POV: Seraphina
My scream died in my throat.
Footsteps thundered in the hallway outside my room. The innkeeper's voice yelled, "What's happening? Is someone hurt?"
The man—Theron—moved faster than anything living should be able to move. One moment he was sitting on my bed, and the next he was at my door, stopping it. When the landlady tried to open it from outside, Theron's hand glowed with silver light. The host screamed and ran.
I stood frozen, shaking, my back pressed against the far wall.
"Don't scream again," Theron said softly. His voice was calm, but it carried an edge that made me understand he wasn't asking nicely. "I won't hurt you. But if you scream, people will come, and people will die. Do you understand?"
I nodded because I couldn't do anything else. My entire body was shaking. My mind was running. That mark on his hand—it was the curse-mark from the stories. The mark that meant death. The mark that belonged to the Twilight King, the ageless who'd ruled for eight hundred years.
He was in my room. Alone. With me.
The innkeeper's footsteps faded as he ran downstairs, probably looking for the military. We had maybe minutes before soldiers came.
"Why?" I whispered. "Why did you come here?"
"Because your voice," Theron said, and he turned to face me. His silver eyes glowed in the lighting, and they looked almost desperate. "I heard you sing from my house. Your voice did something impossible. It stopped the curse from hurting me."
"That's not possible," I said. "The curse-mark is death. Everyone knows that."
"Yes," he said simply. "And your voice made it stop hurting. Just for a moment. But that moment was enough." He took a step toward me. "I need to know what you are. Why your voice can do that to my curse."
I pressed myself harder against the wall. "Stay back."
But he didn't. He kept walking toward me, and I realized I was trapped. There was nowhere to run. The door was blocked by an immortal king. The window was too high to jump from. I was stuck.
When he reached me, I shut my eyes. I was sure he was going to touch me with that evil hand. I was sure this was how I died—in a tiny inn room, killed by a mysterious force I didn't understand.
"Open your eyes," he ordered.
I did. Against my will, against my fear, I followed.
He raised his cursed hand slowly, giving me time to move away. I didn't move. Some part of me was too curious, too desperate to understand what was happening. His shining silver hand came toward my face, and I held my breath.
He touched my cheek.
Nothing happened.
I mean, totally nothing. No pain. No withering. No death. His hand was warm against my skin, and it felt almost normal—except for the power flowing from it like heat from fire.
His eyes went wide with shock. The same shock I was feeling.
"What are you?" he breathed, his voice barely a whisper.
"I don't know," I said, which was the truth. My grandma had always warned me that I was different, that my siren blood made me dangerous. But I'd never understood what that really meant. Not until this time.
"Your blood," he said, studying my face closely. "It's siren blood, isn't it? That's why you're immune to my curse."
I didn't answer. I didn't trust him enough to confirm anything.
He pulled his hand away and stepped back, and I realized he was giving me room. He was treating me like I might break. Like I was something valuable instead of something dangerous.
"Tomorrow night," he said. "There's a clearing in the forest about an hour's walk north of the town. Come there at midnight. I want to hear you sing again. Without a crowd. Without fear."
"No," I said instantly. "I'm leaving this village at dawn. I'm not coming back."
"Yes, you are," he said, and his voice was certain in a way that made my skin crawl. "Because you're curious. Because you want to know what I am as much as I want to know what you are. And because some part of you felt it—that pull between us when we touched."
"I felt fear," I said coldly.
"Fear and something else," he corrected. "Admit it."
I didn't want to admit it. I didn't want to acknowledge the strange feeling that had run through me when his hand touched my face. It wasn't just fear. It was recognition. It was like my body knew something my mind didn't understand.
Below, I heard voices. Soldiers had arrived. They were in the inn, asking questions, searching.
"They're coming for you," I said.
"Let them," Theron said, and he moved back toward the door. "They won't find me. But they will find you, and they'll want to know why the Twilight King was in your room." He paused at the door. "Unless you tell them I'm gone. Unless you lie for me."
"Why would I do that?"
"Because if you don't, they'll kill you for treason. And because you want to hear me sing tomorrow."
Wait. He said sing. I was supposed to sing for him.
"I never agreed to come," I said.
"No," he said. "But you will. The area north of the village. Midnight. Don't be late."
Before I could reply, he opened the door and walked out into the hallway. I heard the men shout. I heard the sound of fighting—screams, the crash of bodies, the horrible sound of the curse doing what it did best.
And then quiet.
The silence scared me more than the screaming.
I was shaking so hard I could barely stand. I heard the soldiers returning, moving carefully up the stairs. They were coming to my room. They were coming to ask me about the Twilight King.
And I knew, with total certainty, that I was going to lie for him.
I was going to meet him in that clearing tomo
rrow night.
And everything was about to change.