Page 70 of Fallen Nocturne

I straighten as much as I can without disturbing his flight. The ease with which I trusted him unsettles me more than the ground far below. Exhaustion is no excuse for recklessness. Whatever strange comfort I feel around him, I cannot forget what he is or how little I truly know about him.

I will be more careful from now on.

Arescaine glances down when I stir. “We’re nearly there.”

We descend toward it through a narrow mountain pass, the path winding down through scrub pine and loose shale. Below, the village glimmers in the darkness, torches burning along the narrow streets. From this height, Greenvale appears peaceful, almost safe, but I know better than to trust appearances.

“The Painted Moth is in the center of town. We’ll need to be careful. Greenvale is crawling with fae, and some of them will recognize you.”

“I’ve been here before,” I say.

Arescaine looks at me sharply.

I frown, trying to grasp at the memory. “I’ve been to the Painted Moth. I know I have.”

The memory is there but frustratingly vague. I try to see through the fog but it’s impossible.

“I remember why I was there and how I got the Fae King’s ball invitation. But I don’t remember how I got out.” The harder I reach for the memory, the farther it seems to retreat.

Something flickers across Arescaine’s face.

“Memory can be unreliable,” he says carefully. “Especially in places like that. The pleasure houses use enchantments and glamours. They can affect how you remember things.”

That makes sense. But it doesn’t explain the strange gaps, the feeling that something important is missing.

“Stay close to me,” Arescaine says. “Keep your hood up. We don’t need anyone recognizing the elven queen.”

I glance at the enormous wings carrying us toward the ground. “Aren’t you going to hide those?”

“No.”

“You are not exactly inconspicuous,” I say.

“Neither would a Nightwalker be.” His gaze remains fixed on the approaching village. “The fae already know a vampire is working for the Queen of Aelfheim. If I enter Greenvale without my wings, anyone who recognizes what I am may connect me to you.”

“But with them?” I ask.

“They may assume I am a demon from Hel,” he answers.

Clever.

Demons are hardly unusual in places such as the Painted Moth, and it is not difficult to imagine Balthazar frequenting an establishment like this. I remember visiting Kheirall’s home in the human world, but when I try to recall parts of that journey, I encounter the same murky gaps. Roads vanish from my mind. Conversations begin without any memory of what came before them.

I shake my head, refusing to lose myself in the confusion again. Kharlis is here. That is what matters.

Arescaine angles his wings and descends toward a narrow road at the edge of the village. His boots touch the ground lightly, and he lowers me to my feet before folding his wings against his back.

I pull my hood forward, shadowing my face.

We enter Greenvale under the cover of night, joining streets far busier than I expected. Fae in elaborate clothing drift between crowded taverns. Laughter and drunken shouting spill from the surrounding buildings.

The Painted Moth rises from the center of it all, a vast structure painted in deep purple and midnight blue. Enormous moth wings carved across its facade seem to enfold the glowing windows, where soft golden light spills onto the street. A low, hypnotic melody reaches us even through the walls, as though the building itself is calling people inside.

I stop and stare. I know this place. I have walked through those doors before.

“Are you all right?” Arescaine asks quietly, watching my face.

“I’m fine.” I force my attention away from the building’s familiar facade. “Let’s go.”