Fisher had said his mother was wrong sometimes, about small things that had big consequences. When she had predicted me rushing into her son’s life, she had seen me with sloped ears and canines like her son. It turned out she hadn’t been wrong after all. I should have been born Fae. The God of Chaos had simply interfered.

Everlayne had been waiting for me when I returned to my room yesterday. She hadn't banked on Kingfisher kicking in my bedroom door, me thrown over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and wailing like a banshee. Nor had she expected his ultra-foul temper, his split bottom lip, or the thin line of blood trickling down his chin. She'd squawked when

The only way to survive the Third now was by barter and trade… or by whispering secrets about your neighbors into a guardian’s ear. As a resident of the Third, if you weren’t dead or dying, then you were hungry, and there wasn’t much a starving person wouldn’t say to quell the ache of an empty belly.

“Do you mind? You’re ruining my story,” Malcolm huffed.

Fisher’s tattoo, as well as the animal embossed into the armor worn by the members of the Lupo Proelia.

“Death is an open doorway that’s meant to be walked through. On the other side of it lies peace. Count yourself lucky that you get to make the journey at all.”

Carrion Swift: the most notorious gambler, cheat, and smuggler in the entire city. He was also uncommonly good in bed—the only man in Zilvaren who’d ever made me scream his name out of pleasure rather than frustration. His bright auburn hair was a signal flare in the dimly lit tavern.

“Superstition and sacrilege. Your queen is human. And even though the sand and the wind swept away the names of the gods, I assure you Madra knows them. That she’s chosen to let them vanish from her people’s history speaks volumes of her corruption.”

I had nowhere to go. I’d been unconscious when Kingfisher brought me back through that rippling pool of silver.