Cari paced the kitchen in the small hours of the night, sleep no longer just distant . . . it had become almost an enemy, refusing to have anything to do with her, no matter how tired she was.
She’d held out as long as she could. She couldn’t stop the constant flush of magic that roared through her. Every minute since her father’s death it was stronger.
At least no one was near to see her struggle. She had to be strong—the new, mighty Dolan. But she wasn’t so mighty, not like her father. She was just herself, cracking under the pressure.
A wave of heat rolled over her body, her skin flushing with prickles and tingles and deep, good aches. Her plague welts itched, but that’s because she was healing more quickly now, faster than she should. Air in her lungs felt potent, more invigorating, while her brain begged to shut down, just for a little while. But her senses were aroused by the mere thought of a stimulus. Chocolate—she could taste the dark, velvety sweetness. Silk—she could feel the cool slide on her skin. A man—she could scent Mason and feel the vibration of his voice within her. Her body didn’t care that he was human. Not in the slightest. She was drawn up tight inside, fisted. And eating a plate full of brownies did nothing to satisfy her.
She threw her head back to endure a roll of rough sensation.
She was changing somehow, and she knew it. And she couldn’t trust anyone enough to try to explain it to them. No, that wasn’t right. She could only trust certain people with certain parts of her situation. Her sisters were loyal, her stepmother concerned—but if they thought the House was compromised, they might “help” Cari by bringing in other members of the family to take over. And she didn’t want to disappoint her father that way. She, and she alone, had to be enough. She had to be enough.
If anyone could understand, it would be Mason, and without even being told. He spoke in parts himself: I’ll help you, but don’t trust me. It seemed like an impasse, but at least their positions were clear. Somehow he could sense what was going on, which made him dangerous enough to kill. Why then was it a relief that he was just upstairs?
Again. Just the thought. Heat crackled through her.
Was the fae Maeve manipulating her body? Was she responsible for this?
Or was this a side effect of being inundated by Shadow? Of becoming the Dolan?
And if it was just herself, losing control, wasn’t that more frightening?
Mason sat on a chair, his elbows braced on his knees, head low. Wan starlight filtered through the sheers on the windows and made the blue room glow. His head ached with exhaustion, but there was no way he could sleep with magic riding so high so close to him. It was potent, ominous, and worse . . . inescapably female.
His stray-honed senses told him it wasn’t safe to rest. His heart rate was up. Blood rushing. Skin prickling with sweat.
Danger. Watch your back.
What in Shadow’s pitch was Cari doing now? Did the woman never sleep?
Rocking with sensations, Cari gripped her father’s journal for dear life. Had he gone through this? Had he known the fae named Maeve?
The journal volume was dated thirty years ago, during the period of time immediately following her grandfather’s death, before Cari was born. Her grandfather had died of a heart attack at fifty-five, survived by a large extended family, but only one son, Caspar Dolan.
Cari almost didn’t recognize her father’s scrawl. As a younger man, his writing was wilder than the precise script she’d come to know. The person on the page also seemed foreign to her. The journal was written by a man who was fraught with insecurity and pride. It took a while, but she found what she sought.
My aunt says she knows nothing of the fae, that she has never heard a voice in her head. That my father never heard a voice either. She suggested a doctor. I think she envies how Shadow gathers to me. I think she is bitter because magic is neglecting her.
The fae voice had to be Maeve. Focusing on the text was difficult, with this restlessness under her skin. Cari paced from the kitchens to the large, formal sitting room, starlight lighting the pages.
She’s going to fight me for control of the property. She said I’m too young for the responsibility. She showed the family my mistakes at Dolan and Company as proof that I’m at best not ready, at worst, inept.
“She” had to be her great aunt Florence Dolan, now dead. Her son, Cari’s uncle, was staying in one of the cottages at Dolan House now. He always had something to complain about, from how long it took for the water to heat his shower to his allowance from the Dolan trust. His attitude had to be rooted in the rift between her great aunt and her father, an old argument about inheritance that had never been settled. But that her father, the great Caspar Dolan, had ever been inept? Impossible.
The room was too still, so Cari moved again. She wished she’d changed out of her slacks and blouse and into something more comfortable, but she didn’t trust herself to go upstairs feeling this way.
Control. Her father had always advocated control.
Where in Shadow was hers?
But the voice in my head says there is no question. She promises me power, saying that I’m the true heir. I asked her how to prove it to everyone and she told me where to find the ward stones.
Grey, Verity, Brand and Vauclain have already found theirs. Nothing can touch their Houses.
I’ll bring back Dolan’s. And I’ll put them on the table right under Aunt Florence’s nose. If she can command them, then she will be the Dolan. And if I can, I will. I feel like Arthur, about to pull the sword from the stone. I am stronger every day, soon invincible. I want to see that patronizing expression of hers wiped off her face.
Maeve had come to him, too. Had made promises. How had he handled her? Cari flipped through the pages more quickly. There was no mention of the fae for weeks. Then this:
Aunt Florence is dead. She tried to take the stones, but they wouldn’t obey her. Everyone said she had a heart attack like my father, but I saw. I saw it all. Through me, the fae sucked the life out of my aunt until her heart just couldn’t beat anymore. She was a cruel woman, but was this justice? I don’t know.
I don’t like being used.
I have made a decision. Names have power. To use hers is to summon her voice into my mind. To draw Shadow from Twilight is to bid her near. I will shut the fae out and never speak her name again. Dolan is closed to her.
Cari made a face. Shutting out the fae was hard to do, and near impossible while using magic. But yes, she could push Maeve away. Exhaustion did it too, which was why Cari thought her mind had been blissfully silent these past hours.
Cari paged through the journal, reading about the first allies her father had made—Vauclain House, Grey House—and the subtleties of the negotiations at Dolan and Company. But there was no further mention of the fae that they shared. It seemed her father had got rid of Maeve.
A few words scratched across the page made the act seem easy.
Cari arched her back, as heat stroked her skin again. She craved—tastes, touch, and more.
Had he really shut Maeve out? Could she drive this possession from her life, too?
For the first time ever, Cari didn’t believe her father, the man who’d always told her the truth and had taught her to do the same.
And here he was, the great Caspar, the paragon . . . lying to himself.
The Twilight trees drooped, their leaves becoming jewel-toned tears, as Maeve wandered the unending forest, dragging her soul-heavy cloak behind her.