Chapter 9: Knock, Knock - The Shadow of a Vicious King

POV: MAX

Mabel’s dramatic departure was all shock value and no explanation. After her brief visit—those half-finished sentences and cryptic one-liners—I’m more determined than ever to dissect every secret she left behind.

Recreating the exact pattern and phrasing of her wards on the kitchen island is a maddening puzzle. The next few days are spent discerning the smallest, most infinitesimal differences in the designs. It’s complicated and slow-moving, but deeply satisfying. I’ve always loved puzzles, and this one matters. Every translated rune and matching scrap of paper brings me closer to the truth.

By the end of my first week of captivity, we’re almost finished. The late afternoon sun filters through the curtains, casting soft stripes across the wooden floorboards. Grimoires, dictionaries, and parchment clutter the counters.

E and I work well together, our quiet chatter broken only by the scratch of charcoal on paper and the occasional scrape of my stool against the tile.

His near-perfect photographic memory helps tremendously. He recounts the attic wards with very little back and forth, his precision rivaling any of my most meticulous colleagues.

“That one is ‘Heart,’” I say.

“And this last one is ‘Blood,’” E finishes.

I punch the air with an exaggerated high five, even if it connects with nothing, and start carefully lining up the drawings to recreate the entire phrase. Runes don’t form sentences, exactly, more like the lyrics of a song.

“If I’m understanding this correctly, the wards prevent anyone but those of Mabel’s blood from entering the attic.” I chew on my bottom lip. “Too bad I’m not her real family.”

“You’re her family. Blood has nothing to do with it,” E says softly. “But where does that leave us?”

“Blood from a Bloodsinger might trick the wards into letting me pass, but we have none of that either.”

My gaze drifts to the gardens. Would I be brave enough to step outside and gather a pinch of earth soaked with Aunt Kerri’s blood? Would there even be any trace of her left?

“Do you know anyone else who could help us?” E asks. “Some relative of Mabel’s who lives nearby?”

The word relative lodges in my ear, and my eyes widen. “You… You’re a Bloodsinger.”

“What?”

“You got into that attic without a hitch. You’re a Bloodsinger. These runes here—” I tap the symbols with my charcoal-stained fingers. “They mean no soul can cross the threshold but those of Bloodsinger blood.”

“Do ghosts have blood?” E muses.

I chew on the thought for a moment. “With Mabel, there’s no such thing as coincidence. She and Devi didn’t share custody of you just because they knew you when you were alive. They kept you close because you’re family. It would explain Mabel’s pet name for you, and why she’s watched over you all these years.”

When he speaks again, his voice cracks. “So Mabel would be what—my mother?”

“Oh no,” I say quickly. “Mabel still lived in the Red Forest when she had her kids, so she only had daughters. Her eldest, Siobhan, died a long time ago. I’m not sure if she had children. Kerrigan only had one daughter with her mortal lover. We don’t speak of Morrigan often—she’s a real nut-job.”

I hesitate. “Mabel confirmed the black sheep of the family had a secret child, but she said it was a girl, so…” I trail off. “Maybe a nephew? I can’t remember if Mabel had any sisters.”

“As far as we know, I might be her old, crumbling father,” E adds grumpily.

I’m about to deny that possibility when the sharp ring of the doorbell cuts through the house, freezing me in place.

I grab the longest knife from the butcher block and turn to face the door.

E drifts to the bay window.

“Who is it?” I murmur, stomach twisted with dread.

“It’s a man.”

I inch toward the door, knife raised. “What does he look like?”

“Brown hair. Black coat. Drives a silver Audi.”

I let the knife fall to my side. “Fuck. It’s my fiancé.”

My pulse thuds at my temples as I wrench open the door.

Dark brown eyes meet mine. “Surprise.”

“Lachlan, hi,” I squeak.

My mortal fiancé has a couple of inches on me, and I gape at his fancy coat, jacket, shirt, and black tie. He was supposed to be at a work function tonight, not here. He came to see me instead? That’s not like him at all.

I wish he had texted ahead and given me time to prepare, to build the polished version of myself he expects.

Caught red-handed in Mabel’s world of runes and spells, I feel exposed. Bare. Like he’s seeing the girl I used to be, the teenage witch I’ve buried under years of hard work and poise.

Sundown creeps closer, and my heart starts to race.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“Aren’t you going to invite me inside?” he finally asks, his brows knitting together.

“Yes, of course. Come in.” I step aside for him to enter, blood flooding my neck.

“Hey, gorgeous.” He plants a heavy kiss on my lips. “Are you cooking something?”

My gaze drops to the knife still in my hand. “No. Just washing dishes.” I close the door behind him and dart to the kitchen, sliding the knife back into the butcher block.

“I took the train home early—missed you too much.” He shrugs out of his coat and slings it over the back of a kitchen chair. “Blimey. Were you solving a murder?”

He strides toward the kitchen island, but I move faster, sweeping up the paper runes. I bunch everything together, straighten the stacks, and shove it all into the largest grimoire before snapping the leather cover shut.

“I was going through Mabel’s scrapbooks for a recipe,” I say, forcing a light tone that still trembles. “And lost track of time.”

His eyes narrow. “Scrapbooks?”

I wave dismissively. “She collects eclectic things. Her best recipes are hidden in there.”

I remember the days when I still tried to bring friends home, tried to explain away the gardens, the warded mirror, the overabundance of herbs and teacups so they wouldn’t think less of me. But I never wanted my fiancé to see this. The spellbooks, the curio cabinet, the rune drawings… It’s too close to the truth.

Lachlan steps closer and threads his fingers through my hair. His touch is familiar, but it feels as though he’s handling a stranger’s body. “You look different,” he says.

“I’m wearing slacks instead of scrubs.”

“That must be it.”

He tilts my chin up. “I missed you.”

“Missed you, too.”

The words taste strange on my tongue. It’s been such a short time and yet… It feels like I've lived and mourned nine lives since we last saw each other.

Our combined shadows move across the floor, long in the fading light. He bends down for a kiss, and I try to let myself be carried by the gesture, by the safety of routine, but the sun is setting, and monsters will be monstering soon. My worlds collide. The life I built for myself outside these walls goes on without me while I translate Fae runes and cower inside my magic house with a ghost.

“Weren’t you supposed to go to your boss’ house tonight?” I croak.

He lets out a sigh that’s half-regret, half-annoyed. “I couldn’t go without you. Not without raising eyebrows.”

“Couldn’t you just tell him my mother was sick?”

“I did, but then he excused me from the dinner altogether, saying I should be by your side. So I came.”

He leans in for another kiss, his tongue pushing into my mouth, but my brows furrow. Is he saying he only came to see me because his boss told him to?

E’s voice thunders from upstairs, bringing the kiss to a sudden stop.

“Hey, Max. Can you bring up some tea?” he shouts.

I blush all over. “Err— Sure thing. I’ll be up in a minute,” I answer in a high-pitched tone.

Lachlan’s gaze flicks to the staircase. “There’s a man here?”

“He’s my…cousin,” I lie. “He dropped by unannounced to check on Mabel.”

Lachlan walks past me and wraps a hand around the railing. “But you guys aren’t actually related, right? Can I meet him?”

I catch the worry in his tone, but the subtext—you’re adopted, so it’s not really your family—still stings.

“Erm— He’s very shy.”

His eyes narrow. “Maxine, I’m about to become part of your family. I want to meet him.”

He climbs the first step, but I grab his arm. I don’t know what I’ll do if he insists on meeting my ghost. It’s not like E could shake his hand.

“He’s a real pain in the arse. I don’t want to invite him to the wedding, and if he meets you, it’ll be that much harder to keep him out of the loop. Please.”

The corners of Lachlan’s mouth turn down. “I’m a little jealous he gets to spend time with you when I’ve barely seen you all week.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

I rise onto my toes and kiss him hard before grabbing his hand and leading him back to the kitchen. I pour two cups of tea for Lachlan and myself, then prepare a tray with two more to take upstairs, clinging to the lie that Mabel is in her bedroom, chatting with my cousin. The tray trembles in my hands as I climb the stairs and head into Mabel’s room.

I slam it down on her bedside table. The empty bed glares back at me in a silent accusation. It was stupid of me to invite Lachlan inside. Reckless.

“What are you doing? You can’t do that,” I clip in a whisper-shout.

“Did you see his face? I just wanted to have a little fun.”

“Fun?” My temper spikes, and the lights above my head flicker. “This isn’t fun. If I hear another sound out of you, you’ll be sorry.”

I move to leave, not waiting for an answer, but my gaze catches on a picture on the bookshelf. I’ve seen it a hundred times—one of the only remaining photos of my mother, taken years before I was born. She might have been around twenty then, though for a Fae, it’s hard to tell. Aunt Kerri is in it, too, with a stranger’s arms wrapped around both of them.

The woman in the middle suddenly rings a bell. I spin the frame around and slide out the tiny hooks holding the back in place. Inside, there are at least three other pictures from the same night—at Devi’s. The stools have changed since then, but I recognize the cupboards.

Sierra, Kerrigan, and Lillivere. 2001

I gasp, the photo trembling in my grip. This was after I was born.

“Who are they?” E asks.

I growl under my breath, too angry with him to answer, yet shaking with nerves. I need to go through every single one of Mabel’s books, get into the attic, and call Nick. I might be on the cusp of remembering exactly what happened that horrible night in the cabin, and my brother might be able to fill in the holes in my memory.

I leave the photo and open frame on the bed and hurry back down two floors to the kitchen.

Lachlan is peeking out at the gardens when I return. “I think there’s a storm brewing. The lights are being funny.”

The sun is already low on the horizon. He needs to leave now, before the mist comes. I join him next to the French doors and pat his back. “Maybe you should leave before the rain.”

When he’s gone, I can concentrate and sort through everything I’ve remembered.

His mouth curls into a pout. “You’re really going to stay here all weekend? We have a redo with the choreographer scheduled for Sunday.”

“I can’t help the timing.” I bite my bottom lip hard. “Mabel needs me now.”

Lachlan plants a heated kiss on my lips. “But if your cousin’s here, shouldn’t you get a night off?” He clasps my hands. “It just makes me even more eager for the wedding. Come home with me tonight.”

Damn E and his prank—he’s landed me in hot water.

“He’s going home soon. He’s got three little kids at home.”

Lies. Lies. Lies.

Lachlan’s eyes dance. “Then let me stay the night.” He leans in, mischievous. “Sneak me inside your bedroom. Your cousin can let himself out.”

Mist rises in the gardens, snaking between the bushes, and my stomach drops. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yes, you can stay.”

I pour him another cup of tea and add a hint of red jasmine and poppyseed, just enough to keep him calm. Something to ease his suspicions and blur the night into something hazy and forgettable, in case he sees shapes moving in the mist—or if E decides to blow my cover.

I grip his sleeve and tug him to the second floor.

He whistles as he steps into my bedroom, and I move past him to draw the curtains shut so the mist won’t catch his attention.

Lachlan sits on the bed and tilts his head up toward the fairy lights strung above it. “Isn’t it creepy to sleep here with all this childish decor? You’re all grown now.”

I cross the room and stop between his knees, leaning down for a kiss. It’s muscle memory more than desire, a routine I know how to perform. Without warning, he slips a hand under the hem of my shirt, unhooking my bra in one fluid motion.

I grip his shoulders. “Wait.”

He places a kiss on my stomach. “Oh, come on, luv. I missed you.”

I can’t have sex with him now. Not when I know E is close by. That he could hear us, or—Dark One forbid—slip past my door and see us.

I screw my eyes shut. “I can’t. It’s too weird with Mabel right upstairs. I’m sorry.”

He falls back on the bed and rubs a hand down his face. “Then what are we going to do?”

I slip my beloved tarot deck out of my dresser and wink at him, trying to rekindle that spark we found outside these walls. “I’ll read your future.”

He waves dismissively. “You know I don’t believe in all that.”

“I know, but I painted them myself.” I slip the cards out of their box and slide the lounge chair closer to the bed so I can sit across from him.

He frowns at the stack. “I didn’t know you could paint.”

For him to say that, framed by the wall I painted, is a little ridiculous.

“Well, listen closely, and you might learn my darkest secrets,” I tease him.

Maybe this love is worth fighting for. Archer or not, we committed to a lifetime together. Maybe he wouldn’t run. Maybe he’d stay if I were honest enough to show him all of me.

He studies me with that cautious half-smile he gets when he’s trying not to offend. “You look hot, actually. Like some wanton gypsy girl.”

I shift my weight and shuffle the cards. My fingers remember the rhythm even though it’s been years. I gather the deck, flicking it once with my pinky—Mabel’s rule.

“So…” he nods at the cards, “what do they say about me?”

“You have to touch the deck first,” I tell him. “Just for a second.”

He hesitates, then presses his fingertips to the top card.

“Now, think about your question,” I instruct. “Don’t say it out loud.”

His nose wrinkles. “I don’t have a question.”

“Then the cards will pick one for you.” My thumb slides along the edges, loosening the cards into a smooth fan. “You don’t pick the cards. They pick you. You stop when you feel a spark or a change in temperature. That’s how you know you should slide a card out of the deck.”

He cups my face and steals a kiss. “You’re cute when you’re excited about something.”

My eyes dart to the cards expectantly.

“Beautiful, I can’t hear any cards calling me.” He purses his lips and slides three cards out of the stack anyway. “Here. To make you smile.”

“Past, present, future,” I tell him, spinning them around and laying them down one by one.

The first card unveiled is the Lovers, reversed.

My voice trembles as I try to sound cheerful. “This one is the Lovers.”

Upside down, it signals disharmony. Choices made in bad faith.

“Aren’t you a little minx, drawing naked people?”

He doesn’t notice the way my fingers shake, and I turn over the second card. Lightning splits stone. A tower coming apart at its seams.

“This one’s about sudden change. Collapse before renewal,” I say quickly.

Lachlan exhales through his nose and rubs his face, already retreating. He sinks into the mattress, his gaze skimming past the spread.

“These things weird me out,” he mutters. “Can we just watch a movie on my phone?”

My shoulders sag. “Yes. Of course.”

I peek at the last card before discarding the deck.

The Eight of Cups.

Leaving. Walking away from something that no longer fulfills you.

I slide the cards back into their box and set it aside, my heart in my throat. Then I curl up beside my mortal fiancé, fitting myself against him, and wonder if Mabel is laughing somewhere at my expense. Because I think she might have been right all along, and I was too stubborn—or too deep under the spell of a love arrow—to see it.