For a long heartbeat, no one moved.
The bells over the door stopped jangling. The soft murmur of the heater faded into the background. All Rowan heard was her own pulse hammering in her ears and Harper’s slow inhale, sharp as a knife.
“The Autumn *what,* now?” Harper said finally.
“Prince,” Rowan repeated, because if she didn’t say it out loud, her brain might convince her she’d hallucinated the entire thing. “I’m…pretty sure.”
Harper blinked. “Like…actual royalty. Crown, minions, constitutional crises.”
“More like blood oaths, torture, coups,” Zia said mildly. “Different vibe.”
Rowan pushed a hand through her hair. Her fingers shook. “He didn’t have a crown on,” she said inanely. “That feels relevant.”
“I’m more focused on the ‘he has been in your dreams since you were seven’ part,” Harper said. “And now he’s here, in my place of business, looking like he eats mortal souls for breakfast.”
Zia leaned her hip against the counter and crossed her arms. The ink on her forearms—thorns and moths and moons—flexed with the movement. “Okay,” she said, in the tone she used when customers tried to haggle on book prices. “Walk us through this. Slowly. Without fainting.”
“I’m not going to faint,” Rowan said automatically.
Her knees wobbled.
Harper made a face. “Sit before you face-plant on the mythology section,” she ordered.
“I’m fine,” Rowan insisted.
Then the adrenaline that had been holding her upright dipped, and she sagged back against the shelf harder than she meant to. The bookshelf thunked. A few titles teetered.
“Sit,” Harper repeated.
Rowan let herself slide down until she was sitting on the thin carpet, back to the shelf, knees up. She pressed her wrists to her eyes for a second.
Harper dropped beside her, crisscross applesauce, eyes still sparking with too many feelings. Zia stayed half-turned, keeping an eye on the front of the store, but her attention was clearly on them.
“Okay,” Zia said. “From the top. That was the guy from your dreams.”
“Yes,” Rowan said.
“And he’s a prince,” Harper said. “Which, by the way, explains his whole…vibe. I didn’t realize monarchy came with built-in brooding.”
“Pretty sure the brooding is optional,” Zia said.
“It is a *feature,* not a bug,” Harper tossed back. Then, to Rowan, “And he admitted it? Just…‘hi, yes, I’m nightmare royalty, would you like to discuss your extended warranty on your soul’?”
“Not in those exact words,” Rowan said weakly.
“What exact words?” Harper demanded.
Rowan let her head thump lightly against the shelf. “He said he was the one sent to watch me. Protect me. By the Autumn King. Because of the bargain Gran made.” The syllables felt thick in her mouth. “He…told me the prophecy.”
“Of *course* there’s a prophecy,” Harper muttered. “Continue.”
“She’s the blood-of-both-worlds fulcrum,” Zia said quietly, like she was making notes on a whiteboard only she could see. “Two children. One left, one taken.”
Rowan looked at her sharply. “You sound like you’re quoting something.”
Zia’s mouth ticked. “Fairy-court nerd, remember? I’ve read a lot.”
Harper made a face. “You could have led with ‘my girlfriend is an expert in terrible fae politics.’”
“I’m not an expert,” Zia said. “Just an enthusiast. And I’m pretty sure my source material is forty percent made-up and forty percent propaganda.” Her gaze flicked to Rowan. “The other twenty percent is the really scary part.”
“Awesome,” Rowan muttered.
Harper nudged her with a socked foot. “What did he *want,* Ro?”
“To talk,” Rowan said. “To…lay out my options. Such as they are.”
“And those options are?” Harper asked.
She swallowed. “Option one: I do nothing. Stay here. Wait. On my birthday, they send the Hunt to drag me to their Court in chains and then…do whatever they want with me. Use me as a symbol. A breeder. A hostage. Whatever interpretation of the prophecy suits them.”
Silence.
Zia’s fingers curled into loose fists on the edge of the counter. Harper’s jaw clenched so hard a little muscle jumped in her cheek.
“Option two?” Zia asked quietly.
“I go with him,” Rowan said. “Willingly. Before the debt…sets.” Her words felt like shards of glass. “On Halloween. When the border is…soft.” She huffed a humorless laugh. “He has a sense of aesthetics, I’ll give him that.”
“And if you go…willingly,” Harper said, the word tasting like poison, “what does that get you?”
“A leash instead of a collar,” Rowan said. “He says I’d be his…guest. Under his protection. Not chained. Not…coerced into sleeping with people I don’t choose, which is apparently an actual clause he felt the need to clarify.”
Harper made a strangled sound. “I hate them,” she said. “I hate them all with the fiery passion of a thousand cancelled TV shows.”
Rowan’s lips twitched despite everything. “I told him it sounded like he’d invented magical HR.”
Zia blinked. “You mouthed off to a fae prince.”
“He started it,” Rowan muttered.
“What else?” Zia pressed. “What terms?”
“He promised I’d have my own rooms. That I’d learn what I am. That I’d be allowed to defend myself if someone came at me.” Rowan rubbed her face. “In exchange, I agree to stay within the boundaries of their Court for three months. I don’t get to…wander back here on weekends. No field trips.”
“And after three months?” Harper asked.
“He finds a way to…void or twist the original bargain,” Rowan said. “Maybe. He didn’t pretend it would be easy. Or even possible. And if he fails…” She swallowed. “He said then I decide whether to run, fight, or burn it all down.”
Harper stared. “He said that.”
“Pretty much,” Rowan said.
“Okay,” Harper said, voice a little too high. “So your options are: get kidnapped and turned into a living magical uterus-slash-banner, or go voluntarily with the murder prince who at least buys you dinner first.”
Rowan choked on a laugh. “I don’t think dinner was explicitly mentioned.”
“It’s implied,” Zia said. “They like feasts. And poisoning people at feasts.”
Harper thunked her head back lightly against the shelf. “I hate this,” she said. “I hate this so much.”
“Same,” Rowan said.
“All right,” Zia cut in, voice going practical. “Let’s separate feelings from logistics for a second.”
“That’s homophobic,” Harper muttered.
Zia flicked her a look. “We can have feelings. And we can also plan so those feelings have a body to live in later.”
Harper stared at her for a beat, then sighed. “Fine. Talk logistics at me.”
Zia turned back to Rowan. “He gave you a time frame,” she said. “That’s leverage. Any time frame is. The fae don’t like hard dates when they can avoid them.”
“What do you mean?” Rowan asked.
“If he’s really trying to help you—and I’m not saying he is, but *if*—he just bought you a month and a half where you’re not being dragged off,” Zia said. “He could have tried to snatch you today, claim you were his by right of the bargain, whatever. Instead, he set Halloween as the moment of decision. That means something.”
“It means he likes drama,” Harper said. “Nothing says ‘I’m a main character’ like ‘meet me at the crossroads on Samhain, mortal.’”
“It also means we have time to prepare,” Zia said. “To research. To…arm you. With information, if nothing else.”
“Arm me with actual arms,” Rowan muttered. “Swords. Flamethrowers.”
“Baby,” Harper said. “You singed your hand on a picnic bench once because it had iron bolts. I’m not putting you in charge of a flamethrower.”
“It was one time,” Rowan protested.
“It blistered for a week,” Harper said. “I had to butter your toast for you.”
Memories blurred at the edges of her fear. Warm kitchen, Harper grousing while she did it, Gran snorting and telling Rowan that if she couldn’t handle a little burn she shouldn’t go making deals with stars.
“I’m serious,” Rowan said. “If I go—if I *have* to go—I don’t want to walk in there helpless.”
Zia nodded. “Magic works on rules, even if those rules are…wobbly,” she said. “There are gaps to slip through. Their bargains, especially. You can…stack words in your favor. If he’s offering, we make him *define* everything.”
“He did define a lot,” Rowan said. “Probably more than he wanted to.”
“Because you pushed,” Zia said approvingly. “Good. Keep pushing. Make him promise things out loud. Anything important. No assumptions. Those will bite you.”
“Gran said almost the same thing,” Rowan murmured. “About lawyers.”
“She’s not wrong,” Zia said. “Fae contracts are…law, where he’s from. The ones with power get that way by reading the fine print and learning how to write more.”
Harper chewed her lip. “You trust him.”
It wasn’t quite a question.
Rowan stared at her own hands.
“I don’t…know,” she said. “I trust that he doesn’t want me dead. Yet. For now. I trust that he’s…angry at his Court. That he hates the prophecy game. I trust that he means it when he says if I burn, he’ll burn with me.”
Harper made a noise halfway between a groan and a whine. “He *said* that?”
“Yes,” Rowan said, voice strangled.
“Oh my God,” Harper said. “He is so *thirsty*.”
Zia snorted. “Welcome to fae romance,” she said. “Everything is life or death and nobody has a chill button.”
“Can we not call it romance,” Rowan said weakly. “He’s my…probation officer.”
“Hot probation officer,” Harper said.
“Harper.”
“Sorry. Coping mechanism.” She squeezed Rowan’s knee. “I don’t trust him,” she added, more quietly. “But I trust you. And I trust that gut of yours that kept you from eating those weird strawberries at the farmers’ market that time.”
“Those were hinky,” Rowan said automatically. “The leaves were wrong.”
“Exactly,” Harper said. “So. You…think about it. You talk to Gran. You poke holes in his offer until he bleeds fine print.”
“I’m good at poking holes,” Rowan said.
“That’s my anxious little hedgehog,” Harper said.
“Please never call me that again,” Rowan muttered.
Harper’s eyes softened. “Whatever you choose,” she said, “I’m with you. If you somehow decide staying and betting on the Hunt not being able to drag you is the move, I’m building traps. If you decide to go…” Her throat worked. “…I’m…not bulletproof. I can’t follow you there. But I’m not going to spend three months sitting on my ass. I’ll find ways to help from here.”
“You don’t—”
“I know I don’t *have* to,” Harper said fiercely. “I *want* to. You’re my—you’re *it,* Ro. My person. They don’t get to take you without fighting both of us.”
The words lodged under Rowan’s breastbone, hot and aching.
Zia slid down to sit on Rowan’s other side, completing the little circle. “Harper has a big mouth,” she said. “I have violence. Between us, we’re a complete set.”
Rowan made a hoarse sound that might have been a laugh.
“For what it’s worth,” Zia added, “if you go with him, having the Autumn Prince personally responsible for you is…not the worst position.”
“Says the girl who once told me she’d never set foot in a fae Court even if they promised her infinite tattoos and no taxes,” Harper said.
“I said I wouldn’t go unless I had leverage,” Zia corrected. “Being under a Prince’s protection is leverage. If he’s powerful enough to piss off his own advisors, that’s more.”
“He did say his Court hates this idea,” Rowan said.
“That tracks,” Zia said. “Old systems don’t like fulcrums. They prefer walls.”
Rowan exhaled slowly, trying to process about twelve different emotions at once—fear, anger, something traitorously like excitement, grief simmering under all of it like slow coals.
“Okay,” she said. “Okay. So…step one: talk to Gran. Step two: research the shit out of the Autumn Court. Step three: come up with about a hundred more questions to throw at him when he inevitably shows up again.”
“Step four,” Harper said, “buy more chocolate.”
“Very important,” Zia agreed.
Rowan leaned her head against the shelf and let herself, for one moment, be held in the space between them. Harper’s shoulder pressed into hers on the right, Zia’s steady presence on the left. For a breath, the bookstore felt like it always had—shelter, smell of old paper, the weight of stories around her instead of trying to crush her.
Then the bell over the door chimed, and the real world began again.
***
Gran was having a good day.
Rowan could tell as soon as she stepped into the room. The curtains were half-open, letting in the pale October light. Gran was sitting up, no oxygen cannula, a cardigan thrown over her shoulders. A half-finished sweater lay in her lap, needles clicking quietly.
“Ah,” Gran said as Rowan slipped in. “There’s my least favorite mistake.”
Rowan’s lips twitched. “You say that like you don’t also call me your ‘favorite little bastard’ when the nurses aren’t listening.”
Gran sniffed. “I contain multitudes.”
Rowan bent to kiss her cheek. “How’s the cardigan army?”
“They’ll bury me in yarn,” Gran said. Her needles flashed. “We’ll start a revolution in the afterlife. Overthrow the angels. Replace their harps with sensible knitwear.”
“You’re terrifying,” Rowan said, sitting.
“Good,” Gran said. Her gaze slid to Rowan’s face, sharpened. “You look like something the cat dragged in and then took back for a refund.”
“Nice to see you too,” Rowan muttered.
“What happened?” Gran asked.
Rowan considered lying. The urge rose, stubborn and old. Keep it light, keep it easy. Don’t burden her. Don’t stress her heart.
Then she thought of Caelan’s face when he’d said, *You asked for honesty.*
Gran deserved that much too. For all the ways she’d failed, lied, broken things, she was still the woman who’d raised Rowan on a steadier diet of truth than most.
“He came,” Rowan said.
Gran’s fingers stilled. The knitting needles stopped mid-click.
“Who,” she said, too calmly.
“The Prince,” Rowan said. Her mouth was dry. “Of Autumn. Caelan.”
The name hung in the air like smoke.
Gran’s pupils dilated. “He told you his name.”
“Yes,” Rowan said. “In a dream. Last night. And then he walked into the bookstore today like it was the most normal thing in the world and proceeded to lay out my life like a multiple-choice test.”
Gran exhaled slowly. Her shoulders slumped back against the pillows. “Well,” she said. “About damn time.”
Rowan stared. “About—have you *met* me? I needed at least two more years of denial before we got to this part!”
“You don’t have two more years,” Gran said sharply. “You barely have three months.”
Rowan flinched.
Gran’s gaze softened a fraction. “What did he say?” she asked. “Terms. I know he offered something.”
“He wants me to go with him,” Rowan said. She laid out the rest as best she could—Halloween, three months, guest, protection, chains or no chains.
Gran listened without interrupting, her needles standing at stiff attention in her hands. When Rowan got to the part about breeding stock, Gran’s mouth pulled back in a snarl that would have been more at home on a wolf than a frail old woman.
“I’ll skin them,” she muttered. “String their pretty insides on a line.”
“That’s not…physically possible for you,” Rowan said.
“Details,” Gran snapped.
When Rowan finished, the room sat with the words for a while. The wall clock ticked. A cart rattled somewhere down the hall.
“So,” Gran said finally. “What are you thinking?”
“That I don’t want to go,” Rowan said. “That I don’t want to *stay,* either, if staying means getting dragged.” She pressed her fingers to her eyes. “That both options suck.”
“Welcome to adulthood,” Gran said dryly.
“I was hoping for more ‘rent sucks, taxes suck, politics sucks,’ less ‘uproot your existence or be abducted by fairies,’” Rowan said.
“This family doesn’t do anything halfway,” Gran said.
Rowan dropped her hands. “You don’t seem…surprised,” she said.
“I’ve been waiting for those pointy-eared bastards to show their faces for twenty-five years,” Gran said. “I’m surprised they took this long.”
“Maybe he’s been working up the courage,” Rowan muttered.
Gran made a rude noise. “He’s a prince. They’re born without shame.”
“You know him?” Rowan asked slowly. “I mean…beyond the night in the woods. You said they…knew you. Like…you had some blood in common.”
Gran’s gaze slipped to the window. Outside, a gust of wind shook the maple, sending a flurry of leaves skittering across the parking lot.
“My grandmother told stories,” Gran said. “About a boy with silver eyes she danced with at a harvest fair. About a ring she found in her pocket that had never been there before. About a path in the woods that went somewhere it shouldn’t and brought her back with moss on her shoes and a song stuck in her throat that didn’t belong to this world.”
“And you thought…” Rowan’s voice caught. “…propaganda,” she finished weakly.
“I thought she was drunk,” Gran said bluntly. “She was. Often. Didn’t mean she wasn’t also telling the truth.” Her fingers tightened on the knitting needles. “When your mother started getting sick, I…heard that song.”
“In your head?” Rowan asked.
“In my bones,” Gran said. “Like humming. Like…a call. I fought it at first. Then I got tired of fighting. Then I got desperate. That’s a dangerous combination.”
“Did you know…which Court?” Rowan asked. “Who you were…calling?”
Gran’s mouth twisted. “I didn’t know enough to ask,” she said. “I just opened my stupid mouth and said yes to the first thing that offered me a hand.” Her jaw clenched. “If I’d realized it was Autumn, I might’ve thought twice.”
“Why?” Rowan asked softly.
“Because they’re…hungry,” Gran said. “Always. For more land, more power, more…stories. They take and take and call it ‘harvest.’”
“And yet you’d still send me with them,” Rowan said. She hated the bitterness in her own voice.
Gran’s eyes snapped to hers. “I’d rather send you with someone who’s *already* tangled up in our mess,” she said. “Someone whose neck is on the same line as yours. That boy…”
“Man,” Rowan muttered.
“Whatever,” Gran said dismissively. “He owes me.”
Rowan blinked. “He…does?”
Gran’s mouth thinned. “He was there that night, girl,” she said. “When I walked too far into the wood. When I traded your cousin for my daughter.”
“My cousin,” Rowan repeated. The word scraped. “The other girl.”
Gran flinched. “I didn’t…know, then,” she whispered. “I thought…they’d take some dying babe from somewhere else. A stillborn. A baby no one would miss.” Her eyes were wet. “It doesn’t matter what I thought. It was wrong, any way you cut it. But I went in thinking I’d found a loophole.”
Rowan’s heart hurt. “And Caelan was there,” she pressed.
“In the shadows,” Gran said. “Behind the King. He was…younger. Less lines on his face. Same damned eyes. He didn’t say much. Just watched while his father wrapped words around my throat like a noose.” She breathed out. “He tried to…argue. Later. Said it was too messy. Too dangerous. That the prophecy wasn’t worth poking like that.”
“He told you this?” Rowan asked, incredulous.
“Years after,” Gran said. “When you were still small. When you’d started burning on iron door handles and seeing things you shouldn’t. He came to the farm. Stepped out of the scarecrow’s shadow like he belonged there. Damn near gave me a heart attack.” A ghost of a smile flickered over her mouth. “We…talked. By which I mean I called him every name I could think of and he stood there and took it.”
“He…visited,” Rowan said slowly. “You never told me.”
“What was I supposed to say?” Gran snapped. “‘By the way, kiddo, the creepy man in your dreams shows up on Tuesdays for coffee’? You were eight.”
“I was already seeing him,” Rowan shot back. “I was already dreaming about him.”
Gran closed her eyes briefly. “I know,” she said. “I heard you. When you sleep-talked. When you said his name wrong over and over.”
“Wrong?” Rowan asked.
“Something like ‘Kay-lin’ or ‘Kay-um,’” Gran said. “You couldn’t get your tongue around it then. Kids’ mouths are still…loose.” Her fingers tightened on the yarn. “He said he’d watch. That he’d…keep the worst of them off you. That if the prophecy started to…tilt toward ruin, he’d handle it.”
“Handle it how,” Rowan asked. “By killing me?”
Gran met her gaze. “I asked him that,” she said. “He said he’d try everything else first.”
“That’s comforting,” Rowan said hollowly.
“As comforting as anything in their world gets,” Gran said. “He made me a promise. On his blood. That he’d do what he could to keep you from becoming a weapon in his father’s hands.” Her mouth twisted. “I’d like to think he’s kept that much of it. If he’s finally shown himself to you, it means the shadows aren’t enough anymore.”
“Because of the timeline,” Rowan said.
“And because of the name,” Gran said. “Once you know the name of something, doors start opening.”
“I already…opened one,” Rowan said. “In the dream. When I said his name. The sky cracked. Things tried to…push through.”
Gran’s gaze sharpened. “You did *what?*”
“I didn’t *know,*” Rowan protested. “He told me I could call him. I didn’t realize it was like…lighting a beacon that said ‘come snack on this tasty new fulcrum.’”
Gran swore, which was impressive given the oxygen situation. “Of all the idiotic—” She broke off, coughing.
Guilt stabbed through Rowan. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean—”
“Not you,” Gran wheezed. “Him. Letting you say his name like that without binding. That’s…rash. Even for something with wings.”
“He does not have wings,” Rowan muttered.
“Don’t ruin this for me,” Gran said. She sank back against the pillows, breath evening out. “Did he tell you what he wants from you?”
“Besides not exploding his Court? No,” Rowan said. “He said…if I accept his bargain, I’d have a claim on him. And he’d have one on me. He’d have to come if I called, even from here. In dreams. During danger.”
Gran’s eyes flashed. “Did you get that in writing?”
“It was a dream,” Rowan said. “There was moss. Not a notary.”
“Next time,” Gran said, “you make him *say it again,* in waking, with witnesses. Words like that are…sticky. Use them.”
“You’re…not telling me to stay away from him,” Rowan said slowly. “I kind of thought you’d…forbid it. Or something.”
“I have lost the right to forbid you much of anything,” Gran said. Her fingers worried the yarn. “If you stay, they’ll take you. If you go…you have a chance to shape how that happens. To pick your leash. I hate it. I hate that those are your options. But pretending there’s a third door won’t make one appear.”
“What if I run?” Rowan blurted. “What if I just—leave. Get in a car. Drive until the road ends. Change my name. Hide.”
Gran’s gaze softened, but her mouth stayed hard. “Sweet girl,” she said. “They are *not human.* They do not forget. They do not lose paperwork. You can hide from debt collectors and landlords and shitty exes. You cannot hide from things that listen to your blood singing in your veins.”
Hot, stupid tears burned under Rowan’s eyelids. “I hate this,” she whispered.
“I know,” Gran said. “And I am so, so sorry.”
The apology landed like a physical weight.
Rowan looked away, throat thick. “Sorry doesn’t fix it,” she said. It came out sharper than she meant.
“I know that too,” Gran said quietly.
Silence sat heavy between them.
After a moment, Gran reached out, fingers trembling. “Give me your hand.”
Rowan hesitated—old habits, old resentments—then extended her hand.
Gran’s grip was papery, but still stubborn. “Listen to me,” she said. “I made you a bad bargain before you were old enough to have opinions about anything more serious than cereal. That’s on me. I can’t…undo that. But I can try to improve the terms.”
“How?” Rowan whispered.
“By making another bargain,” Gran said.
Fear flared. “Gran—no—”
“Not with *them,* you ninny,” Gran snapped. “With *you.*”
Rowan froze. “With…me.”
“Yes,” Gran said. “Bone of my bone and all that. I’m not completely powerless where you’re concerned.”
“Are you sure?” Rowan asked faintly. “Because lately it feels like everyone else has more claim to me than I do.”
“Bullshit,” Gran said. “You are *mine.* Not in the way those jackals mean it. In the way that counts. I changed your diapers. I taught you to swear and spit and parallel park. That matters. There’s…magic in that too.”
Rowan swallowed. “What are you…proposing?”
Gran took a breath, her chest wheezing faintly. “I can’t stop them from coming,” she said. “I can’t stop the debt. But I can…wrap some of *our* power around you before you go. Old blood. Old protections. If you swear to something for me, and I swear back, that will…weigh in the scales.”
“What kind of…something?” Rowan asked warily.
Gran’s gaze bored into hers. “Swear you will not let them make you a victim,” she said. “Swear you will not lie down and take whatever they hand you because you think you somehow deserve it. Swear you will fight for yourself, even when it hurts.”
Rowan’s throat closed.
“I already—”
“You *try,*” Gran said. “That’s not the same as binding yourself to it.”
“Binding myself,” Rowan repeated.
“You want to go toe to toe with fae contracts?” Gran asked. “Meet them with one of your own. Tell the universe you are not a blade for other people to swing, you’re the one holding the hilt.”
The idea lodged, sharp and terrifying.
“I don’t know how,” Rowan whispered. “I’m not…magic. Not like that.”
Gran’s mouth twisted. “You are *exactly* like that,” she said. “You’ve just been pretending not to be because you thought if you didn’t look at it, it couldn’t hurt you.”
Rowan thought of the way glamours slid off her eyes. Of how she sometimes *knew* when someone was lying, not from tells, but from something hummed wrong in their words. Of how the air had shivered when she told Caelan to get out of her dream.
“Maybe,” she said. “But I still don’t know…rituals. Words.”
Gran huffed. “Words are easy,” she said. “Mean what you say, say what you mean. The rest is…fluff.”
“That is not what every book I shelved in the occult section says,” Rowan said.
“Those books are ninety percent nonsense and ten percent accidentally useful,” Gran said. “We’re going old school.”
Rowan almost laughed. “Define ‘old school.’”
“My grandmother’s grandmother taught her,” Gran said. “Out behind the barn with willow switches and a jug of moonshine. We’ll…modify for your sensibilities.”
Rowan hesitated. “Is this…safe?” she asked.
Gran’s eyes glittered. “Nothing about your life is safe anymore,” she said. “But this? This is *yours.* You and me. No fae ears. No Court games. Just blood and intent.”
Rowan’s pulse thudded. “What do I have to do?” she asked.
Gran smiled, fierce and a little wild. “Come closer,” she said. “And give me your word.”
***
That night, after the nurses had finally shooed her out and she’d endured a Lyft with a driver who insisted on discussing conspiracy theories relating to the moon landing, Rowan stood in her tiny kitchen, staring at the drawer that held her knives.
The apartment felt…different. Not in any obvious, visual way. The walls were still bland, the couch still saggy. But under the hum of the fridge and the muted city noise, there was an extra thread now. A note/frequency she hadn’t heard before.
Something in her chest answered it, humming back.
*Our blood remembers,* Gran had said. *We’re not just their mistake. We’re something older.*
The ritual had been simple. No candles, no chalk circles. Just Gran pricking her finger with a lancet, Rowan doing the same, their blood mixing on a square of cheap hospital tissue.
*I swear,* Gran had rasped, *that I will not rest easy, in this life or the next, unless you fight for yourself. I bind my stubbornness to your spine, my spite to your tongue, my fear to your feet so you know when to run and when to plant them.*
And Rowan, voice shaking, had said, *I swear I will not give myself up freely. Not to them, not to anyone. I swear I will not lay down and call it fate. I swear I am not a debt to settle, I am a person, and I will act like one. I swear I will use every word, every loophole, every trick you ever taught me to make myself a bad investment.*
Gran had cackled at that.
Their blood had soaked into the tissue, dark and sticky, and then—just for a second—Rowan swore the flimsy paper had glowed.
Now, alone in her apartment, she wondered what, exactly, she’d done.
“What if I wrapped myself in curses on top of everything else,” she muttered, pulling the drawer open. “Great job, Ro. Excellent life choices.”
She grabbed the smallest knife—a paring knife with a bright yellow handle. Not iron. Stainless steel. Safe enough. Still, her skin prickled just holding it.
“Okay,” she told the empty air. “We’re…testing something.”
She held the knife horizontally, blade out, and said, clearly, “Caelan.”
Nothing happened.
She huffed. “Figures.”
She tried again, this time picturing his face. The scar in his eyebrow. The way his mouth had tightened when he said, *I have already tied myself to you.*
“Caelan,” she said, pouring more intent into it. “If you meant what you said, show up. Or at least send a raven. I’m not picky.”
The lights flickered.
She froze.
The air in the apartment shifted, cooling abruptly. The hum under her skin picked up, vibrating in time with something outside herself.
From the far corner of the living room—where the wall met the ceiling, usually just dull paint and a cobweb she kept meaning to knock down—shadows thickened.
They didn’t pour or spill. They…folded. Like someone pulling fabric out of a too-small box.
“Shit,” Rowan whispered.
The shadows resolved into a shape. Tall. Broad-shouldered. One hand braced on her ceiling, as if he’d pushed his way through awkwardly.
Caelan blinked at her from her own living room, looking vaguely startled and thoroughly out of place.
He wore a dark, high-collared coat this time, something that looked like it belonged brooding on a cliff. A faint sheen of water clung to his hair, like he’d just stepped out of rain.
“You called,” he said.
Rowan gaped. “You just—you can’t—” She gestured wildly at the ceiling. “What did you—”
“I came,” he said simply. “You said my name with intent. I felt it. I followed.”
“Through my ceiling?” she demanded.
“Through the seam,” he corrected. “One of them. You have…more than you think.”
She pointed the knife at him on instinct.
He blinked, looked at the paring knife, then back at her face.
“Is that for me?” he asked mildly.
“Yes,” she said. “No. Maybe.” She scowled. “The point is you can’t just drop into my apartment like some kind of pointy-eared Batman whenever I say your name.”
“Pointy-eared…” He frowned. “Is that an insult? A compliment?”
“Debatable,” she said.
He glanced around her apartment, taking in the sagging couch, the chipped table, the kitchen that barely qualified as such.
“This is…small,” he observed.
“Wow,” she said. “Way to negg my living situation.”
His mouth twitched. “I didn’t mean it as insult,” he said. “Just an observation. You’re…compressed.”
“Some of us don’t have palaces and endless forests,” she said. “We have student loans and rent control.”
His gaze sharpened. “You have debt,” he said.
“Not anymore,” she said sourly. “Gran paid off my loans when she sold the farm. One of the few perks of having a magical disaster in the family. Everyone’s a little more generous with ‘get your affairs in order’ money.”
An unreadable expression crossed his face. “I’m…glad you don’t owe anyone here,” he said. “Aside from the usual human entanglements.”
She eyed him. “Says the man whose entire existence is one giant contract negotiation.”
“Do you regret calling me?” he asked quietly.
“Too soon to tell,” she said. “You did pop out of my ceiling like a horror movie.”
He glanced up. “I’ll…try the window next time,” he said.
“Next time?” she repeated.
“You used my name,” he said. “That…does things.” He looked at the knife again. “Are you going to put that down?”
She tightened her grip. “Depends. Are you going to start making ominous offers without being asked again?”
“That depends,” he said. “Are you going to start bleeding without warning in my head again?”
Heat crawled up her neck. “That wasn’t my fault.”
“Debatable,” he echoed her, a hint of amusement there.
She sighed and set the knife on the counter carefully. The edge still made her skin tingle. “I called because I wanted to know if you meant it,” she said.
“The bargain,” he said. “My…terms.”
“And the part where you said if I called, you’d come,” she said. “You know. That little thing.”
“I meant it,” he said simply.
“And I wanted to…tell you something,” she added before she could chicken out.
His brows lifted. “Already regretting that blood promise you made your grandmother?” he guessed.
She blinked. “How—”
“I was in the shadows,” he said. “Of the curtain. Old habits die hard.”
“You were there,” she whispered, anger flaring. “While we—while she—”
“I kept my distance,” he said. “But power like that…ripples. I felt it. Heard enough to know you tied yourself to a promise.”
“You had no right—”
“No,” he agreed. “I didn’t. I won’t apologize for watching. I *will* apologize for listening more than I should.” His eyes flicked to the tiny square of stained tissue folded in her pocket—she hadn’t been able to throw it out. “The old woman was clever. Angry. I respect that.”
“She’s dying,” Rowan said.
He inclined his head. “All mortals are,” he said. “Some faster than others.”
“Comforting,” she muttered.
He tilted his head. “What did you want to tell me?” he pressed.
She swallowed. “I’m not…saying yes,” she blurted. “To your bargain.”
Something shuttered in his face. “I see.”
“I’m also not saying no,” she added quickly. “I just—if you’re going to keep…coming around, you should know that I am not agreeing to anything tonight. Or tomorrow. Or even this week. I need—I *deserve* time to think.”
He studied her. Then, slowly, he nodded. “You do,” he said. “Deserve that. I didn’t expect your answer tonight.”
“You didn’t?” she asked, thrown.
“Only an idiot rushes a dragon,” he said. “I’m many things. Not that.”
She blinked. “You can stop calling me that any time.”
“I won’t,” he said.
“Of course not,” she muttered.
He stepped closer to the edge of the living room. Not crossing the invisible line where kitchen linoleum met threadbare carpet, as if respecting some boundary she hadn’t even realized she’d drawn.
“I came before you decided,” he said, “for a different reason.”
“Which is?” she asked warily.
“To warn you,” he said. “When you spoke my name in the dream, others…heard. They are sniffing more actively now. Some are closer than I’d like.”
A shiver ran down her spine. “Who?” she asked.
“An elder on our High Council who believes killing you is the safest course,” he said. “A few ambitious young fools who see prophecy and think ‘opportunity.’ And…” He hesitated. “Someone from another Court.”
Her chest tightened. “Let me guess. Winter. Wolves. Grim men with ice crowns.”
“Very good,” he said.
“I read,” she said. “A lot.” She searched his face. “Why would Winter care? Isn’t this your little apocalypse?”
“When one Court falls, the others feast,” he said. “Or burn. We are…intertwined. Some of them would rather we fall into their jaws than into ash.”
She swallowed. “So I’m, what, a contested resource?”
His expression darkened. “You are a person,” he said. “Not a resource.”
“You keep saying that,” she said. “Not sure the rest of your world agrees.”
“I don’t much care what they agree on,” he said softly.
The room felt suddenly small. Close.
“Is that…why you’re damp?” she blurted. “You just came from…what? Running through a storm to stop them from jumping out of someone else’s closet?”
He glanced at his sleeves, at the faint dark patches. “I came from a…discussion,” he said.
“Discussion,” she repeated.
“With the Hound of Winter’s emissary,” he clarified. “He thought it would be…amusing to show up uninvited and sniff around our seam. I…dissuaded him.”
“Dissuaded,” she said. “By…talking.”
“And other methods,” he said.
“Did you stab him?” she asked.
“Not deeply,” he said.
Against her will, a spark of something hot and treacherous flared in her chest.
“You got into a knife fight for me,” she said. “How chivalrous.”
He snorted. “I have never been accused of chivalry before,” he said. “Don’t start now.”
She wrapped her arms around herself. “This is…a lot,” she said. “All of it. You. Them. Prophecies. My grandmother doing blood rituals in a nursing home bed.”
“Yes,” he said simply.
“I don’t say this often,” she added, “but I need you to…shut up for a second.”
One corner of his mouth lifted. “As you wish.”
She paced—three steps one way, three back. Her apartment didn’t give her much more. Her thoughts spun.
“I don’t trust you,” she said finally, not looking at him.
“I know,” he said.
“I…believe you,” she added grudgingly. “About some things. About the Hunt. About what my ‘choices’ are. About the way your Court will…chew on me if given half a chance.”
He said nothing.
“I hate that,” she said. “That you seem to be my…least bad option.”
“I hate it too,” he said quietly.
She looked at him then.
He stood where he’d emerged, hands loose at his sides, silver eyes watching her with that unnerving, unblinking focus. Rain had made his hair curl a little at the ends. A drop slid from his temple down along his cheekbone.
She had the absurd urge to wipe it away.
“This bond thing,” she said abruptly. “If I…accepted. If we did this. It wouldn’t…make me feel…anything. Would it? Not…emotion-wise.”
Something flickered through his gaze. “No,” he said. “It would…strengthen what’s already there. Heighten resonance. Make it easier to…sense each other. But it would not…create affection where there is none.”
“Good,” she said too quickly. “Because I don’t…you’re…”
“Overbearing,” he supplied mildly. “Creepy. Too tall.”
“Annoyingly noble,” she snapped.
His brows winged up. “Ah,” he said. “The worst sin.”
“It is when I’m trying to hate you,” she muttered.
Silence pressed in around them.
He took a breath. “I won’t ask for your answer again until Samhain,” he said. “Unless circumstances change dramatically. You have my word.”
“Your word,” she said. “On…what, exactly? Your honor? Your crown?”
He smiled, slow and without much humor. “On my blood,” he said.
The air in the apartment shivered.
“Is that…binding?” she asked cautiously.
“For me,” he said. “Yes. If I break it, should I live long enough, the wildwood will eat me from the roots up.”
Her stomach flipped. “How reassuring.”
“I find mortal sarcasm…endearing,” he said.
“Don’t get used to it,” she said.
He looked toward the window. Night pressed against the glass, city lights smearing holes in the dark.
“I should go,” he said. “Before your neighbors start wondering why there’s a tall man in a coat in your apartment at midnight and call the authorities.”
She snorted. “Please. Mrs. Eckert across the hall will just assume you’re my new boyfriend and bring you banana bread.”
He stilled. “Boyfriend,” he echoed.
Heat flared in her face. “That’s…not…no.”
He stepped back toward the shadowed corner. “Sleep, Rowan,” he said. “If you can. I’ll…keep watch.”
“That’s exactly the kind of statement that makes me *not* sleep,” she muttered.
He vanished between one blink and the next, the shadows swallowing him up without a trace.
The hum in the air lessened, but didn’t disappear entirely. A thread remained, taut but not choking.
She stared at the corner for a long time.
Then she picked up the paring knife and tucked it, handle out, into the drawer by her bed.
“Fine,” she whispered to the empty room. “You want a dragon. You get one.”
Outside, the October wind pressed against the window, rattling the frame.
And in the Autumn Court, unseen by both of them, a girl with hair like spun sunlight and eyes like blue glass pricked her finger on a thorn, let a drop of her blood fall onto a map that showed two worlds, and smiled when it sizzled over a little town called Westbridge.
“A month and a half,” Aisling murmured. “Plenty of time.”
She traced a line across the border between realms with a fingernail, and where she touched, the paper smoked.
“I’m coming, Rowan,” she whispered. “You’ve had my life long enough.”