Was he poor or from another era? He smiled as he offered Sylvia something long and white.
She took it, amazed to see that it was a feather and it was real. It had to have come from a large bird, given its size, and it was radiantly white. It gleamed in her hand, so luminous that it could have come from another world. She looked back at him with wonder, uncertain what it meant.
His mouth moved and she heard a word echo in her thoughts, even though he made no audible sound.
Semyaza.
Sylvia pulled out her phone and made a note of it, just in case she forgot the word. It had to be important. It seemed familiar but not quite.
She looked up and his mouth moved again.
Sebastian.
Sylvia frowned at the echo in her thoughts. The man smiled. Then he waved and vanished, as if he’d never been there at all. He hadn’t been her imagination, though, because she still had the white feather.
Semyaza and Sebastian.
Had he been giving her a clue about Sebastian’s truth?
Sylvia decided to go to Reliquary and ask Sebastian herself, instead of attending the meeting at Bones. The Others argued so often that she doubted she’d miss much. She could stop in at the bar afterward. She hurried down the stairs, looking forward to seeing her vampire despite his likely mood.
Semyaza. That name sounded familiar, but Sylvia couldn’t quite place it.
Sara was glad to be home. There was something about being back in Michigan in the house she and Quinn shared outside of Traverse City that made her feel safer. She’d enjoyed the visit to Kristofer’s farm and that Quinn, the Smith of the Pyr, had been able to repair the scales of both Kristofer and Rhys, but she was always happiest when at home.
She could feel the icy tingle of Quinn’s dragonsmoke barrier around the house, thanks to her psychic sensitivities. She welcomed its familiarity, as well as that of their five sons arguing good-naturedly over the rules of the game they were playing in the family room. Quinn was in his studio, replicating the gloves he’d made for Donovan years before. She’d cleaned up after dinner—a chicken from a local organic farm, roasted with all the trimmings, which had disappeared with amazing speed—with the help of the older boys.
After the boys were in bed, Sara made herself a cup of herbal tea and carried it into the study. She planned to choose a book blindly from one of the shelves, which was a favorite game of hers. She ran a bookstore in town, but here at the house, all of the books were her keepers. She liked to rediscover her old favorites randomly like this.
She scanned the shelves before making her choice. There was one book that hadn’t been pushed in all the way. It stuck out a bit, reminding Sara of the way her Aunt Magda’s ghost had chosen reading materials for her during her firestorm with Quinn. She smiled and sipped her tea. Sometimes she missed Magda’s original store in Ann Arbor.
Sara took the hint and chose that book. It was a hardbound book without a dust jacket, bound in dark blue cloth. There was a title embossed on the spine in silver, a title she was certain hadn’t been there a moment before.
The Swan Maiden.
Sara frowned. She knew she’d never read this story. Was it a favorite of Quinn’s that he’d added to her collection? That seemed unlikely. She opened the book again, noticing a torn piece of paper that was obviously being used as a bookmark. Had that been there before? The hair prickled on the back of her neck and she wondered whether Magda’s ghost was back.
There was something written on it and she held it to the light, curious.
The ice dragon summons frost and cold,
His power is a force to behold.
He can thaw the ice of a frozen heart
To offer a lost soul a new start.
His firestorm burns fierce and white
Its radiance a beacon in the darkest night.
But can it bring hope to that doomed soul?
Or persuade his lost mate to become whole?
If the dragon wins the swan maiden’s trust
It will be Fae not Others who are turned to dust.
The future will be theirs, once allied
If the assassin joins the dragon’s side.
A prophecy!
Quinn had said one of the Pyr was having a firestorm on their drive home. He’d admitted to feeling it ignite when Sara noticed he was driving more quickly. He’d said it was distant, but he’d still