Page 196 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

“Glittered with starlight,” I finished, my heart racing.

“Yeah,” Reyna said, canting her head. “How did you know that?”

“History is long, Your Majesty.” And mine was longer than most.

“Countless have tried and failed to find the Crown—its allure just as appealing as the diadem you’re hunting—but all have failed. One a relic of light, and the other of darkness, in honor of balance.”

“Hell,” Blaz interjected. “A couple of Paladin kids went after it a few years back—one of my cousins was killed in their attempt. Charles. He was only sixteen.”

My gaze snapped to his in equal parts shock and disbelief. Pieces clicking into place, I rocketed upright, nodding toward Reyna as I breathed, “Thank you,” and turned to rush from the room.

Her voice trailed after me as she hollered, “Where are you going?”

“To visit Damien Westerlund.”

“Why?” she called in disbelief.

My bare feet coasted over the cold floor as I rounded onto the staircase. Would it be certifiable to seek out the son of my enemy—not to mention my adolescent bully—to pry through his vault of a mind? Probably. But the man’s life was dedicated to history, and something about those hazel eyes when he realized who I was told me Crew wouldn’t hurt me.

Cyrus. Not Crew.

Whatever the fuck his true name was, he might’ve been a jackass when we were kids, but he never seemed…malicious. Not really. It might’ve been a gross overestimation of his character, assuming he would’ve gutted me when he had the chance if he was going to, but I had a feeling he wanted to hurt me about as much as I did him and Cali.

Ipso facto: not if he could avoid it with his honor intact. Maybe it was the life debt he owed, or maybe he was less of a garbage human being than the teenage asshole I’d known.

After all.

He was the only one to check on me after that…incident.

With a sigh, I called over my shoulder, “I already arranged our counterstrike. Now, I need a peace offering.”

The following evening, guilt gnawed at my stomach as I ignored all of Mama Porter’s messages for at least the tenth day in a row. I knew I needed to reach out—the woman had raised the three of us with loving arms and tender words, and deserved more than being abandoned by her children one-by-one. But she felt like a vision—a fragment of a memory. And with everything going on, it never felt like the right time.

It certainly didn’t now, as I listened in on the raid while the cops tore apart the warehouse Nix had taken me to.

Flashes of red and blue strobes lit up the street, panic rising as fire trucks blared sirens a few blocks over, clearly en route.

Fuck you, Reagan. And fuck you, Nix, you perv. Replace that, motherfuckers.

Hefting the weight of my cross-body bag on my shoulder, my boots scuffed over the sidewalk as I glanced back to the screen in my palm.

Alvara. Some mother hens could not be ignored, and I scowled as I opened the message, sighing as I read.

Alvara

Good work tonight. Deep breaths. He doesn’t hurt you.

Freya

Doesn’t or didn’t?

Past or present, Ally?!

Alvara

Look up.

The road ahead was clear, save for the rush of cars and the hiss of tires. Look up? I glanced skyward, up and around, spotting nothing except the hanging sign of La Lune Noire, and the distant red light of a security camera.