Page 7 of A Lady’s Guide to Fae Kings

But it required sacrifice.

Pippa wound her way through the corridors and stone arcades of Hallow, morning frost bristling on the ivy leaves clinging to every available wall. The sun was shining weakly behind the clouds and oil lamps burned in windows. It smelled of damp and wood smoke and coffee. A comforting blend that could only belong to Hallow. She had stopped for a random collection of books a professor of Medieval Studies might have requested. A Librarian could go anywhere in Hallow if she was carrying books. No one would question her or think twice to see her pass by. Not even Lachlan.

A white owl watched her from the steeple of a chapel.

Lampposts were wreathed with cedar boughs. She passed reveler after reveler in the warren of University pathways, red dresses bright as candy. One of her regular patrons stopped to hand her a clementine, knowing they were her favorite. “You saved me with that encyclopedia!” he enthused. “I never would have passed Marwick’s examinations.”

Another white owl landed on a thorn tree.

Professor Thorn was usually found in Merriwether Hall, when he wished to be found at all. The gray-stone manor house had been built sometime in the last three hundred years, with mullioned glass windows and rows of red-clay chimney stacks. A gargoyle crouched in one corner, waiting to gobble up any stray piece of magic. It was not unusual to see a gargoyle wake to fly the skies of Hallow, circling houses or lecture halls. There were thirteen crowning the Library. The one with the chipped tooth was her favorite. She had tied his holiday ribbon around his neck herself.

These gargoyles had been joined by a white owl.

She frowned up at him and ducked inside, shutting the door quickly lest he try to follow. The heels of her shoes echoed on the parquet floor. Oil lamps burned warmly, smoke clinging to the walnut paneling as she made her way to the main auditorium.

There, in the center, leaning back against a wooden desk carved with knights in plate armor chasing a white stag, stood Professor Thorn. A small cluster of professors and a famous scholar of sea magic, whom she recognized from the newspaper, stood around him.

His voice was cool as the first frost. It brought a shiver to the back of her neck, like the ghostly press of his mouth, just there at the top of her spine. His cheekbones and the slope of his nose were elegant, but his jaw was feral. His hair was a moonless midwinter midnight.

She was being fanciful again.

The Fae brought that out in some people, she supposed. All that primal power and untamed magic. And that was before one factored in Lachlan himself. The dark authority, the unfairly beautiful face. His gaze found her, otherworldly, mismatched eyes gleaming. One eye was dark violet flecked with silver, but shadowed, sharp. The left eye now sported a scar across it, shining like a frozen river, as silver as the pupil it had tried to bisect.

The Fae did not scar easily.

There was another scar halfway across his throat. The placement of it was vicious. Faintly terrifying.

Frost crawled across her iron bracelet, delicate as moth wings. The books clutched in her hand warmed. She set them hastily down on the banister before she damaged them.

She felt that gaze travel down to her toes, like a lick of flame.

Or was that her magic, still burning? She honestly could not tell.

Pippa did not linger.

She was already outside in the snow before she heard him whisper in his whiskey voice, the soft brush of it against the shell of her ear. Dogs howled in the distance.

“Run, Pippa Cavendish.”