Rhys only said, his voice wary, Thank you.

Nesta didn’t ask about his visit to Miryam and Drakon—if he’d learned anything at all. She reached the table, Cassian keeping close. But she forgot about him as she faced Amren, who was watching her with cool distaste.

The words from months ago that Nesta had tried so hard to forget swarmed from the darkest pit of her memory, each one stinging. You have become a pathetic waste of life.

Nesta dropped Amren’s stare, focusing on the map. “Let’s be quick about this.”

Azriel asked from beside Amren, “When you attempted it two days ago, you felt nothing?”

“Nothing.” Nesta’s fingers hovered over the bowl of tools. “My mind circled itself.”

“What did you think of?” Amren asked.

How much she hated herself. Her father. How much she feared the Cauldron.

Nesta said, “The Trove. And what happened the last time I scried.”

Feyre said, “We won’t allow any harm to come to Elain. Rhys warded her this morning, and we have eyes on her at all times.”

“Eyes can be blinded,” Nesta said.

“Not the ones under my command,” Azriel said with soft menace. Nesta met his stare, knowing he was the only one aside from Feyre who could truly understand her hesitation. He’d gone with Feyre into the heart of Hybern’s camp to save Elain—he knew the risk. “We won’t make the same mistake twice.”

She believed him. “All right.” She scooped up the stones and bones. They were ice-cold against her fingers.

Clenching them tight, Nesta closed her eyes and held her arm over the map spread across the table. No one spoke, though the weight of their gazes pressed on her.

Cassian’s warmth seeped into her side, his wings rustling near her back.

She let that warmth, the rustle anchor her.

He had come to save her from her nightmare, had stayed with her while she slept. Had guarded and fought for her. He would let no harm come to her now.

No harm

No harm

No harm

What had been an endless spiral of thoughts vanished. A gaping hole yawned open in her mind.

No harm

No harm

No harm

Nesta eased into that darkness, as if slowly submerging herself in a pool.

Cassian’s arm brushed hers, and she let that anchor her, too. A lifeline out. She took his hand with her free one and interlaced their fingers. Let the touch ground her as she allowed the last of her mind to slip beneath the black surface.

And then nothing.

Falling slowly. Drifting, like a small stone fluttering to the bottom of a pond.

The Mask, she whispered, casting her mind into the eternity. Where is the Mask of the Dread Trove?

Still she drifted in liquid night.

In the beginning, and in the end, there was Darkness and nothing more. She had first heard that truth, understood it, during her battle with the Cauldron. And understood it again now as she floated into that same strange place, both full and empty, forever cold.

Where is the Mask? she asked the void.

Distantly, like a candle in a window, she felt Cassian’s hand tighten on hers. That was the way back. Nothing could trap her, hold her, if she had that way home.

Where is the Mask?

 

For long minutes, only the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner filled the study.

Nesta stood beside Cassian, her fingers now loose in his hand, her other hand extended over the map, bones and stones bulging within.

Cassian swapped glances with Feyre. He’d barely been able to look at her when he’d entered, to see the slight swelling in her lower belly. But he’d made himself grin, the portrait of casual, arrogant ease.

Now a chilled, phantom breeze drifted past him. The hair on the back of his neck stood.

Amren let out a soft hiss. “Where is she wandering to?”

Nesta’s hand remained over the map. But her fingers in his had gone cold as ice.

Cassian squeezed her hand, willing warmth into it.

Across the table, Azriel’s breath clouded. Rhys stepped closer to Feyre, positioning himself to intercept any unexpected threats.

“This didn’t happen that time during the war with Hybern,” Azriel murmured.

Before any of them could answer, Nesta’s eyelids shifted—like she was seeing something. Her brows bunched, just a quiver toward each other. Her fingers tightened on the stones and bones, knuckles going white. Still the air grew colder.

“If you see the Mask, girl, then now would be the time to let go,” Amren ordered, her voice wary.

Nesta’s hand remained shut. But her eyes still moved rapidly behind their lids, searching, seeking.

“Nesta,” Feyre commanded. “Open your hand.” Feyre had gone into Nesta’s mind the last time—had pulled her out, thanks to the daemati power she’d inherited from Rhys. Feyre swore softly. “She never lowered her shields. Her shields are …”

“A fortress of solid iron,” Rhys murmured, eyes on Nesta.

“I can’t get in,” Feyre breathed. “Can you?”

“Her mind is guarded with something that no faerie magic can break,” Amren said. The essence of the Cauldron itself.

But Nesta showed no sign of fear, no scent of it.

“Give her time,” Cassian murmured. Gods, it was cold. Nesta’s eyelids fluttered again.

“I don’t like this,” Feyre said. “Wherever she is, it feels deadly.”

The cold kept dropping. Nesta’s hand tightened in his—a hard squeeze.

A warning.

“Get her out, Rhys,” Cassian demanded. “Get her out now.”

“I can’t,” he said softly, his power a cloak of stars and night around him. “I— The doors to her mind were open the other night. They’re shut now.”

“She doesn’t want it seeing her. Or us,” Feyre said, her face tight. “She’s locked it out, but also locked herself in.”

Cassian’s stomach twisted. “Nesta,” he said into her ear. “Nesta, open your hand and come back.”

Her breathing sharpened. The cold deepened.

“Nesta,” he snarled—

And the cold halted. It didn’t vanish, but rather … stopped. Nesta’s eyes flicked open.

Silver fire burned within. Nothing Fae looked out through them.

Rhys shoved Feyre behind him. She shoved her way back to his side. But Nesta’s hand continued to squeeze Cassian’s. He squeezed back, let his Siphons send a bite of power into her skin.

She turned her head so slowly it was like watching a puppet move. Her eyes met his.

Death watched him.

But Death had walked beside him every day of his life. So Cassian stroked his thumb along her palm and said, “Hello, Nes.”

Nesta blinked, and he let his Siphons bite her with his power again. The fire flickered.

He nodded to the map. “Let go of the stones and bones.” He didn’t let her scent his fear. Here was the being the Bone Carver had whispered about, exalted and feared.

Her eyes flamed. No one dared breathe.

“Let go of the stones and bones, and then you and I can play,” Cassian said, letting her sense his heat and need, forcing himself to remember that taunting kiss at dinner and her promise to let him fuck her wherever he wished in the House; what it had done to him, how much he’d ached. He let it all blaze in his eyes, let the scent of his arousal wrap around her.