Jada nodded grimly and kicked up into the slipstream.

Then he was there beside her in her sacred place, she could feel him near, though she saw nothing but a starry tunnel. She was chafed to realize it was because he was moving slightly faster than her. She couldn’t help herself. “Barrons, you’ve got to teach me how to do that!”

His words buzzed softly and seemed to come from a distance. “Help me get Mac back and fix our world, and if Ryodan won’t, I will.”

Chills kissed her skin because Barrons was a man of his word, and once she’d have considered chewing her own hand off to be able to move as fast as Ry—them.

“Last night was a bitch, kid, but you pulled it together. Ryodan was right. You’ve become one hell of a woman.”

Somehow, it didn’t irritate her that he’d called her kid. It was as if his words had been a nod to both Dani and Jada and it felt good. Dani was her foundation. Jada was her fortress. Both were her. Both essential.

Then Barrons was gone.

Humans are worthless. Weak.

As is their flesh.

Killing Jo was satisfying but she tastes unpleasant and eating her provides no nourishment. My energy is flagging.

The single time I’d seized control of MacKayla’s body in the past, I’d ridden it hard for hours, but my tenuous hold had grown progressively weaker. For no reason I’d been able to discern, I lost control of the vessel and it slumped to the pavement. MacKayla had perceived the passage of time as a complete blackout. I was cognizant for the entire duration; in control one moment, controlled the next.

Still, from that day, my supremacy was assured. Losing dominance of her body to me had frayed the threads of her already damaged confidence. I’d ceased my efforts to conquer and begun to seduce, silently lending my power to fuel her wishes, turning her invisible, using my darkest magic to bring her dead sister, Alina, back to life, nudging here and there to undermine, creating sinkholes, poisoning the soil, sowing doubts in the garden of her mind.

NEVER LET ANYONE ELSE INTO YOUR GARDEN. WE HOE OUT THE CROPS AND SEED IN WEEDS—ALL THE WHILE TELLING YOU HOW BEAUTIFUL OUR WEEDS ARE, THAT, IN FACT, THEY’RE NOT WEEDS AT ALL, AND YOU’RE SO LUCKY TO HAVE THEM—UNTIL YOU’RE NO LONGER CERTAIN WHAT A WEED EVEN IS.

Imbeciles. Wretches. That’s how we win. Don’t turn over the fucking keys to your kingdom then cry foul play when you get evicted. Once you let us confuse you with enough lies that you no longer know your truth, we own your reality. AND YOU GAVE IT TO US.

As I push to my feet, I stumble and go back down. Snarling, I shove my hair from my face and rest a moment more, considering my next move. My muscles burn from exertion. Pain is a new sensation, distracting, infuriating. It’s an insult that I was born so flawed. My jaws hurt from tearing flesh and there’s a painful bone splinter lodged in my gums.

I pick it out with the tip of one of my knives. I came to the abbey to accomplish three goals: kill Christian, kill Cruce, and find the stones. Events have not unfolded as I’d intended. The Unseelie flesh I ate isn’t fueling me as it did MacKayla. I’m burning through it too fast and require more. It doesn’t help that my body hasn’t slept in over a day. The loss of my spear grandly fucked my plans. By this hour, both princes should have been dead.

I expand my awareness, seeking the stones, which MacKayla was certain were somewhere in the abbey.

I sense nothing.

Might they have been moved? I assess possibilities and encounter an obstacle of my own making. In my quest for strength, I ate Unseelie, which mutes MacKayla’s ability to sense Fae objects of power. LIMITS! YET MORE LIMITS TO REMEMBER! I must dally until it wears off or go to ground, rest then gather my army, seize the stones, destroy them, and move to the next phase of my plans. I consider summoning an army of Unseelie, resuming the battle on the abbey grounds while still more of them search the ruins for me, but MacKayla would call the stones my Kryptonite, and I’ll not unearth them into untrusted hands.

Might I simply forget them? It occurs to me that two out of three aren’t bad: the cocoons I’ve put the princes in, while not as much fun as killing them will be, are sufficient.

Paramount to my plans is the spear. I refine my goals, making it my priority.

I push myself up from the bloody remains of Jo in which I squat, becoming aware of eyes on me. I can feel them. Someone is watching me. Is it my clever, clever enemy? How is someone anticipating me? There is no one with my clarity, my focus, my resolve.

I stand motionless, curious to know the face of my foe.

Jericho Barrons steps from behind a tumbled wall.

For a moment I stare, consumed by jealousy. I had to be born a fucking woman in a world where men are physically superior. Christian. Cruce. Now Barrons. He exudes ferocity, power, hunger, his presence saturates the air with palpable, electrifying energy. Even the Fae fear him. Shades slink away when he passes. He has killed Fae royals—sifters! His vessel is wide-shouldered, big-boned, muscled and powerful as a lion. Undestroyable. I despise him for it.

“Mac,” he says roughly, and I know what he sees: his precious little Mac, all blond and bouncy, defiled and vile—it doesn’t escape me that VILE becomes EVIL becomes LIVE, more proof my supremacy was destined—drenched in blood, hair matted with it, face crimson, black feathers stuck to the congealed mass, bits of Jo’s brains on his pretty girl’s hands, under her nails.

He sweeps the remains with a dark gaze, trying to identify them; impossible, as her head is a glistening, bloody omelet, garnished with the broken eggshells of her skull.