commands for magic, but witches and warlocks do. For years, I’ve covered my tracks as fae by pretending to be a warlock. Using words to cast spells has become something of a habit.” He studied her carefully. “Are you all right?”
Anger, defensiveness, guilt all blazed from her as she bristled at the question. “His blind condemnation got him killed.”
“True. But that wasn’t my question.”
“I just killed a guy so no, I’m not all right. But I will be. Won’t I?”
Fionn studied her carefully. “How do you feel about your powers now?”
She lifted her hands to stare at them with a mix of horror and awe. “They saved me.” Her fierceness echoed through him. “I saved me.”
Something like pride filled him. “Right answer. You’ll be all right, Rose Kelly.” He would never refer to her as Rose O’Connor again. The bastards didn’t deserve her.
“I killed him, Fionn.” She lowered her hands, devastation promptly obliterating the awe.
A feeling akin to sympathy flickered through him, taking him by surprise. He cleared his throat of the emotion and replied coldly, “It was self-defense. Say it.”
She swallowed. Hard. “It … it was self-defense.”
“Again. Louder.”
“It was self-defense.” Rose glared at him.
“Good. It won’t make it easier. Killing someone is never easy, Rose, and the first time you’re able to walk away from it without feeling that death mark your soul means you’re losing your soul.” He nodded at her.
“Do you feel each death mark your soul? Even after all these centuries?”
Pain he kept locked down tight shuddered from within the emotional cage he’d created to contain it. “Every single one,” he promised.
And Rose’s death would be the last and deepest mark upon his soul. Aine’s would come after Rose’s, and Fionn knew that the Faerie Queen’s murder would not make a mark upon him.
The day Aine died would be the day Fionn lost his soul.
Thus, the day Aine died would be the day Fionn followed her and Rose into the dark abyss of death.
13
There was blood on Rose’s hands. No one could see it, not even her, but she could feel it. There was a tightness in her breast. The feeling reminded her of the time she’d been pulled out of class in sixth grade and sent to wait at the principal’s office for her mom. Dread had filled her gut as she waited, her instincts telling her something awful had happened.
It had.
Her best friend, Sadie, the girl she’d grown up next to, had been diagnosed with cancer. She’d been in the hospital for months.
Rose’s mom had come to tell her that Sadie had died.
The news brought not only grief but this horrible physical and emotional sensation—the knowledge that nothing would ever be the same again.
Nothing will ever be the same again.
Rose stared blindly out the train window as it rolled out of Milan’s central station. Heaviness weighed on her eyelids but how could she sleep?
Logically she knew she’d acted to defend herself. And she knew that to survive what was happening to her, she’d need to move on from the warlock’s death. But she kept seeing the pain and horror in Ethan Mulhern’s face as he choked on his own iron dagger.
A dagger meant for your heart, Rose reminded herself.
“Sleep, Rose,” Fionn said from across the small table between them. Bran had gotten them first-class tickets again. “Everything will seem easier to handle after a little sleep.”
Hoping sleep would offer an escape, Rose nodded as she stared longingly at the young woman who slumbered across the aisle. Envy filled her.
Sleep.
Sleep would help.
She closed her eyes. A couple’s murmured conversation, the whoosh of the train moving, the click of the wheels turning on the track, the hum of the engine, lulled Rose to sleep. She fell into unconsciousness with a surprising swiftness considering her current inner turmoil.
Light flooded into the gargantuan hall from the impressive arched windows that lined either wall. There was a cathedral-like quality to the room.
Rose blinked against the light, her vision focusing as she took in her surroundings.
School desks sat in rows, students at them bent over papers, scribbling furiously. Several older people strolled up and down and in between the desks. A huge clock hung suspended from the ceiling at the north end of the hall.
It’s ticktock was distracting.
“Para de hacer tic tac,” a voice hissed.
Rose glanced down and realized she was standing over the desk of a young woman whose face was scrunched up with frustration. She looked vaguely familiar as she glared at the ticking clock.
So consumed with the