Legacy (Keeper of the Lost Cities #8) - Shannon Messenger Page 0,20

to Keefe!

Even that high up, she could hear Silveny’s giddy whinny. And as her mind filled with a whole lot of KEEFE! KEEFE! KEEFE! Sophie tried to share some of the mama alicorn’s enthusiasm.

But all she felt was dread as she let gravity take back over, dropping them faster faster faster, until her concentration tore open the sky and they crashed into the black nothingness of the void.

* * *

“Miss Foster,” Lord Cassius said, offering one of his unsettling, oily smiles as he stepped aside to let Sophie and Sandor into his home.

The Shores of Solace would’ve lived up to its name if Keefe’s dad weren’t such miserable company. The single sprawling level had glistening mother-of-pearl walls and vine-draped arches that formed a series of brightly lit rooms and sunbaked patios, all decorated in soothing tones of blue and gray to match the panoramic ocean views from every window. It truly was one of the most breathtaking estates that Sophie had visited in the Lost Cities. But she always wished she could leave the second she got there.

“I’m assuming you’re here to visit my son?” Lord Cassius asked, smoothing his blond hair—which was already immaculate. As were his cream-colored jerkin and ruby-encrusted cape. “He’s in his room, where he’s supposed to be working through the empathy exercises I created for him this morning. But I think we can safely assume he’ll be doing anything but what I’ve asked.”

That sounded like Keefe—not that Lord Cassius deserved Keefe’s cooperation.

Father of the Year he most definitely was not.

In fact, Sophie could barely look at him without wanting to fling something at his head for every hurtful word he’d ever said to his son. Much like how she despised every gorgeous room in that house, since Lord Cassius had hidden it for most of Keefe’s life in order to use it as an “escape” from his family. Keefe was only living there now because Lord Cassius had refused to provide crucial intel to find Sophie’s missing human parents unless Keefe agreed to move in—and not because he missed Keefe or was worried about Keefe living on his own. He’d simply wanted to put an end to the gossip about his runaway son after Keefe fled the Neverseen.

“That way,” Lord Cassius told her, pointing to a polished driftwood door at the end of a long, shimmering hallway.

It took Sophie a second to realize the words were an invitation.

The few other times she’d visited Keefe, they’d sat outside on the cushioned swings dangling from the cover over the back patio. She’d never been in his room. And for some reason the idea of going there made her cheeks warm.

But she could feel Lord Cassius watching her, so she tilted her chin up and motioned for Sandor to follow her down the hall, which was dotted with shards of green, blue, and clear sea glass arranged in swirling patterns.

Her knock was wimpier than she meant it to be—so wimpy that there was a second where she wasn’t sure if Keefe had actually heard her. But then he called out, “Back to nag me already? You seriously need to get yourself a hobby. I hear spelunking’s fun. Oooh, or you could try swimming with the krakens! I doubt they’d eat you—but maybe we’ll get lucky!”

Which wasn’t exactly a “come in.” But Sophie still grabbed the silver handle and turned it—realizing only as she was yanking the door open that she should’ve made sure Keefe was dressed before she barged in.

Thankfully, he was.

Mostly…

He lay sprawled across a huge bed that rested on a pedestal made of lacy bleached coral, wearing fuzzy blue pajama bottoms covered in tiny black gremlins, with his head propped against a familiar green gulon stuffed animal.

“Foster?” he asked, jolting upright—which only drew more attention to the fact that he was currently shirtless. He crossed his arms, his cheeks flushing with a hint of pink when his ice blue eyes focused on her. “I… um… what are you doing here?”

Ro snickered from the corner, where she lounged on a cushioned chaise, painting her claws the same purple she must have recently dyed the ends of her choppy pink pigtails. “Smooth, Lord Hunkyhair. Smooooooooooooooooooth.”

The nickname was a remnant from one of Keefe and Ro’s many bets—though it seemed especially fitting at the moment. Keefe’s hair was always artfully mussed, but there was something wilder about it than usual, as if he’d spent the morning swimming in the salty waves and let it dry in the sun—and the