Chloe Black held the feather out in front of her. Her hands were shaking a little.

Over on Chloe’s bed, her tiny, fluffy white dog Corvus whined. He watched her with big, dark eyes.

“It’s okay,” Chloe said. (More to herself than to Corvus.) “I’ve got it this time. Pluenn sevel!”

With a flourish, Chloe released the feather. She held her breath, willing the feather to float upward. But it didn’t. It drifted down, down onto the dark purple carpet of her bedroom.

Her heart sank. She flopped back onto her bed, trying not to cry. Corvus hopped to his feet and started licking her cheek.

“Thanks, buddy.” She scritched his ears in his favorite spot. “I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up.”

Chloe had been trying to perform one spell — any spell — all summer. But nothing had worked. Not even the spell to change her hair color from brown to purple.

Chloe was a witch. Well, technically. Her parents both were. The Black family was full of accomplished witches, plus at least two vampires, one werewolf, and a gargoyle. But Chloe didn’t seem to have a smidge of magical abilities in her.

It happened sometimes. A kid with supernatural parents was born “nearly normal.” One foot in the supernatural world, one foot in the human one. Not quite fit for either.

“It’s not fair, Corvus.” Chloe tucked the white fluffball into her arms, rubbing her cheek against his soft fur. “I’m finally old enough to go to Crowley, and now I won’t be able to.”

Crowley Academy for the Uniquely Gifted was attended by all the supernatural kids in North America as soon as they turned nine years old. But you had to be a full-on supernatural in order to attend. They didn’t admit Nearly Normals.

Like me, Chloe thought with a sigh.

No successful spells meant no Crowley. Instead, Chloe would have to go to Saint Orthus, a regular grade school for regular human kids. And no hope of learning anything that could help her finally do magic.

Chloe sat up, looking down at Corvus’s whiskery face. “Well, that’s it. My life is over.”

Rebel was born twice.

The first time happened under more or less traditional circumstances. There were parents, there was a pregnancy, and then—after a lot of pain and screaming—there was a baby. Scrawny, squalling, and absolutely shocked at getting thrown into this too-bright, too-cold new world.

The second time Rebel was born, they were ten.

In some ways, it was kind of similar. The pain was there. Also the screaming—that happened. And when Rebel opened their eyes, they were in a too-bright, too-cold new world.

They lay in the middle of what had to be a forest of some kind, except the trees were all wrong—tall, dark green, bristly all over—and the ground they were laying on was covered in…something. Sharp-white and cold and quickly soaking through all the dark layers of their clothing. The sky above was a lumpy, uneven patchwork of grays above them, and the pale, diffused light seemed to rob the world of shadows.

A world without shadows. That’d be a first.

Rebel scrambled up, trying to get out of the cold, white stuff, but it stuck to their clothes like an extra-thick coating of dust. It was absolutely everywhere, stretching in every direction that Rebel could see, which wasn’t terribly far because those bristle-trees—all of them different shapes and shades of green and brown—were everywhere. Hemming them in.

Rebel swallowed hard, hands curling into fists against the fear and the cold. They couldn’t remember what had happened. Why they were here. Where was their guild? Where were their people? They spun in a circle, looking for an escape. Or a sign of hope.

And that’s when they noticed the monster.

It crouched next to the flaky brown trunk of a skinny tree—a big, jagged, beastly shape with no visible features. Just a silhouette of bright, golden-hued light with four massive arms and two legs as wide as columns.

It rose to its feet, twice Rebel’s height at least, and shuffled toward them without leaving a single mark in the white stuff all around it. Rebel scrambled backward, fear flooding their chest with heat, but their legs got tangled in the snow and in their awkward layers of clothes and they fell hard as the monster loomed over them.

It crouched low, reaching out, and a flower made of that same pure golden light bloomed in its sharp, clawed paws. The monster set it in Rebel’s lap, and Rebel could actually feel it on their skin, soft and warm and thrumming like a tiny heartbeat. A moment later, the flower dissipated, but it was enough.

Rebel looked up at the monster. They didn’t know where they were or how long it would take before their guild would come for them, but at least they knew they weren’t alone.

***

Oak was also born twice.

There was the first time—parents, pregnancy, pain, screaming, baby. And then there was the second time, when he was ten years old.

He had stomped off into the snowy woods behind his mothers’ weather-worn farmhouse, anger and frustration burning in his chest. They had told him they weren’t sure about his friends lately, that they seemed to be bad influences on him, that they felt the holiday break away from them would be good for him. They didn’t understand him or how he felt right now, barreling toward middle school and trying to figure out how to change his shape to best fit with the other kids in their town.

He’d stormed through snow up to his calves, leaving wide angry tracks in his wake, and clambered into the tree fort he and his mothers had built forever ago in the wide low branches of an old sugar maple. The inside was covered in old fallen leaves gone brown with decay, but he kicked them aside and plopped down on the creaking wood planks, determined to stay out there until he got too cold or one of his mothers came out to find

him.

Both of them did. Less than half an hour later. But Oak wasn’t there. He’d been torn from the snow and the quiet and the dusty smell of fallen leaves. Ripped through darkness. Thrown, screaming, face-first, onto unfamiliar ground that glittered and shifted underneath him like dark silver ash. All around him were low twisted trees—

No. Not trees, Oak realized. Rocks that sprouted and curved and branched like trees. But their facets were too hard and sharp, and deep inside the not-trees, veins of light glowed faintly. Deep shadows crisscrossed the landscape, and the rock forest stretched around him as far as he could see.

Oak’s pants were still damp from his walk through the snow, so it took him a second to realize his face was wet as well. Mist. He could feel the tiny drops hitting his skin, even though it was too fine for him to see. Reaching up, he dragged his fingertips across his cheek, and they came away shimmering with the same dark silver as the ground.

Oak curled against the base of a stone tree, sheltering under one of its low, wide branches, trapping his arms and hands between his knees and his chest so they wouldn’t shake. If he tucked himself into a tight enough ball, maybe he could pretend he wasn’t terrified. That his heart wasn’t pounding in his throat. That his brain wasn’t screaming with alarm at the strange wrongness of what was around him.

If you get lost in the woods, stay put, his mothers always told him. We’ll come find you.

So he stayed put. But it was hours before anyone found him. And it wasn’t his mothers.

The warden whirls around, drawing their golden gun and shoving it in my face.

I tilt my head at them. “Any way you could cut the reel, rustneck? It’s really annoying.”

“They don’t like it when you call them ‘rustneck,’ V,” Orion calls from his prison-chair. “Discovered that one myself recently.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

The warden spins the charge on their pulse pistol, cranking up the intensity as they scowl at me. Their longcoat is bedazzled medals and badges that clink together whenever they so much as breathe. “I am a chosen warrior of the Heralds. I do not fear the hands of demons.”

Demons. That one is new. I think I like it better than being called a saint, though.

“Let’s all just take it easy here, huh?” Orion says. His tone is light, friendly, but there’s a touch of nervousness underneath it. “V, this is my new best friend, Clarence, and I’d really love it if we could keep him—”

I’m vapor in the air. With Wrath in one hand and Mercy in the other, I phase above him and drop, burying the blades deep into the armor gaps on either side of his neck and then ripping them out again with no remorse.

Clarence isn’t dead before he hits the ground, but it only takes a few more seconds.

Orion blanches. “—alive.”

I wipe the blood from my knives and turn to him, pushing my goggles up and my hood down so I can see him with my own eyes.

He’s still tall, at least a head taller than me even sitting down, but stronger and fitter than he was three years ago when he was just a skinny kid. The ultra-bright lights overhead throw shadows over his face, which has lost all signs of the boyish roundness I remember him having. He grimaces down at the dead warden at my feet, looking a little sick to his stomach. And also, just for a moment, deeply sad.

I cross my arms. “Don’t tell me you’ve started mourning assholes like this now.”

His mouth twists into a rueful expression. “He wasn’t the one I was mourning.”

My eyes narrow as I catch his implications. “I wouldn’t worry so much about him anymore,” I snap, gesturing at the bonds on his wrists and ankles and head. “Considering your predicament.”

“Predicament is a really strong word.” He brings his gaze back up to me. “Of all the faces I expected to see, yours was not one of them. Are you here to rescue me?”

“Something like that.” I crouch down beside the warden’s body and flip him over onto his back with zero respect or reverence so I can get at the keys hooked to his belt. “Actually…I need your help.”

“My help. Valkyrie Bruinn, the infamous Butcher, needs my help.”

“Go ahead and rub it in. I’ll throw you right off this speeding train.” I straighten, flipping through the keys to find what I need as I turn back around—only to find Orion standing right in front of me, rolling his neck, rubbing at his noticeably unshackled wrists. I’m glad my mask is still covering most of my face to hide the fact that my mouth is hanging open in surprise.

“Weren’t you locked up?”

He looks back at the chair, with its chains and cuffs dangling uselessly. “Oh, that. Theoretically, yes. In actuality, it was more like voluntary captivity.”

Voluntary captivity. I scowl as I take in his expression. All casual and relaxed. “The wardens never arrested you, did they? You just let yourself get caught.”

He shrugs, a little sheepish. “If I say yes, will you be mad or impressed?”

“I don’t know,” I bite out. “Why don’t you try me.”

He shakes his head, laughing. “See, no, that’s a trap because you’re gonna be mad. I can tell.”

I didn’t calculate on Orion getting more irritating over the years. He’s weaponized that playful sense of humor that I thought was so fun when we were kids.

Bastard.

Setter steps up to the strategic-ops table and places both hands on the surface, looking like he’s conducting a council meeting or something. “I apologize for my unannounced presence. We should’ve informed you—”

“Don’t apologize, Setter,” Faye cuts in. She leans against the navcomm beside Honor, who’s plopped down in the copilot seat. “I asked you to come and I chose not to tell Alyssa about it.” She looks at me

and cocks her head. “You need all the help you can get.”

I try to catch Hell Monkey’s eye, but he’s staring at his boots. I lean over my knees, scrubbing at my eyes. Gods, I’m tired. “Look, I appreciate the go-team attitude, but mostly we just need a place to hide. Preferably somewhere with access to supplies and resources so I could maybe wash my hair in the near future instead of saving it for the water ration.”

Honor frowns. “Wait . . . that can’t be your entire plan, can it?”

Setter nods sharply. “I agree. Edgar Voles cannot be allowed to sit on the throne after what he did to Nathalia.”

I laugh a little, but it’s dry and catches in my throat. “Apparently not everyone sees it that way. Like your parents, for example.”

His shoulders drop a little, and his eyes cycle from a bright orange to a pinkish red like a blush. He looks over at Faye, who flips a hand at me, absolutely unfazed. “Our parents are gonna do whatever benefits them. You can’t blame them for that, and you can’t blame us for that either. We’re here, aren’t we? You called, and we’re ready to go. So let’s go.”

“Go where? Do what?” I throw my hands in the air. “I tried to do something to stop all this, and I don’t know if you missed it, but it did not go well. At all.”

Faye shakes her glowing hair. “Well, that’s because your plan was stupid.”

Hell Monkey’s head finally comes up, and he laughs, short and loud. “That’s what I tried to tell her.”

“She never listens,” Faye tells him, talking around me like I’m not sitting right there. “As soon as she gets a plan in her head, it’s gotta be the best plan, so it’s full thrusters ahead.”

“Listen,” Hell Monkey says with a snort. “You don’t have to tell me. I’ve got stories . . .”

“We should definitely discuss those stories—”

I clap my hands together. “Okay! New ship rule! You two are not allowed to talk to each other. Nova? Make a note of that.”

“I DEFINITELY WILL NOT.”

Important note: do not put your ex in the same room with your current . . . person. Or whatever we are. Maybe if I try real hard, I can just melt through the floor. Become one with the ship. That doesn’t seem like a bad way to go at the moment.

Mr. Shaw grinned broadly as he made his hellos and then gestured to his companion. “Mr. Beckworth, Miss Beckworth, allow me to introduce my wife, Mrs. Mary Shaw.”

There was a long, quiet moment as Mrs. Shaw looked up at my uncle. She looked grave, not a hint of color in her white cheeks, and then she dipped the slightest of curtsies. “Mr. Beckworth.”

I glanced over at Uncle Phillip and was surprised to find him looking quite affected. It was that mix of regret and nostalgia that I had seen on his face when we’d first stepped onto the grounds of Hartsdale. Had he known Mrs. Shaw when he had lived in Fairbridge years prior? And if so, what had passed between them that would make them both act so?

I cleared my throat, drawing everyone’s attention as I made my own curtsy and attempted to disperse the tension. “Mrs. Shaw. Thank you so much for joining us.”

“Miss Beckworth. The please is all ours, I’m sure.” Her mouth did all the work of smiling; her eyes played no part in it. “My, how genteel and grown-up you look. Not at all like I pictured based on the stories.”

I blinked at her, not entirely sure I’d heard her right. “…I’m sorry?”

“Ah, Astley!” Mr. Shaw bellowed, darting back toward the drawing room entrance with his hand outstretched in greeting. “I was hoping you’d make it!”

Astley. Certainly not…

But, of course, it was. The same Lord Edmund Astley who had quite literally picked me up out of the mud last night was now walking into the drawing room in a dashing black jacket and blue brocade waistcoat, with boots so perfectly shined that they looked as if they hadn’t seen dirt their entire lives. Let alone a forest full of mud.

He didn’t even glance at me once as he crossed the room to my uncle and took his hand. “Mr. Beckworth. I am beyond humbled to be included in this party. Given our families’ histories, I hadn’t dared expect an invitation.”

“Let that be water under the bridge, my lord,” Uncle Phillip said, his tone full of warmth and conviction as he tilted his head in a respectful bow. “We were all very different people back then. I am not interested in digging up any bygones tonight.”

Lord Astley’s eyes glittered in the candlelight. “Nor am I.”

Uncle Phillip turned to me, drawing me forward a little. “May I introduce my niece, Miss Eleri Beckworth.”

Now Lord Astley did finally fix his gaze on me, and his mouth curled with barely suppressed amusement as he bent low over my hand. “Honored to finally meet you at last, Miss Beckworth.”

I arched a brow at him, more than willing to play this game. “You sound as if you had been anticipating this introduction for quite some time, my lord.”

“Perhaps I have,” he admitted, his blue eyes dancing, “but that is only because your reputation precedes you.”

“Does it? Well, that is a frightening thought.” And, indeed, not even the first time in just the past quarter of an hour that someone had mentioned me having one. I’d never really thought of being interesting enough for stories to be told about my personal qualities and conduct, but now I was dreading the opposite.

“Ah, Mr. Evans.” Uncle Phillip’s voice pulled my attention away from Lord Astley, who winked at me before moving farther into the drawing room. “I was beginning to worry you might not come after all.”

I eyed Mr. Evans as he stepped forward and made his bows and greetings to my uncle and couldn’t help muttering under my breath, “Was it a worry? Or was it more of a hope?”

I hadn’t thought me loud enough for anyone to hear me, but his eyes cut sharply over to mine and narrowed slightly — a flicker of a scowl that was gone in an instant. “I apologize for my lateness, Master Beckworth. Your invitation was exceedingly generous.”

Uncle Phillip thanked him in return for coming and then went to go ensure the other guests were comfortable. Mr. Evans stepped in front of me and took my hand far more out of necessity than any apparent want. His dark velvet green jacket was admittedly well-suited to bring out the green in his eyes, but that wasn’t enough to distract from the fact that his voice dripped with disdain as he greeted me. “Miss Beckworth.”

I withdrew my hand quickly from his grasp, glad for my gloves as a barrier between his fingers and mine. “Mr. Evans. And here I thought you would have some other young ladies to make cutting remarks to tonight.”

One corner of his mouth curled upward, but there was no amusement in it. “As if one with a tongue as sharp as yours would be a stranger to drawing blood.”

A bright gust of laughter drew my attention back to my uncle, who had his head thrown back, laughing at some comment from Captain Dotson, looking lighter than he had since we’d arrived at Hartsdale. He had enough on his mind at this moment. He did not need for some petty disagreement between myself and his steward make this evening more difficult.

I took a deep breath, steeling myself as I turned back to Mr. Evans. “We need not be uncivil. I should not have questioned your integrity, and I am sorry for saying so.”

Mr. Evans folded his hands behind him, his jaw clenched and the lines of his mouth tight. Standing this close to him, his eyes were truly striking in both color and how they seemed to glow in this light. “You’re offering an apology I neither asked for nor wanted. You offer it to me like a gift, to be recognized by such a fine lady above my station, but even the lowliest peasant has their pride.” I stiffened, opening my mouth to respond, but he cut me off, leaning in and dropping his voice quite low. “Our acquaintance is likely to be short of duration, Miss Beckworth, and that will be all the better for both of us.”