There’s a part of me who knows this thought should sting, the evidence of a man who will miss this woman, but it doesn’t.

It never does once I let the hunger get this far.

“Are you waiting for anyone?” There’s no need to ask if anyone else is home currently. I would scent them if they were.

“No one, sir. My husband is traveling to Avelea for business,” she says, batting a set of pretty green eyes at me.

She has a kind face, one that’s round at her cheekbones and flushes a bit, though I can’t tell if it’s from the heat that swells from the fire or if it’s a reaction to the hunger wafting off of me.

“What’s your name, love?” I ask as I close the door behind me. She’s unbothered that I’ve shut her indoors with a stranger, unconcerned as I close the distance between us, cupping her chin in my hands.

“Claudia,” she says, and I repeat the name back to her, relishing the sound of it on my lips. In the morning, I’ll come to regret asking her name, come to regret every second that will occur between now and when my hunger is satiated, but for now I like the taste of her name. I’d like to pair it with the taste of her blood.

Every human tastes so different, and once a human’s blood has run dry, there’s no experiencing it again, not fully.

It wouldn’t seem right to run a well dry without naming it first.

“Claudia, dearest,” I say, and when I slip my fingers underneath her chin where her jaw meets her neck, she shivers. “I promise not to forget your name.”

When I press my lips against her pulse, she doesn’t move.

And when I dig my teeth into her flesh, she doesn’t scream.

It’s a shame, really. I have quite the headache.

Not that I could hear her if she did.

Because as soon as the taste of cloves and cherries caresses my tongue, I lose myself in the ecstasy of Claudia’s blood.

CHAPTER 11

NOX: AGE ELEVEN

As my sister and I abandon the warm glow of our cottage to play in the aftermath of autumn’s first snow, our mother kisses our cheeks and warns us not to speak to strangers on the road.

It doesn’t cross our minds to ask whether she means the queen, too.

My parents’ property is sizable. Though we’re technically residents of Otho, a village in the foothills of Mystral, our farm is half a day’s walk from town.

Zora and I don’t mind. We’d rather play with each other than the village children, anyway. They’re frightened of us because we’re twins, and everyone knows fae twins are Fates-cursed to ruin one another.

I’m not sure why the other children think that makes us poor choices for playmates.

It’s not as if the curse states that we’ll ruin any of them.

“Hurry up, Nox. The best of the snow will melt if we carry on at your pace,” Zora calls, already cresting our favorite hill. I catch one last glimpse of her flaxen hair, tumbling out from underneath her red wool cap in sheaths, before she disappears from view.

I pick up my pace, nervousness taking turns with the cold to pick at my bones. I don’t like to let Zora out of my sight, not when we’re so close to the Serpentine, the road that snakes through the mountains, blessed with snow-banishing magic that keeps it passable even in the winter months.

My parents bought property next to the road for a reason. Though the Serpentine keeps travelers protected from ice, the cold isn’t the only peril that awaits traders who wish to do business in Mystral. Robbers dig dens near the road, obscuring them from view with alpaca skins. The dens keep the criminals nice and warm while they wait to pounce on unsuspecting travelers.

While my parents don’t condone the robbers’ behavior, they benefit from it just the same. We get all sorts of traders through here who’ve had their coats stripped right from their backs. They’re more than willing to pay double what they normally would for one of my mother’s alpaca furs—though my mother never charges them that much. In fact, I often overhear her haggling down the price, compassion for the shivering, half-naked travelers deepening the lines on her smooth, pale forehead.

My father complains about her lack of business savvy often enough, but he never gets around to telling her to stop cutting the prices.

I think he likes that about my mother—her compassion.

Still, while most of the traffic we get is too desperate for a warm meal to bother my sister and me, even bandits have to use the Serpentine to get from one den to the next, or to trade their stolen wares in town.

So, no. I don’t like it when Zora runs ahead and gets out of my sight.

I trudge up the hill, my seal-skin boots crunching through the thick layer of snow that hasn’t had a chance to soften yet. The sun only peeked over the horizon an hour ago, but Zora and I have been up all night, sneaking out of bed and trying to get a glimpse of the falling snow by the moonlight that leaks through our foggy window.

As soon as I reach the top—BAM—something slams into my side. Stringy blond hair, already soaked and matted from rolling about in the snow, almost gags me as my sister tackles me.

Before I can catch my breath, we tumble down the slope, flecks of snow battering my cheeks as we roll.

When we finally slow to a stop, Zora plops off of me and starts cackling. “You know, you really should try to be more aware of your surroundings,” she says, scooping up a handful of snow and forming the laziest excuse for a snowball I’ve ever seen. It’s really more like a snow patty.

That doesn’t stop it from stinging when she chucks it straight at my nose.

“You’re going to regret that,” I say, wiping the sludge off my face, which is already beginning to go numb. I go to stand, but I grab a handful of snow on the way up, the muscles in my hands warm with the memory of the snowball-engineering process I’ve perfected over the years.

Scoop, pack, roll, pack, roll.

Another snow-sludge hits me, but in the shoulder this time. It breaks into flimsy little bits as soon as it makes contact with my coat.

When it comes to snowball crafting, my sister is an amateur at best.

“You know the whole point of a snowball is to throw it, right?” Zora teases, launching another pathetic excuse for an airborne weapon my way. It glances off my cap, the snow so softly packed I hardly feel it.

“Oh, I’m aware.”

Before she can get another word in, I aim my perfect sphere of a snowball directly at her face.

SMACK.

It hits her in the face so hard it knocks her on her back.

I rush over to my sister. My snowball sent her red woolen cap so askew, her pointed ears are poking out, no longer protected from the cold.

Regret slams against my belly as, already, a red welt swells on her forehead where I landed my blow. Her fae magic will heal her before she has the opportunity to present the evidence to our mother, but that’s not what worries me.

I’ve knocked her out cold, and definitely not on purpose.

“Zora,” I say, using the nickname I gave her before I could speak properly. I nudge her lax shoulders, hoping to rouse her gently. “Zora, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you so har—”

I lose the ability to speak as Zora shoves a handful of dirt-laden snow directly into my mouth.