Custo knew his father for what he was, another test, but it still took a deep breath to form the question, “What do you want?”
“I want my son back,” his father said, extending his hand.
Years of resentment and anger condensed into a bitter rebuke that burned on Custo’s tongue, No. His father had denied him for years. He wasn’t allowed to change his mind. Not now, not ever. His father could go to hell.
Custo closed his eyes, clenching his teeth. His hate would keep him rooted in the same spot, and the roots went deep. Soul deep.
But this was not his father, just like Adam had not been Adam. It was a trick he had to solve, or he wouldn’t be able to move on.
Think of Annabella.
Annabella, his future, as this man was his past.
The air took on that uncompromising quality again, the kind that resisted change, insight, and clarity. With effort Custo inhaled a lungful of the stuff, and like swallowing a mouthful of shit, Custo worked his tongue and teeth to transmute the no into something different. His “Yes” cut the air with a sharp hiss as he grasped his old man’s hand for the first time in his life.
His father, surprised, tried to flinch back, but Custo held tight. The illusion failed, and a fae woman trembled in Custo’s grip. She was pale and lovely, her skin washed in moon glow. Her long hair fell in a veil over her lower face, but her eyes took on a shape of pain.
He didn’t buy it. He’d caught a fae, and he wasn’t letting go.
“Where is she?” Custo demanded.
“She doesn’t belong here,” the faery said, staring with anguish at her clasped hand. He would not allow himself to be moved by it.
“Well, stop fucking with me and show me where she is,” Custo returned. The woman’s fingers were slight and cold, her contact numbing.
“It is not our nature to reveal,” she said, turning haughty.
“Even if you want to get rid of her?” The contradiction was just like Shadow, eschewing reason for madness.
—doesn’t belong, doesn’t belong, doesn’t belong—
“She dances with the wolf and belongs to him now.” The fae woman’s lowered lids and the cruel twist of her mouth said she didn’t like the union one bit.
“She belonged to me first,” Custo argued, “and I’m taking her back. Help me find her.”
“I can’t,” she cut back, as though she hated it herself.
The heavy air stirred, blew, rustling the branches of the trees with a high whine not unlike…violins. Another breeze took up the lower notes and formed the opening measures of Giselle’s ghostly dance.
Annabella.
Custo’s heart lurched. He squeezed the fae woman’s hand. “Is this another trick?”
“Perhaps,” she answered, with a sneer.
Custo peered into the dark trees, which stood like great sentinels blocking his path and his view. The Shadowlands defied logic, so he had to follow his heart.
His heart was through those trees.
He released the faery. She pulled her hand from his grasp with lightning quickness, her nails cutting a deep, long gash across his palm.
Pain lanced through Custo’s hand and his blood flowed thick and free onto the forest floor. Looking up, he found the faery woman gone. She’d exacted her revenge and disappeared. He gripped his wrist above the wound, waiting for the burn of healing to start.
—blood, blood, blood, blood, blood—
No burn came in Shadow’s domain. Custo’s blood fell in slick, fat drops to the ground. Ripping a misshapen band of cloth from his shirt, he bound his palm tightly to stop the gush. He didn’t have time for this. Annabella was just through there.
Custo ran toward the music. When he saw the first flicker of movement, he slowed, creeping forward to hide in a dark copse and watch Annabella dance with…Jasper? The blond hair, lean body, ridiculous tights, and near-feminine shirt all belonged to Jasper. Custo couldn’t get a good look at his face, but he was sure it had the pretty boy’s features.
It took no effort to recognize this lie, though Annabella seemed lost to it. The man, the creature, holding her could only be the wolf. His hands were all over her, lifting, spinning, embracing Annabella. The wolf had just set her down again when he cocked his head, sniffing the air. He held Annabella’s waist, but his nose lifted, sniffing again. Distracted. Scenting something.
—blood, blood, blood, blood, blood—
Custo looked down at his bandage and recalled the scoring rip of the fae woman’s fingertips. She’d helped him after all, the best way she could. She wanted Annabella out.
Custo buried his wound against his middle, willing the wolf to pass him in favor of the blood-soaked forest dirt. With a great leap, Jasper changed into a slavering, yellow-eyed beast in pursuit of fresh game. When he disappeared into the trees, Custo rushed forward to Annabella.
She had settled into a delicate position, forlorn, awaiting Albrecht’s return. She was stone pale, her marble skin lined with a spider-fine webbing of Shadow, lips gray. When she raised her eyes, Custo found her blue irises and pupils were full black, unfocused, with the distraction of blindness.
He approached carefully. “Annabella?”
She gave no answer.
“Annabella, it’s me, Custo.” He grasped her shoulders, gave a little shake. There was no time. She had to work her magic and get them back. The wolf could return any moment.
“Annabella, I know you’re in there,” he said. “Come on out, love. Fight. I need you.”
She didn’t seem to hear a word, lost in some fragile, internal dream world.
His hands went to her face, thumbs stroking her cheeks, so cold. He brought her to him, kissed her passive lips with everything he had. Poured his hope, love, and guts into her. No response.
“Bella, I love you. I need you here. Please.” He was tempted to slap her, but something told him she might break, rather than come to her senses.
“Sweetheart, remember Jack’s place? Chinese food? I told you that you are mine.”
Her eyes twitched slightly.
“That’s right. Come back to me, honey,” he said, voice gritty. A universe of feeling filled his chest to near bursting. “Come back and make an honest man of me.”
Just that faraway look again. So much for professing undying love. Damn it.
Okay, think. He brought their foreheads together and exhaled roughly.
—he’scoming, he’scoming, he’scoming—
Custo’s voice turned stern. He shook her, harder. “Wake up, Annabella. You can control this. It’s your gift. Your talent to draw from Shadow. Use it to get us home. Get us home, Annabella. Fight for life. Don’t you want to dance?”
At that her head turned softly.
“That’s right, dance,” Custo said.
“I danced with Albrecht, but he broke my heart, and I died.”
Custo recognized the story of Giselle. Now he understood: she was lost in the ballet, a refuge and a trap. His mind raced to recall the details. Giselle rose from the grave as a wili, a spirit. When Albrecht came to mourn her, the queen of the wilis commanded that he dance until he died. Giselle chose to dance with him, to see him through the night to the dawn of day.
Oh, that cunning wolf.
—he’scoming, he’scoming, he’scoming—
The Shadowlands were perpetual night, perpetual darkness. A night that lasts forever. And Annabella was trapped in it.
Very clever.
But Custo could do the wolf one better: he knew the difference between Giselle, the character in a ballet, and Annabella, the storyteller, the magic-maker.
“You’ve already danced with Albrecht, Annabella,” Custo said. “What happens next?”