Zeph sagged against the door. An unnatural thrum beat unsteadily inside his hallowed chest. An ache coursed through his veins that left his limbs weak and his mind conflicted. He hadn’t meant to disclose to Arwyn that he had buried her family. He never wanted her to know. He didn’t want her to think he was a kind sort, because he wasn’t. He didn’t want her to think he had a soft heart, because he didn’t. He had wanted to spare her the disappointment. It had always been enough that he knew what he’d done for her. At least, it had been until now.

Now, it seemed imperative that he give her a bit of peace.

The corner of Zeph’s mouth tipped up in a bewildered smile. What an odd sensation that Zeph could bring someone a sliver of peace. But he had, hadn’t he? Even though she had cried, he felt certain they had been tears of relief. In return, Zeph had felt something wholly unfamiliar; a fragile emotion swept through his body like a clumsy visitor, leaving him dizzy, off-balance. It was why he had left, and it was why he was now leaning against the closed door. He needed to regain his senses.

He let his head fall back against the century-old wood and he breathed in the redolence of incense. The day had started so long ago, it seemed. What he wouldn’t give to crawl into bed and not be disturbed for days and days.

He laughed to himself bitterly. His bed had been the one Arwyn was currently occupying. He had nowhere to go. Again. Resigning himself to sleeping in the hallway, he slid against the door until he reached the cold stone floor. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his drawstring pouch where he kept the polished stones. He didn’t take them out; rather he just felt the weight of them in his hand, remembering how animated Arwyn had become when he’d taught her how to play his childhood game. His throat tightened, and that useless organ inside his chest was expanding, contracting, and at times, it felt like it had been set aflame.

He didn’t like feeling this way. He didn’t like feeling robbed of breath and vulnerable, and this was as vulnerable as he’d felt in quite some time. He realized he was squeezing the pouch in his hand when he heard footsteps approaching. Releasing his grip, he slipped the stones back into his pocket and waited for whomever was roaming the night to appear.

A silhouette of a man ambled toward him, and as he neared, Zeph recognized him with a bit of surprise and asked, “Why aren’t you abed?”

“Demons,” Searly answered. “We all have them, and mine keep me awake.”

One curious brow lifted. “Why would demons bother with a holy man?”

“You don’t think you’re so special to assume you’re the only one who dances with the devil, do you?”

Zeph huffed in disbelief. “You? Dance with the devil? How absurd.”

“Why is that absurd?”

Rubbing his temples, Zeph was too tired to venture into this particular conversation. “Because I suspect you’re a terrible dancer.”

Searly let out a soft chuckle. “Get up. No need to sleep in a drafty old hallway.”

“I’m used to drafty hallways.”

“Get up,” Searly said again. “The infirmary was never meant to be permanent. Come, I have a room for you.”

Getting to his feet, Zeph smoothed out his clothes. He rather liked the idea of a warm bed; however, he only managed to take two steps to follow Searly when he gave pause. Searly was well ahead before he realized Zeph was no longer following.

“This way, Zeph,” he said, looking over his shoulder.

Zeph realized he wanted to stay right where he was—close to Arwyn.

There must have been something in Zeph’s expression, because Searly said, “She’s safe now.”

Zeph only repeated, “I’m used to drafty hallways.”

Searly walked the steps back to Zeph. His eyes flickered between him and the closed door. “She’s safe,” he said again.

Zeph jutted his chin forward. “I like drafty hallways.”

“She would want you sleeping in a proper bed.”

“I doubt she would give where I sleep much thought.”

“Then you are a bigger idiot than I gave you credit for.”

“The fact that you spend time thinking about me makes me all aflutter.”

“You are as infuriating as Lord Lochlan, you know that?”

Zeph’s jaw flexed. “Devil take me.”

“It’s true. You two are more alike than you are different.”

A frown pleated the ivory skin of Zeph’s forehead. “Now you’re just being mean.”

A suspicious tension outlined Searly’s mouth, as though he were fighting a grin. “Let me take you to your room, Zeph. If it pleases you, I’ll come back and stay with Arwyn. I can’t sleep anyway, and it is obvious you are in desperate need of it.”

Zeph was in desperate need of it. No use denying it. Reluctantly, he agreed with a magnanimous nod, but only because it was Searly and only because he knew Searly would never let anything happen to her. He had seen his loyalties on display enough to know that Searly watched over his charges with a fierce protectiveness.

When they reached the room, Searly pushed open the door and directed Zeph to walk through. None of the rooms inside the monastery were special. All were modestly designed with simple furnishings, but the bed big enough for one seemed like Heaven to Zeph in that moment. He couldn’t help the stirrings of appreciation flit through him.

“Thank you,” Zeph said.

Searly nodded. “Of course.”

He meandered over to the bed and sat; his bones and muscles feeling the reprieve instantly. Searly watched him from the doorway and Zeph wondered what he saw—if he could see the shift that was taking place underneath his skin, the rearranging of thoughts and feelings that were currently wreaking havoc in his soul. He hoped he couldn’t, though he couldn’t help feeling a small part of Searly had an uncanny ability to see far too much.

“You can leave now,” Zeph said as he draped across the bed, turned away from him, and closed his tired eyes. “I don’t need a nursemaid.”

“Of course,” Searly repeated. “I’ll see my way back to Arwyn. Rest well, Zeph.”

The door closed with a snick and Zeph was alone in the dark, alone with his confusion, alone with his troubles, and alone with everything he hated about himself.

But Arwyn was alive, and Elin was alive. His lips twitched into a weak smile. He would deal with his confusion, his troubles, and his self-hatred tomorrow, for tonight he would sleep.

And he had…for a short time. But like Searly’s demons, his demons would not allow him to rest. They came quietly, like whispered secrets in the dark, nudging him awake. Zeph covered his ears. “Go away. Leave me be. Leave me alone.”

His demons nudged harder, whispered louder, until the whispers turned into shouts and the nudges turned into punches. Zeph’s pleas morphed into cries as he curled into himself on a bed big enough for one but which no longer felt like Heaven.

Favián did not see Arwyn the following morning. In fact, he had made it his mission not to see anyone for as long as he could get by with it.

He had lost his head with Arwyn, forgotten for a time she wasn’t like him, forgot that she was a magical being. She had made it so easy. He had gotten swept up in her beauty, in her laughter, in the way she had made him relax after his bout of nervousness.

He plunked his head against his pillow and groaned. Pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, he sighed. He had gotten swept up in everything that was her.

“El cielo me ayude,” he murmured. Heaven help me.

Frustrated with himself, he sat up, swinging his long, muscular legs over the edge of the bed, and rested his forearms on his knees. For hours he had tried to forget the way she had made his heart thrash widely when she smiled. Mostly, though, he wanted to forget the look in her eyes when Zeph had entered the infirmary. His heart had gone from thrashing to crashing. Just like that. Funny how a look…a singular look…could tell a story. Hurt. Sadness. Anger. Longing. Favián shut his eyes, shook his head, essentially closing the book on this particular tale.

He stood from his bed and moved toward the window. He didn’t have much of a view from his room. Well, perhaps that wasn’t a fair assessment. His view was the cloister, a square open space, divided into four paths, with a fountain in the center of the garden. He had spent an inordinate amount of time sitting in the cloister back home, writing, thinking, dreaming. Whenever he wasn’t training with his father, that was.

He watched from his window as monks milled about, some sitting quietly as others cared for the garden, pulling weeds and watering plants. After a while, he decided to dress and join them, tired of being alone. However, by the time he’d made his way down, the monks had dispersed to the chapel for prayer and Favián was alone once more.

He walked to the center of the garden, not knowing if he wanted to stay or go, so he stood there, imitating the statues of the saints: still, quiet, unmoving. A million thoughts wrestled through his mind, all of them leading back to a lavender-haired beauty with pointed ears and a—

“What are you doing?”

A voice like quiet music. Turning slowly, he found the woman that ensnared and enchanted him against his will. He looked away, his brows knitting tightly together.

“What’s the matter?” Arwyn asked.

He touched his finger to his lips and shook his head. She tilted her head in confusion. He gestured to a gate leading out and pulled gently at her elbow for her to follow. She nodded once, giving tacit permission. His fingers trailed down her arm until his palm curled around her palm, then his feet set into motion as he led her outside the gate.

Once outside, Favián explained, “The cloister is not a place for conversation.” He cast Arwyn a side glance before returning his attention straight ahead. “It is for reflection and contemplation. One must never speak inside.”

“I didn’t know. I’m sorry,” she said as they continued to walk.

Her voice was silk and lace. It wrapped around Favián like a soft caress. He didn’t trust himself to speak just then, so he tried for a smile and a shrug, but his smile was wan, and his shrug was stiff.

Her fingers flexed against his and he realized they were still holding hands. His fingers flexed back, refusing to let go. She grinned up at him. He grinned back, her grins being contagious beasts.

“I missed you during this morning’s meal,” she said.

He looked away and out into the scythe-mown grass with flowering meads of primroses and periwinkle. “I was tired,” he said, his voice queerly pitched. He cleared his throat, making a show of it. “Sorry,” he said, tapping his chest. “Swallowed a bug.”

Arwyn regarded him with amused suspicion. “Are you all right?”

“Sí.” He cleared his throat with finality. “I hate it when that happens.”

“Mm,” she said with an arched brow. “I, as well.”

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Why were you avoiding me this morning?”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

This time Favián was the one to arch his brow. “I was tired, Arwyn. I have traveled far and have had little rest.”

“Don’t do this,” she said.

“Do what?”

“Avoid me. Please don’t.”

His breath hitched when he saw the sadness in her face. She hugged herself as she stared off into a sea of yellow and purple blooms. His fingers twitched, wondering when they had stopped holding hands.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know my absence would upset you.”

“It shouldn’t,” she replied.

“But it does,” he said softly.

“It does,” she answered.

“Why?”

She shook her head, still not meeting his eyes. “I had brothers once. Last night…for a minute, I remembered what it felt like. I remembered…” Her lip trembled, and Favián moved to hug her.

“Shh,” he soothed, stroking her hair, holding her to his chest, her head tucked neatly underneath his chin. Her arms came around his middle. He pretended this embrace was something more than what it was. I had brothers once. She thought of him as a brother. He frowned. And then he got over himself. “What happened to your brothers?”

“Killed.”

“And your parents?”

“Killed.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Me too,” she replied.

He held her for another minute before letting her go. “I can’t replace your brothers.” He tucked a ribbon of hair behind her pointed ear, tracing the curve of it, then took a step back. “But I can be your family.” He smiled even as his heart curled in on itself. He knew she would never look at him the way a woman would look at a man—or the way she looked at Zeph.

“Thank you,” she said.

He nodded and stared off, knowing that this changed everything…and nothing. “You’re welcome.”

They spent the afternoon together. She asked more questions about the proper etiquette of monastery living, which he explained in detail. Then he explained the daily tasks.

“Washing and cooking. Reaping and sowing. Binding and thatching. Providing education to boys and novices. In between the chores are the calls to prayers and reflection. A monk’s life is hard and exacting, but if one is called to it, it is a satisfying life. At least, that is what Tío Searly always says.”

Arwyn’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Searly,” she said with great care, like his name was made of something fragile. Then she looked at Favián, taking in the planes of his face, documenting his features. “You have his eyes.”

Favián had thought his uncle had the kindest eyes of anyone he’d ever known when he’d met him in the library the previous day. He tucked his hands into his pockets, feeling rather honored. “Thank you,” he murmured.

“Tell me more about—”

“I’d rather hear about Faery,” Favián interrupted. “What is it like? I imagine it is most beautiful.”

“Well,” she started, “it is…” Her voice trailed off, her eyes wandering off to some distant place.

“Arwyn?”

“It is hard to explain,” she said. “Faery is…a wild beauty, untamed, like a lion. It’s probably best to admire it from afar.” She cut her eyes to Favián and gave him a devilish smirk. His skin prickled with unease. “Magic, you see, is unpredictable.”

“Right, of course.”

She shrugged with nonchalance.

He stole a few quick glances at her as they walked. Arwyn was all graceful lines and soft angles, although he got a distinct impression that Arwyn held herself too tightly, keeping her emotions buried too deeply. It wasn’t in her words and deeds that made him think and feel thus. It was in the way she moved, like a river maneuvering across the land, an artery of blessed strength, with her smooth, seductive curves. But underneath her calm, mellow harmony, Favián felt the pull of an undertow, and any moment he feared she would lose her balance and get swept away. His fingers itched to reach out and hold on to her.

He shook his head. “You want to see something other than the monastery?”

“Like what?”

“We could walk to the village.”

“Village?”

“It’s not far. I passed through it on my way here.” He pointed to her lavender hair and her pointed ears and grinned. “You may want to cover your head. Humans, you see, are unpredictable.”

“Right, of course,” she said with a laugh, tucking her hair into the hood of her cloak.

“Shall we?” he asked, offering her his arm.

“Lead the way.”

 

Walking down the worn cobblestone road of the village square, Favián noticed that Arwyn kept her head down, not looking anyone in the eye. He knew why. The Human realm and the Faery realm were strictly divided. Each was supposed to stay on their side of the seam and had been so for centuries. In the Aeon of Isis, Faeries and humans co-existed peacefully, but with peaceful existence, an unwritten rule had been established between both races: humans and Faeries were never to forge romantic relationships. In the eye of man, it was deemed ungodly. And the Fae wanted to remain pure and untainted. But the King of Kaelmor had fallen in love with a princess of the Seelie Royal Court, and together they created a child. That child was Lochlan.

That was the story his tío had told him in his youth. It was written a war broke out between Fae and Man, each blaming the other for the abomination that was created between them. Eventually, a treaty was drawn and signed into power and a wall was built between the Faery and Human realms. Permissions had to be granted to cross. As long as the treaty held, the war would cease. It was his tío who had told him about the curse…how the Seelie Queen had cursed the king and his child, ensuring that the child would never be accepted by either Fae or human and how the Fae Princess was also stripped of her immortality and died during childbirth.

The curse had finally been broken, and it was only the previous day, during his meal with his tío, Lochlan, and Elin that Favián had learned the rest of it. They had told him about the Seelie Queen and how she had not been the one to issue the curse against Lochlan. It had been Lolith, who had killed the queen, deceived both sides into believing she was the true queen, and history became quite muddled after that. She was also the one behind Zeph being taken as a child. But she was dead now, and they were still trying to put the pieces together.

“What are you doing?” Favián asked as he walked casually beside her, doing his best to smile at everyone they passed.

“Trying not be noticed.”

Favián’s mouth twitched. “You could never go unnoticed, mi corazoncito.”

“It seemed like a good idea when you suggested it. Exciting, even.”

“What? Coming to the village?”

“Yes.”

“And now?”

“And now I’m afraid we made a mistake.”

The villagers knew about Lochlan and had accepted him. He had lived among them for generations; however, it had only been recently that the villagers truly considered him as one of their own. They did not know about Arwyn or Zeph’s presence yet. Lochlan, his tío, and the other monks had made the decision to not make any of this known for many reasons, which meant Arwyn was shackled to the monastery and its property indefinitely with nowhere else to go. Much like she had been in Shadowland. Even though he understood their reasoning, the idea of it did not sit well with Favián.

Arwyn tugged at the hood of her cloak again.

“You needed to get outside the confines of the monastery, Arwyn. You were suffocating.”

“Yes, I was.”

“You are safe with me.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“I don’t need a protector, Favián. I can protect myself.”

His mouth was in a perpetual state of grinning when he was with her. It should have been embarrassing; however, he couldn’t be bothered to care. “Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“Then maybe you should be protecting me.”

She cut him a sideways glance, tossing him a smile like a child with flowers. “Maybe.”

Two women walked by, one whispering to the other.

“Do you think they know what I am?” she murmured.

“No. Most likely they assume we are foreigners. Nothing more.”

“This was a mistake. We shouldn’t have come here.”

“Let us ease their minds. I will stop up ahead at the next vendor and allow a conversation. I will explain I am from Ontiverós here visiting my tío.”

“What about me?”

They were walking with arms linked, his hand covering hers. He looked down at her, a secretive smile playing on his lips. “I know you think of me as a brother, but we look nothing alike. Perhaps I should tell them we are betrothed, yes?”

“You are enjoying this.”

“A little.”

“Very well,” she said, straightening her spine. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”

“A positive influence already. My tío will be so proud.”

 

It would turn out that Arwyn and Favián would have an enjoyable time in the village. Curious gazes were only that…curious. This particular village was not largely populated, yet the province of Mirova, because of its seaports and trade, attracted its fair share of travelers, thus the tiny villages throughout Mirova often saw foreigners, so they didn’t stand out any more or less than any other. However, Favián did notice a peculiarity.

“People here seem a bit odd,” he commented.

“In what way?” Arwyn asked.

His eyes discreetly scanned the crowd. Merchants sold their wares; women wore faint smiles with tired eyes as they pulled their children along while husbands and fathers paid the merchants and then loaded their supplies into wagons. There was nothing unordinary about any of it. But there was a hum in the air, a patient expectation in their weary gazes, like they were waiting for something to happen.

Or perhaps he was just a tired fool, having not slept well the night before. “It’s nothing. I spoke out of turn. Come, maybe we should go.”

“No, wait,” Arwyn said, tugging on his arm and coming to a halt. She glanced to her right, then to her left, her forehead wrinkling. “I think I understand what you mean.” She looked at him with a gimlet eye. His skin tingled underneath her scrutiny. “How perceptive of you.”

“So, it isn’t just me?”

“No,” she said with a tilt of her head.

Favián noticed a woman watching them, her face obscured by the hood of a thick wool cloak; her knobby hands were wrapped around the top of a walking stick. Unthreatening she was, though there was something unnerving about the way she observed them.

He offered Arwyn his arm, which she accepted. “Shall we return to the monastery now, señorita?”

A wary smile surfaced on her lips. “All right.”

Upon returning, Arwyn knew something was wrong. Zeph prowled and paced near the front of the monastery, with his sister by his side. From a distance, it was uncanny how alike they appeared: long pale hair. Hers silver. His white. Slender frames, and although Zeph was taller, they both held an air of something other that could not be defined. At least not now, as Arwyn’s mind wrestled with whatever could be the matter. Zeph looked panicked.

“Zeph?” Arwyn said, calling out to him.

Zeph’s head turned at the sound of her voice. He was within three paces of them within a matter of seconds, his colorless eyes raking Arwyn from head to toe. “Are you injured?” Zeph asked, his voice wavering like a thread of smoke.

“What? No,” Arwyn answered, blinking owlishly. Noticing how red-rimmed his eyes were, she asked her own question, “What happened to you?”

Elin had come up beside them and spoke softly. “Zeph only recently became aware you were gone. After yesterday,” she said, “he became quite worried for your safety.”

Regret speared Arwyn’s heart. She hadn’t considered he might worry. Had he ever worried before? Before she could explain, however, Favián spoke.

“We ventured to the village. I thought Arwyn needed to get awa—”

Zeph’s hands were around Favián’s throat in an instant. “I could kill you right here.”

“Zeph! Release him!”

Zeph smiled nefariously, white, sharp fangs descended against his lips. “No.”

“Please let him go,” Elin entreated. “You don’t want to do this.”

Zeph’s only reply was to squeeze harder.

Then something happened. Favián’s elbow met Zeph’s nose, breaking the chokehold around Favián’s neck, then Zeph’s nose met Favián’s knee. Blood coated Zeph’s face and fangs, his white clothes splattered with red.

The rhythm of time sputtered, rocked back on its heels, and was stunned into stillness, save for a twitch, like the tail of a great cat.

Arwyn and Elin stood poised in surprise. A sudden shock struck somewhere inside Arwyn’s chest as Favián breathed heavily, angling his body into a fighting position, ready to defend, standing his ground. Not running as would be expected, but waiting.

Zeph wiped his nose with his sleeve, his eyes burning with hatred.

“Zeph,” Arwyn said, touching his chest, pushing him away from Favián. “Let’s go inside. Please. I’m fine. Please.”

Zeph’s gaze dipped to hers. What she saw in them nearly knocked the breath out of her. She had to slam her eyes shut against the tumult of emotional anguish and remember her father’s words. Sometimes you will hit the target but miss the self. Clear the mind, release the energy.

He removed her hands from his chest and backed away. “Leave me alone,” he said. “Don’t come near me right now.”

“Zeph,” she protested.

“No,” he said, turning from her and heading back inside. “Stay away.”

Arwyn and Favián parted ways after that and Elin walked with her for a bit.

“I hadn’t seen Zeph all day,” Elin was saying, “so I went to check on him. He was…” Elin took a breath and let it out in slow measures. Her hands were shaking.

“My goodness,” Arwyn said, taking her by the hands feeling them tremble. “What is it?”

Elin’s eyes glistened when she said, “He was wrecked. He was in his bedchamber, curled into a ball on the floor. Don’t tell him I told you, Arwyn. Please.”

“I won’t,” she said. “Why was he on the floor?”

“He wasn’t lucid. I think he dreams. I don’t think he’s sleeping. When I saw him like that…” Elin shook her head, fighting back tears. “He looked like a child. It took me back to when we…to when we…”

“Shh.” Arwyn pulled Elin in, giving her a warm shoulder to cry on. “It’s all right.”

“I can’t abandon him. I can’t. Not after learning that we’re twins—that he allowed himself to be taken so I wouldn’t be. I can’t abandon him, Arwyn.”

“I know. Neither can I. And that’s the damnable thing of it, isn’t it?”

Arwyn spared little time going in search of Zeph. After leaving Elin with Lochlan, she went to Zeph’s room and stood outside his door, listening. She could hear him gently stirring about.

She had no notion of what to say to him. No clever sayings. No witty remarks. All she had was herself, and if history was a lesson to glean from, she had never been enough before.

Still, here she was.

She knocked.

“Go away.”

“Zeph.”

“Not now.”

“If not now, then when?”

Silence greeted her.

“Zeph.”

“Go. Away.”

She opened the door, stepped inside, and closed it behind her. Zeph’s eyes widened and then sharpened like blades as he stood bare-chested, in the act of undressing.

Neither spoke, both staring at the other. A cruel smile pulled at Zeph’s lips. Arwyn flushed all over, though she refused to cower from him. She lifted her chin high, holding her body in an awkward pride, suddenly conscious of her own skin.

“Well, you are inside my chamber now. What are you going to do with me?”

“I haven’t yet decided.”

“May I offer suggestions?”

“No.”

“But darling, I have so many ideas.”

“You wouldn’t know what to do with me if you had me.”

“Shall we test that theory?”

Arwyn forced herself to show no fear. Zeph would never hurt her. He wouldn’t. She moved forward slowly, nearing him with caution. Sunlight from the window slanted across the room like sweet honey. Her gaze fell on Zeph’s exposed skin where scars dominated his torso, some like fishbone, others were wide and jagged. Some were obvious burns, puckered and unsightly. She had noticed them the night he’d first arrived, but she had not allowed herself to truly look at them. Not like this. Because she had recalled a time once…in Shadowland. She had just watched Zeph battle the Unseelie King and had suffered a wound, a gash in his side. She had tried to heal him, and he had been rather stubborn about taking off his tunic, and when he did, he held the tunic close to his chest. The lighting had been poor. She couldn’t see anything other than the wound he had allowed her to see, though she knew he had been hiding something from her.

But now she was looking and now she had to ask, “Oh, Zeph, what did they do to you?”

His throat bobbed nervously when her fingertips touched him, fluttering like ribbons as she traced the line that zigzagged over his heart. An external voice to an internal anguish.

Their gazes locked. “Tell me,” she begged.

His hand fit over hers, and for a moment, she thought he would remove it, say something glib. He did not. He held on to it, though he did not answer. She brought her other hand up where she traced more scars before he caught up that hand, too, and held it just as tightly.

“Don’t,” he rasped.

“Someday,” she said, “you will tell me.”

“Arwyn—”

“You will tell me, and I will listen.” She placed her cheek against the warmth of his chest, listened to the beat of his heart, a wild, erratic tempo, and closed her eyes. “I will listen,” she murmured.

He said nothing. The room, instead, filled with unspoken words and unformulated guilt, a brittle silence that felt absolute. And yet, it was the most they had ever said to one another without having to say anything at all.