“I’d hardly call her innocent. Unless you’ve forgotten where Abra found her.”

Gunter flicks his gaze up to meet mine, but we’re long past the point of him scolding me for using the queen’s given name. “Not all prisoners are criminals. I would have thought you of all people would recognize that.”

“Are you going to spend the entire morning lecturing me, then? Or are you going to help me find a less excruciating way to extract the magic from Blaise’s body?”

I swear Gunter smiles at that, but it’s always so hard to tell with that abhorrent mustache he refuses to keep trimmed.

He passes me a tome that looks to be a children’s book of ancient faerietales on the outside.

It’s not a children’s book. Surprise, surprise.

When I open it, plumes of dust float from the delicate, yellowed pages, revealing an Avelean grimoire that dates back at least half a thousand years.

The Moon Summons is what it’s called, and I’m already shivering.

But the memory of Blaise’s wide, terrified eyes has apparently tattooed itself on the inside of my eyelids now, because when I close my eyes to think, she’s all I can see.

Fine, I’ll read the book. Gunter seems to think it’ll help, at least.

The book’s not nearly as helpful as I’d hoped. It mostly just drones on and on about lychaen, the thought of which makes me want to shed my skin just to get away from the creeping sensation that crawls up my spine at the thought of them.

I don’t love the idea of my bones breaking and hair sprouting out every which way.

No wonder Blaise was so upset when I mentioned her evil alter-ego.

But Blaise isn’t suffering from lychaenthropy. Whatever inhabits her body is something else entirely. When Abra went to Dwellen to retrieve Blaise, she was sure Blaise was a host for an ancient magic, similar to the Old Magic that currently inhabits Queen Asha of Naenden.

I’m not yet willing to throw out the notion, but Blaise’s presentation doesn’t exactly match Queen Asha’s symptoms. For one, Queen Asha’s magic uses its power over her voice to create, while Blaise’s magic is of the shape-shifting variety.

That’s not what bothers me the most, though. It’s how Blaise’s magic only seems to be active during the first several hours of the full moon. If Queen Asha’s story is true, she used her magic multiple nights in a row to convince the king to spare her life, meaning her magic isn’t at all tied to the full moon.

Still, there’s part of me that wonders—if we could release the parasite from whatever ties it to the full moon, could we coax it into leaving Blaise’s body? From the little I can discern from Abra’s irritation, it appears she tried to reason with it. Perhaps she hadn’t brought along enough leverage, hadn’t made the offer tempting enough.

Abra didn’t bother debriefing me on her conversation with the parasite, but I doubt she offered to free it from its moonlit shackles.

Allowing itself to be extracted from Blaise’s body in return for being released from its bondage to the moon seems like a fair enough trade to me.

Of course, it’s not a perfect plan, but it would fulfill my debt to Abra.

We could be free.

The hair on my arms rises at the thought. I haven’t let myself truly consider it yet, what it will mean if I succeed.

Rosy cheeks flash before my vision, followed by a cackling laugh that simultaneously gets underneath my skin and fills my heart with warmth.

I shove her away, tuck her into the back of my mind, just as I imagine the magic does to Blaise once a month.

No use in getting my hopes up. Not yet, at least.

Especially when I read the next line in the tome.

The magical bond that tethers a being to a celestial event is considered sacred, and thus always requires a blood sacrifice.

Because we all know how well I do around blood.

CHAPTER 6

BLAISE

The warm scent of dinner rolls, roast, and spiced cider simultaneously has me wanting to retch my empty guts out and shove inordinate amounts of food into my face.

I expect to glimpse a servant through the iron bars of the door, but when a tall figure appears at the bottom of the steps, my heart stops.

A noxious memory swirls through my head, the scraping of damp cloth against my nose before my consciousness is ripped from me.

Dread courses through my veins at the sight of him.

Nox is death incarnate, and I find I can’t look away.

His raven-black hair falls across his forehead, deepening the shadows beneath his eyes. He’s dressed in a gray shirt tucked into black trousers today, having discarded his robes. The shirt hugs his torso, betraying a muscular form even on his slender frame.

He unlocks the dungeon door, and for half a second, I consider lunging at him. Perhaps I can overpower him and make my escape while the door is cracked.

But then I recall I don’t remember the last time I’ve eaten. And that it took me a solid half hour to change into the clothes Nox left for me; my muscles are so weak.

When I woke to my restraints loosened, I’d hardly had the strength to drag myself to the latrine in the dank corner.

At least my butt’s clean now, though.

I’d attribute it to Nox’s kind spirit lurking under the tortury surface, but I’m pretty sure he just considers himself too much of a prodigy to stoop as low as changing adult diapers.

The fact is, it unsettles me a bit—the loose restraints and the scent of spiced cider wafting through the cell bars. If anyone can recognize a game, it’s me, but in this instance, I don’t know what he’s playing at.

So he opens the door, the hinges squeaking as he carries in a massive tray of steaming food, and I pretty much just sit there, back propped up against the base of the dais I’m too tired to drag myself back up on.

“Both your hands are occupied. This is the perfect opportunity for me to escape, you know,” I say. Because if I’m too much of a wimp to attack him, I at least intend to remind him how incompetent he is.

“I wish you would,” he says, placing the tray upon the workbench, leaving the dungeon door wide open and unguarded, like he’s taunting me. “I rather enjoy a good chase.”

Okay, so he’s definitely taunting me.

Figuring—Do I even deserve to live if I don’t try?—I plant my palms on the cold stone floor, hoisting myself up to my feet in a single, rather fluid motion if I do say so myself.

I make it about two steps before my wobbly knees give out. Sturdy arms encircle me, catching me just before I permanently dent the shape of my nose in a scuffle with the stone floor.

“I’d say that was a rather admirable attempt, wouldn’t you?” Nox says. I don’t fight him as he runs his arm behind my knees and picks me up, gently setting me back on the table. “Can you sit up?” he asks, his hand lingering on my back.

It takes me a moment to realize he’s not taunting me this time.