Page 41 of A Court of Ravens
I bark a laugh, low and humourless. “Not enforcers. Leashes. They kept the monsters, the creatures, and the darkest parts of us from spilling into the rest of the world. Some say the shadows chose gifted mortal witches to serve the Obsidian Court. Others whisper that it was obsidian magic that made them.”
She shifts in her seat, her fingers tapping against her thigh like she’s trying to piece together a puzzle. “And those whispers? What doyoubelieve?”
“I believe the myth, like most fae elders.” My voice drops, quieter now, more deliberate. “The story of Badb, Macha, and Nemain, calling on the shadows in one last desperate act to create a hybrid race strong enough to bridge all realms. Those three? The Morrígan? Not exactly around to confirm or deny, and the book that holds the truth? Still lost.”
Her gaze locks on mine. “But they’re gone, right? No one’s seen one in—what?”
I nod. “The Shadowborn don’t exist anymore. Haven’t for ages. But here’s the thing about shadows, they never really leave. And the places they live? The In-Between. Grey. The spaces where all the dangerous things love to hide.”
Her brow furrows, tension lining her jaw. “If they’re gone, why does it feel like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop?”
I almost smile. Almost. “Because the question you should be asking isn’t whether they exist. It’s what might crawl out of the dark to replace them.”
The pub door creaks open, letting in a gust of cold wind that snakes around the room like it’s looking for something or someone. It’s subtle, but the chill sinks deep, dragging a foreboding that tastes too much like home.
My beast shifts. He feels it, too. And this? This is more than a storm rolling in. My gaze flicks to the window in time to catch a shadow slipping past. Too fast, too deliberate. Too other.
Shit.
Someone from my world is here.
My chest restricts as the implications hit, the danger it brings to Felicity. They wouldn’t come here without a damn good reason or unless they were looking for something or someone.
Felicity notices. Fucking hell. She’s too damn smart for her own good. Her eyes narrow as she glances between me and the window, her fingers tightening around the menu. “Niall, what’s wrong?”
What’s wrong? Everything. The whole house of cards I’ve been building could come crashing down if whoever is out there decides to stroll in and pick a fight. I can’t tell her that. Not until I know what, or who, I’m dealing with.
I paste on a casual smile, like my nerves aren’t wound tighter than a bowstring. I offer her a half-truth. “Nothing. Thought I saw someone I knew.”
Her expression doesn’t shift, but her eyes give her away. A flicker of doubt, sharp and assessing. She sees right through me but doesn’t call me out. She lifts her menu, like she’s suddenly deciding between a burger and fish and chips.
Her lips curve, but it’s all for show. The smile doesn’t touch her eyes.
I should say something to keep her from asking the questions she’s already turning over in her mind. The truth is, I’m too busy listening. The magic surrounding us hums with the promise of violence.
And whoever’s out there? They’re not leaving. They’rewatchingus.
ChapterSixteen
FELICITY FORREST
“Lies of omission are the silent betrayals of truth.”
Queen Niamh Shadowhart
As we eat our meals, I pretend not to notice his voice soften when Niall talks about his family. Stories of ruthless sisters with fire in their veins and a father whose love is suffocating, a chain forged in politics and blood. He doesn’t say it outright, but a duty that chokes out everything else is implied. And my stupid heart? It laps it all up like it’s starving.
My life? A princess of lands I’ve only seen in dreams, trying to piece together what the hell that even means. My half-sister turns into a raven, but sure, let’s keep that bit to myself. At least until I figure outwhyLiora warned me to shut my mouth.
Magic has always been the background hum in my life. My adoptive parents were…New Age? Hell, I don’t even know if that’s true anymore. And now? It’s louder, darker, and messier. I’m barely holding it together, and he started grilling me about my day job like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.
“You sure you’re not looking for career advice?” I tease, sliding my plate aside while the knot in my stomach tightens. His interest isn’t casual. It’s calculated. And I can’t decide if I’m the puzzle he wants to solve or the prey he’s about to pounce on. “I write about ghosts, Loch Ness, and let’s call them unusually talkative stallions. Not exactly a résumé for anything practical.”
Niall’s smirk deepens. “Talkative stallions, you say.”
“Usually, this is the part where people fake a phone call and bolt for the door,” I quip.
He stays locked on me. Either he’s really polite, or there’s a lot more about this bond of ours that he’s not saying. I sip my drink, letting the Irish music in the background fill the silence.
