“I want my son back,” his father said, extending his hand.
Years of resentment and anger condensed into a bitter rebuke that burned on Custo’s tongue, No. His father had denied him for years. He wasn’t allowed to change his mind. Not now, not ever. His father could go to hell.
Custo closed his eyes, clenching his teeth. His hate would keep him rooted in the same spot, and the roots went deep. Soul deep.
But this was not his father, just like Adam had not been Adam. It was a trick he had to solve, or he wouldn’t be able to move on.
Think of Annabella.
Annabella, his future, as this man was his past.
The air took on that uncompromising quality again, the kind that resisted change, insight, and clarity. With effort Custo inhaled a lungful of the stuff, and like swallowing a mouthful of shit, Custo worked his tongue and teeth to transmute the no into something different. His “Yes” cut the air with a sharp hiss as he grasped his old man’s hand for the first time in his life.
His father, surprised, tried to flinch back, but Custo held tight. The illusion failed, and a fae woman trembled in Custo’s grip. She was pale and lovely, her skin washed in moon glow. Her long hair fell in a veil over her lower face, but her eyes took on a shape of pain.
He didn’t buy it. He’d caught a fae, and he wasn’t letting go.
“Where is she?” Custo demanded.
“She doesn’t belong here,” the faery said, staring with anguish at her clasped hand. He would not allow himself to be moved by it.
“Well, stop fucking with me and show me where she is,” Custo returned. The woman’s fingers were slight and cold, her contact numbing.
“It is not our nature to reveal,” she said, turning haughty.
“Even if you want to get rid of her?” The contradiction was just like Shadow, eschewing reason for madness.
—doesn’t belong, doesn’t belong, doesn’t belong—
“She dances with the wolf and belongs to him now.” The fae woman’s lowered lids and the cruel twist of her mouth said she didn’t like the union one bit.
“She belonged to me first,” Custo argued, “and I’m taking her back. Help me find her.”
“I can’t,” she cut back, as though she hated it herself.
The heavy air stirred, blew, rustling the branches of the trees with a high whine not unlike…violins. Another breeze took up the lower notes and formed the opening measures of Giselle’s ghostly dance.
Annabella.
Custo’s heart lurched. He squeezed the fae woman’s hand. “Is this another trick?”
“Perhaps,” she answered, with a sneer.
Custo peered into the dark trees, which stood like great sentinels blocking his path and his view. The Shadowlands defied logic, so he had to follow his heart.
His heart was through those trees.
He released the faery. She pulled her hand from his grasp with lightning quickness, her nails cutting a deep, long gash across his palm.
Pain lanced through Custo’s hand and his blood flowed thick and free onto the forest floor. Looking up, he found the faery woman gone. She’d exacted her revenge and disappeared. He gripped his wrist above the wound, waiting for the burn of healing to start.
—blood, blood, blood, blood, blood—
No burn came in Shadow’s domain. Custo’s blood fell in slick, fat drops to the ground. Ripping a misshapen band of cloth from his shirt, he bound his palm tightly to stop the gush. He didn’t have time for this. Annabella was just through there.
Custo ran toward the music. When he saw the first flicker of movement, he slowed, creeping forward to hide in a dark copse and watch Annabella dance with…Jasper? The blond hair, lean body, ridiculous tights, and near-feminine shirt all belonged to Jasper. Custo couldn’t get a good look at his face, but he was sure it had the pretty boy’s features.
It took no effort to recognize this lie, though Annabella seemed lost to it. The man, the creature, holding her could only be the wolf. His hands were all over her, lifting, spinning, embracing Annabella. The wolf had just set her down again when he cocked his head, sniffing the air. He held Annabella’s waist, but his nose lifted, sniffing again. Distracted. Scenting something.
—blood, blood, blood, blood, blood—
Custo looked down at his bandage and recalled the scoring rip of the fae woman’s fingertips. She’d helped him after all, the best way she could. She wanted Annabella out.
Custo buried his wound against his middle, willing the wolf to pass him in favor of the blood-soaked forest dirt. With a great leap, Jasper changed into a slavering, yellow-eyed beast in pursuit of fresh game. When he disappeared into the trees, Custo rushed forward to Annabella.
She had settled into a delicate position, forlorn, awaiting Albrecht’s return. She was stone pale, her marble skin lined with a spider-fine webbing of Shadow, lips gray. When she raised her eyes, Custo found her blue irises and pupils were full black, unfocused, with the distraction of blindness.
He approached carefully. “Annabella?”