God is in the city?"

For years I'd scoured my family's library on a quest to discover a creature that could tell me what lurked inside of me. During this time, I had come across the name of a Horned God that resided in Ascendria—the Purveyor of Rarities—not in a book from my family's library, but in one amongst a collection of rare tomes my mother had borrowed for me from my grandparents at the Deniauds'.

When Graysen had taken me to the city to ride the subway, I sought out the Uzrek. My research had led me to believe the Uzrek would be down in the catacombs beneath Ascendria, and I knew what I could use to tempt it out of the tunnels to speak with me.

I hadn't been exactly sure where to find the Purveyor of Rarities. I'd only a hunch, which wasn't good enough if I ever managed to find myself alone in the city with one shot at speaking with an otherworldly creature that could shed light on what I was.

Also, it wasn't exactly an otherworldly creature. It was a Horned God.

And I hadn't wanted to risk exposing myself to it.

"I have a fair idea," I replied vaguely to Graysen, not wishing to give him anything else, watching him latch his fingers around the door handle, twist, and pull it open.

I was certain the Purveyor of Rarities would be near Ascendria's Market where a vast collection of stallholders sold their wares. What better place to sell strange oddities and rarities, than somewhere inside the city's market?

***

Graysen and I stepped aside to allow two mechanics to leave the garage first. As they strolled past they shot a wary glance at me before smiling at Graysen and exchanging quick pleasantries with him. Wiping away the grease coating their fingers, they stuffed the dirty rags into the back pocket of their overalls and disappeared down the corridor behind us. And we were left to enter the garage alone.

An underlying smell of grease and gasoline washed around me as I followed Graysen inside. The space was clean and orderly. The garage itself was enormous and filled with luxurious cars. Black Mercedes-Benz limousines were parked next to silver Bugattis and gleaming white Maseratis, along with those muscle cars the Crowther brothers preferred—Mustang and Challenger—all customized with a post-apocalyptic feel, with the superchargers and additional funnels on their matt-black bodies.

Graysen left my side and headed to a row of utilitarian lockers standing next to open metal shelves stacked with car care products, oil canisters, and shammy cloths. The locker creaked as he opened it up, and he ducked down to retrieve a canvas bag and burlap sack. It was the shovel that had my eyebrows rising when he pulled it out and slung the long wooden handle over a shoulder, hastening to catch up with me.

"What's with the shovel?" I asked as we threaded our way through the garage.

"Roadkill."

"You're collecting roadkill?"

"It would seem so," was all he said, not elaborating any further.

The slaps of my annoying ballet flats on the oil-stained concrete were overly loud as I quickened my pace to keep abreast of Graysen's leggy stride. We passed an area that was set up like a mechanic's shop and my gaze roamed over the car hoisted up, with engine parts and tools splayed over a workshop table. I assumed this was where Graysen spent most of his sleepless nights, tinkering with his latest project. I was about to ask him when something caught my eye.

Strangely, amongst all the millions of dollars' worth of vehicles, was a tiny, boxy car that was as bright red as a sun-ripened tomato. It was a hatchback and old judging by the look of it. "Are we taking your clown car today?" I cheekily asked Graysen, gesturing toward it with a hand.

He cut a surprised glance to where I pointed. To my astonishment, his eyes flashed, not with amusement, but a bit of fire and hurt at my jab. "That's my mother's Honda City," he replied gruffly, his shoulders tensing and inching upward.

"Oh." Shame instantly burned my cheeks and I anxiously twined my fingers together as we walked by the little car. "I'm sorry for being so rude."

His eyes softened when they slid to mine. "You weren't to know. It was her first car and she's rather sentimental about it. She'd saved for years to be able to buy it, and despite all this," he waved his free hand at all the expensive sports cars, "she still prefers to drive it as her runabout. Economical with mileage, she likes to point out." He smiled, but his smile was a touch melancholy. "I look after it for her and keep it running."

"That's really nice of you." I winced at how lame it sounded.

He shrugged. "Yeah, well, I have plenty of time."

Graysen turned inward and I followed him to the side of a Mustang. He opened the passenger door for me and a curl of air unfurled from inside with that distinctive smell that screamed of a brand-new car. I inhaled an exaggerated breath through my nose. "New?"

He huffed a laugh and his mouth tipped up on one side. "I needed a replacement. My last Mustang got blown to pieces and turned into scrap metal."

I couldn't stop the smug smirk. Despite everything before and after, it had felt glorious spinning his car up into the sky with a brace of wild wind before obliterating it with wyrmfire.

Graysen strode to the back of the vehicle, popping open the trunk, and I went to ease myself into the car when I spotted something peculiar—a cracked piece of plastic. A tail light I realized, that looked like it had been torn off the rear of a motorcycle. And there was more. My gaze honed in on a scrap of leather, shards of a broken mirror, and the edge of a wheel poking from behind the Mustang. It was unusual because the garage was so tidy and clean, and I couldn't imagine Graysen nor their servants leaving anything strewn haphazardly to litter the floor. I hurried to the back of the car to see what it was.