Spin the Shadows (Dark and Wicked Fae #1) - Cate Corvin Page 0,53

advertise it, either.”

I snorted. “He’s not bad at all.”

Not even in the slightest, once he let down his cold walls. And in bed he was hands-down amazing.

Gwyn just gave me a faint smile. “I’ll take your word for it, Bananas.”

We crossed a street, turned a corner towards the Mainway, then I saw it. The massive crush of reporters circled around one of the city’s many small parks, gathered beneath the branches of a glimmering oak tree.

A wall of Garda were keeping them back, but one head of silver hair stood out like a beacon.

Different is not defective, Briallen.

I tried to let Jack Frost’s words slide over me like water off a duck, but they were lodged in my heart like a shard of ice… and surprisingly warm, a sentiment that made me feel like the tiniest bit less alone in the world.

“I must really like you to want to spend time around this many Garda,” Gwyn muttered to himself.

I laughed, the last laugh I’d have that morning, and looped my arm through his. Robin looked away, his eyes tightening at the corners, and the guilt stabbed me again.

But what else could I expect?

His gaze this morning had told me everything I needed to know: we would never discuss it. It would be as if last night had never existed.

If I was really being smart, I’d go find myself a nice, wholesome Lesser, and build the professional walls between us out of iron and stone, an unbreachable fortress.

Messing around with the Gentry was only going to break my heart in the end.

Gwyn dropped my arm and pushed ahead of me as we approached the throng of reporters. A horned faun turned around and looked up at him with big eyes, her nose twitching. She held up a microphone.

“Move,” Gwyn growled.

I’d severely underestimated the reaction of other Fae to a Wild Hunter. They parted frantically, letting Robin go first, then me, and Gwyn brought up the rear, snarling at a reporter who shoved a microphone near my face. The microphone receded immediately.

The Garda let us into the clearing, and we stepped over the yellow cordons. I swallowed hard at the sight beyond it, regretting that tart.

Jack Frost rose from a crouch over the body, dusted off his gloved hands, and smiled at me and Robin. “You’re late.”

18

Behind Jack, the body was splattered all over the clearing, just like last time.

The taste of roses and raspberries was suddenly sour in my mouth, coating my tongue. I made myself look at it, asking: what would Robin look for?

The dead Fae had been large, at least six feet tall in life. They were shriveled to a husk, dark hair dry and frazzled, a handprint burned into their chest. Wet red flesh showed between the blackened cracks.

But the murderer had savaged them after death. Bits and pieces of them were strewn about, smeared on the oak tree’s tough bark, their clothes burned and ripped.

Jack took a step closer to Robin, the two hitmen bowing their heads together to talk, light and dark. I looked away from the body for a moment, focusing on the dichotomy they made just to give myself a second to come to terms with seeing this mutilation in broad daylight.

“Okay there, Briallen?”

It was so unusual to hear my real name from Gwyn’s mouth, spoken with that grave tone. He touched my hand gently. I appreciated that he didn’t try to hold it in full view of the Garda and Robin, knowing it would make me look weak.

But I took some strength from that little touch. The Ghosthand was long gone, and with both Gwyn and Robin here, nothing could touch me.

“I’m okay,” I whispered. “I just have to adapt.”

Jack’s pale eyes flicked up to me as I stepped around him and Robin, careful to stay on the grass already trampled by the Garda who’d come before us.

I approached the oak tree, looking over its rough bark for a spot untouched by blood or ash. It was already warm from the sun under my palm as I splayed my fingers across its tough bark.

Friend of the roots, what did you feel here?

The oak tree shuddered, its leaves rustling in an intangible wind. I was dimly aware of the Garda falling silent, the weight of Robin and Jack’s eyes on my back.

The oak tree was old and sleepy. It didn’t speak to me in words but gave me the impressions it had felt: how comfortable its soft earth was, the warmth of its roots