“You saved my life,” I say, “and I can never repay you for that, or for honoring your promises to me and my sister. And I will do whatever I can to help Prince Corbin find his father and save Avinea. And as my king,” I continue, my voice wavering, “you owe me nothing for that loyalty. But as my friend—as North—I ask you to remember that not all hearts are protected by magic.”
Dropping my hands, I force myself to back away, to put space between us. “You don’t need me,” I say. “Maybe you want me, but there’s a difference, North, and it’s the difference between winning a war for Avinea or losing a battle we fight alone. Because we cannot fight it together. Not while Bryn has any power over either of us.”
He shakes his head, emphatic, before moving closer again, too close. Why is he doing this when it’s cruel to us both? “Wanting is a weakness. It implies a deficit, a desire that is entirely emotional. I want to touch you, for example. I want to kiss you, and to hold you as long as I can even if it hurts.” His hands slide through my hair as he cradles my face and kisses my forehead. “But when you need something, it’s a requirement for survival. I need air to breathe and food to eat and the occasional hour of sleep. I need magic and I need to kill my father to save Avinea. And, Faris,” he says, forehead pressed to mine, “I need you.”
“North—”
“This is not a choice I make in haste,” he says tightly. “I know the risks, I know the consequences. But I see now how imbalanced I’ve been, like shadow without light, or faith without hope.” Closing his eyes, he whispers against my lips, “Having a heart is not a weakness, Faris. It can only make me stronger. The spell will hold until we find my father, and then . . .”
And then. It is tantalizing in its possibilities.
But I’ve heard this argument before, the night Thaelan died, when I didn’t insist on one more day—one more day that would have saved his life.
I don’t resist as North kisses me again, but when I hear the echo of his heart joining mine, I know I must, before the damage is irreparable. I have to be my own iron now. No curses, no wishes, no spells to make it easier.
I wish—
No. I break away from his lips, from the hunger in my blood awakening to the power in his. Avinea needs its king more than I need to feel his skin against mine. I am not the seedling he needs to save this kingdom and I cannot allow this feeling to grow. Don’t be selfish, I tell myself, don’t be cruel.
Don’t be human.
I force myself to meet his eyes. “But I don’t need you,” I say, and it’s almost a relief.
I’m stronger than I thought.
I walk out of the cellar, refusing to look back. I can’t, because I am human, and I’m weak, and I want him, every last inch of him, and if I look back now, I’ll never let go.
By the time I reach the courtyard, I’m running, crashing onto a stone bench half hidden behind a curtain of flowers. North’s kisses have drawn out lines of poison beneath my skin and I rub at them, hating them, hating myself because even now the temptation to return overwhelms me. I can’t do this, I think; I want more, even if it kills me—even if it kills Avinea.
But slowly, the threads of desire unwind and the infection doesn’t spread any further, proving that I can do this.
I have no choice.
The sun rises overhead, painting the pale stones of the monastery in shades of gold and shadowed reds. A deeper red catches my eye, made of satin, not of sunlight. Bryn stands on the open second-story promenade, her hands extended across the balustrade. Her eyes meet mine as she arches an eyebrow, a coy, knowing smile carved across her face, as if she overheard every word in the cellar.
I stare up at her, still rubbing my arm. North once told me the difference between being infected and turning hellborne was as simple as a choice, a decision whether you saved your soul through sacrifice, or you let it turn sour with selfishness and greed. The infection might be in me but the poison is all inside her. And Avinea will never be safe until every last line of poison is eradicated.
Bryn shifts, breaking into a smile as two of her father’s men approach, a third figure huddled in between them. Blond hair, blue eyes, and a wariness that never existed before.
Cadence.
Fury ignites in my veins as Bryn greets my sister and pulls her close, ducking down to whisper something in her ear. Cadence flinches at her proximity, and I fight the animal instinct that rises up, demanding blood. Bryn can have me, but my sister is mine.
Standing, I turn my back on Bryn’s smirk and head into the monastery in search of Captain Chadwick. Avinea is still out there, I tell myself, and I promised Cadence I would find it. My palms are not on the floor yet, and I am far from defeated.
This fight is just beginning.
Acknowledgments
This journey began four years ago, with Quinlan Lee and the phone call that changed my life. Your unwavering enthusiasm always kept me steady, even when it hurt. I’m so grateful for the brief time we worked together. Josh Adams, thank you for stepping in and taking the helm—and for being an unruffled calm in my constant tempest of worries. Calling myself a member of the Adams Literary family still feels surreal.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a debut author in possession of a manuscript must be in want of an editor. Annie Nybo, you are magic. Faris grew fiercer under your guidance; Avinea more deadly. You knew what questions to ask and what pop culture references to make, and I’m indebted to you for making such a scary-strange process into an absolute dream.
Thank you to Sonia Chaghatzbanian for a beautiful cover that made me cry, and to the entire team at Margaret K. McElderry Books for their work behind the scenes. Faris might not know where home is, but I have never doubted that it was here with you.
I’m fortunate that my family has never asked if, but only ever when, this day would come. Y’all are too many to name, but I love each one of you. Mom and Dad, while it might not say Bowman on the cover, you know it’s in my blood.
Catherine Nieto, Alex Taranta, and Nicole Taranta had to deal with me daily while on deadline, and to them I say: I’m sorry. But also, I’m so grateful you were there to celebrate every milestone.
Audrey Rawlings has handled hundreds of my e-mails, ranging from the panicked to the pleased, with all the patience of a saint. If you’re ever magically enslaved by a tyrant king, big sis, you bet your ass I’m coming to save you.
I owe a debt to my critique partner, J. K. Smejkal, who loved Pem before anyone else, and who made this book better, period. And thank you to the ladies of Kick-Butt Kidlit, and to the friends I’ve made through The Swanky ’17s. It’s a comfort to know you’re not the first, the last, or even the only one to stress out every step of the way.
Finally, this story would be incomplete without its love interest. Eugene Mathew Taranta the II, I adore you. Thank you for all those evening walks, long talks, and color-coded lists written on your marker board. I would be imbalanced without you.