Page 172 of Devoured

“Because I know what sarcasm sounds like.”

“So now you’re telling me what I think?”

“Stop playing word games with me.”

“I rather thought someone with such high intelligence would be aware that I’m doing nothing of the sort—”

“I will string you up above the throne, Lyra. So help me, I’ll tie you to a tree and leave you here to rot.”

“With your spider silk?”

“You’re mocking me again!”

“I have one night of true freedom, Evander, and I would rather not spend it bickering with an insufferable little—”

“Have you chosen a regent yet?” I interrupt, before they can spiral further out of control. It’s clear that they share some sort of history. And I’m glad. I’m glad Lyra will be here to make his life a living hell. I won’t forget how Evander helped me, but I won’t forget how he hurt Calix and those officers either.

Evander’s frown deepens as he turns away from Lyra to face me. “The Severi heir refused my request to make him king. So no. Why? Would you like to reign over the North American continent, Vanessa Hart?”

“Absolutely not.” A shiver racks my spine. “I think I’d rather die.”

“You know,” he says slowly, “it’s probably for the best that you leave. I can’t handle both you and Lyra at the same time.”

“Excuse me?” she demands. “I haven’t said anything inflammatory in minutes.”

“Seconds,” he corrects.

She glares at him. He glares at her. And in moments, I know they’ll be lost to another argument.

“If you’re looking,” I say, “then I might know someone who’d be good for the position.”

Lyra glances at me, and suddenly—she grins. The constellations twinkle above her brow. “Oh, why didn’t I think of it sooner? Yes! She would make an excellent queen!”

“The faeries need to give input,” Evander interjects. “We need to go over the probabilities and consequences.”

“And we will,” Lyra says, waving him away. “And you will come to agree with me. Don’t forget, I know everything you’re going to do before you do it.” She narrows her gaze on his face. “Everything.”

“Oracles,” he mutters under his breath.

“Chameleon,” she sings.

And when Evander stalks off toward the castle, still grumbling to himself, she takes my hand. She pulls me into a bone-crushing embrace. Tears spill down her cheeks and onto my mourning dress, and I wonder what she’s seeing now. What she’s realizing.

I’ll never find out, however, because she ruffles my hair and whispers, “The future is yours, Vanessa Serafina Hart. Make of it what you will.”

56

VANESSA

I’M READY TO BRAVE MY ROOM SOMETIME AROUND SUNRISE. But when I turn the handle to Sin’s door, I don’t immediately rush to my bed the way I have for the last week. Instead, I stare at his things. His sheets are still ruffled on his bed. His pillows still smell like him. Parchments and maps spill out of his desk, and just underneath—a charcoal sketch.

Of my face, softly traced with reverence.

“I wondered when you’d be back,” someone whispers. “Took you long enough.”

The door shuts behind me with a soft click, and I turn to find Evie. Her hair is knotted at her nape, freshly washed, and her skin gleams against a nylon crop top and a pair of ebony leggings. So normal, so unlike what we experienced earlier, that my lungs squeeze. I can’t breathe when I look at her.

She leans against the wall, her ankles crossed, her head cocked as she studies me. Wordless, we search each other for wounds, for abnormalities, for any sign that this isn’t real. But Cora is dead.