She knew the monster was with her.

Rosalind’s breath stuttered as she stood frozen in the inky dark, every muscle stiff

and sore from being rigid so long.

How long had it been? She didn’t know. She never knew.

It always felt like years.

Electricity shot through the stagnant air around her, and it smelled like something had burnt. The tightly coiled dread in her stomach unfurled, spreading through her veins like slow rolling magma that scorched her from the inside out.

A sinister presence loomed behind her. The hair rose up on the back of her neck, but she forced herself to stay still, to stay facing forward. Even when the darkness lifted. Even when her eyes tracked the all too familiar scene in front of her.

She couldn’t look back. That was even worse than what lay ahead.

A sharp breath slid through her teeth when the boy entered her line of vision. After all this time, she still winced when she saw him run and jump, stumbling with the intoxicating invincibility of childhood. The blissful innocence in his eyes sent a fissure through her feeble heart.

She couldn’t watch him lose it again.

But, inevitably, the monster rose up and focused its sight on the young boy. Though she knew what would happen—that she couldn’t stop it no matter how hard she tried—her hands clenched into fists, her nails digging into her palms. The energy behind her grew, surging, sucking the life out of her with each shaky breath.

Rosalind knew what would happen.

Again.

Still, she lurched forward, desperate to save the boy this time, but she had barely taken a step when the energy around her pulsed and crackled. The atmosphere split open for a moment. Rosalind had only a second to register the taste of burnt metal in her mouth, the roaring in her ears, before a force blew her back and she skidded across the ground.

Trembling, Rosalind jerked her head up, eyes darting around in a desperate attempt to find the boy, hoping vainly that he had somehow escaped.

A broken sound erupted from her when she saw him: twisted, bruised, in a puddle of red.

Horror shook her bones. She scrambled back, colliding with the presence behind her, and instinctively turned around.

Her scream tore her throat in half.

* * * * * * * *

Rosalind shuddered awake with her hands still in fists, realization dawning before she was even fully conscious. She didn’t open her eyes as reality snapped back into her, as she became aware of her clinging nightshirt damp with sweat, the dull ache in her stomach, and the slight tug of her hair on her scalp. Despite the harrowing nightmare, she huffed a sigh when she recognized it must be morning.

Her body had become accustomed to a schedule without her permission. Like clockwork, she’d just opened her eyes when a soft knock sounded on her door.

“Rosalind,” a melodic voice called from the other side. “Breakfast.”

The sound of footsteps padded away. Rosalind’s mom had stopped expecting a response whenever she came to her sanctuary of a room. Even with so many thick walls between them, Rosalind could imagine the way her mom’s honey hair shimmered as she swayed down the hallway. Genevieve Corona, with golden skin and soft curves, was all grace and warmth, as if life itself bled from her dainty fingertips.

Rosalind was nothing like her mother.

She was all angles, unruly inky hair, and harsh pale skin. A black hole that sucked everything up only to spit it back out. Always taking, but never really gaining.

Rubbing her face, Rosalind yanked enough hair out from under her pillow to push herself onto her elbows, then cracked her eyes open. The thick curtains were still drawn over her lengthy windows, keeping her room shrouded in shadows despite the sun rising behind them, and the air was warm and stuffy, too, indicating how much time had passed since she’d last opened the door.

Groaning, she fell back onto her pillow with a cushioned thud. Time lurched and dragged, swirling with the groggy darkness. By the time another knock sounded, strong and assured, Rosalind had barely moved.

“Rosalind,” her father called, always chirpy at eight in the morning. His voice awakened some of Rosalind’s childhood awe, how she marveled that one person could be so powerful and soft at the same time. “Are you up for a trip out today?”

Echoing the memories of yesterday, the day before, and every day before that for years, Rosalind shifted her head enough so she could say, “No, thanks.”

“Okay, then.” He never sounded angry or hurt, but she knew serving on the royal council had perfected his ability to keep his emotions invisible. “I’ll see you tonight.”

She gave a muffled, noncommittal grunt in response. They both knew he wouldn’t be seeing her tonight.

Once his footsteps faded, Rosalind let out a long breath. If her father was upstairs, then breakfast was over, and if breakfast was over, then it might be safe for her to sneak into the bathroom unnoticed.

Get up, she told herself, but even the need to use the bathroom couldn’t motivate her lethargic muscles into motion. Get up.

It’s too hard, her body whined back.

She couldn’t argue with that.

A few hours passed, the faint light peeking out from the curtains changing as the sun climbed higher in the sky. Rosalind had managed to flip onto her back despite the massive pile of her hair that was tangled up in her pillow. Groaning, she started to sit up.

Another knock. Quick and fleeting, like it was running out of time.

She froze.

“Rosy?”

She counted the heartbeats as they pounded in her chest. Her fingers twitched into fists, and she glanced at her nightstand. It was the perfect barricade for the little door next to her bed—he couldn’t get through the secret tunnel that used to connect them if she blocked it. He probably couldn’t even fit through the opening anymore.

But she glanced anyway. Just to check.

“Hey, Rosy, you there? You wanna come out and play?”

Rosalind closed her eyes, her nails biting into her palms.

“Rosy?” Even though he did this every day—sometimes multiple times a day—she still winced when she heard her younger brother’s voice. “Rosy, it’s so nice and warm outside. You wanna come?”

Rosalind was afraid to breathe, which was ridiculous considering Zachary knew she was there. But still. She was afraid to breathe, to move, to acknowledge her own existence.

“Raf says the gardens are gonna bloom soon,” Zachary babbled on in his usual excited chatter. “He says there’s gonna be more colors than I even know. Can you believe that Rosy? Do you wanna come see it? I was out there earlier and I let Maldo hop around. I’m pretty sure he might actually be a prince. There are stories about that, about princes being frogs but they are actually princes. Will you kiss it Rosy? If you kiss it, he might turn into a prince. He needs your help, really. Maybe he’ll give you really cool shoes or something. Will you kiss him Rosy? You wanna come outside and play with me and Maldo? I’ll let you guys get to know each other first. You don’t actually have to if you don’t want to, but I thought it would be interesting to see.”

Rosalind sat in perfect silence until Zachary ran out of steam. Despite it being ages since she’d actually looked him in the eye, she knew exactly how the enthusiasm lighting up his freckled face would slowly start to dim. She could see his expression bloom into a pout like a wounded puppy dog. Years ago, Rosalind would have done anything when his face fell that way.

“Okay,” Zachary finally said, deflating. “Well, you’re probably busy. That’s okay. Um, I’ll be outside playing if you want to come. You really can. Okay.”

There was another moment of quiet laced with his fragile hope so sharp and poignant that Rosalind felt it like a dagger in her side.

Then the moment passed. Zachary sighed in defeat, and the carpet audibly pressed as he made his way down the hall.

Three minutes later, Rosalind regulated her breathing. Ten minutes later, she finally pried her fingers from their fist and sunk back into her pillow.

* * * * * * * *

The steps creaked underneath Gothel as he trudged down the stairs, wiping sleep from his eyes. He’d managed to get another two hours of muddled sleep after Boone’s early—and vulgarly noisy—awakening. But he still felt drained. In the tiny shack they called home, you could hear every breath from everyone, whether they were upstairs or downstairs. It made Boone’s obnoxious dawn rising like a horn blowing in one ear. Like Gothel, Ulf and Tor were quiet as whispers, but Calder wasn’t much better than Boone.

Gothel sighed. He hated mornings.

Stifling a yawn, he paused halfway down the stairs when he heard muffled voices from the kitchen directly below him.

“Of course not!” Boone thundered, his voice as callused as a worker’s palms. “We have the time. We’ll figure it out.”

“It’s been months,” Calder argued, his voice velvet in comparison. “We’ve waited too long. Consequences could come any day now, and we both know they aren’t going to be pretty.”

Boone wouldn’t budge. “It won’t come to that. We’ll be fine.” Then the door squeaked open and slammed shut, and Calder muttered a curse under his breath.

Gothel waited a second longer, then descended the rest of the stairs into the kitchen. The space was a narrow rectangle with a table running along one wall and a cracking counter and sink against the other. There was barely enough room in the middle for people to walk through single file.

Calder stood by the sink, twirling a cup in his hand. He looked absolutely ridiculous in a posh, fluffy robe he had stolen. With his styled hair and debonair smile, he resembled a young, rich nobleman who had lost his way and somehow ended up in a rotting square shack with a mice problem and barely enough space to breathe. The contrast hurt Gothel’s eyes, even though he knew Calder was just as penniless and orphaned as he was.

The tiny crease of concern on Calder’s forehead lifted as he smiled. “Mornin’, G.”

Gothel jerked his chin toward the door Boone had slammed. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Does there have to be something wrong for him to be a grouch?”

Gothel shrugged. Though he’d hung around Boone’s crew for a few years now—had it really been that long?—the man still seemed annoyed every time Gothel walked into the room. Gothel didn’t take it personally; Boone wasn’t one of his top five favorite people either.

Calder sighed, a rare flame of sincerity lighting in his eyes.

“He’s…agitated. About the money.”

Agitated? Just agitated? Gothel hadn’t slept right for weeks because of that stupid money, and Boone was just ‘agitated.’ Perfect.

“As he should be,” Gothel retorted, yanking a pitcher of juice from the lukewarm icebox and frowning at the suspicious film on top of the liquid. He nearly saw red every time he thought about the money: money that Boone had borrowed from a crime lord, money that had unwittingly marked Gothel and the rest of them as debtors.

Gothel hated debts anyway—there was no dignity in owing someone. But being indebted to Pepperjack, Elaria’s king of crime and most notorious criminal, was nothing short of a death sentence.

And Boone hadn’t told them. Hadn’t consulted any of them about signing their souls away. He’d just done it, ‘for the good of the group,’ claiming they were that desperate, that they needed that money to survive.

And for what? Spoiled juice?

No, there had to be more to the story than Boone let on.

Calder just gave him a look, as though parenting a child. Gothel rolled his eyes. Calder could play any part you gave him, but his favorite around Gothel was a schooling older brother.

“Look.” Calder took the juice from Gothel and poured himself a cup. “Don’t start, okay?” He flashed one of his signature smiles—smiles that often won him trust, money, and women. “It’s too early.”

Despite having known him for years, Gothel didn’t know how he could smile like that: carefree yet knowing. He acted as if life were grand and easy yet knew firsthand it was not. It seemed contrived to Gothel. Even if he didn’t know Calder as one of the greatest con men in the kingdom, he’d still never trust that easy smile that always lit his face.

Nobody was that happy.

“Stirring up trouble, Little G?” a sweet voice sang in his ear.

Gothel forced himself not to startle. Tor prided herself on being the only one who could still sneak up on him—or anyone, for that matter.

“Just hunting breakfast,” Gothel replied, casually leaning out of her touch and sitting down at the table, notably breakfast-less.

Calder gave Tor a smile—who appreciated it more than Gothel had—and plopped down next to Gothel, swinging his legs over the bench. Tor strode around the table and slid into a seat across from them. She was clearly off duty from work: she wore a simple grey shirt and dark pants with her ebony hair pulled into a ponytail, displaying the birthmark and blemishes on her face she usually hid. Even then, without trying, she was the most gorgeous woman Gothel had ever seen.

“Orange?” Calder offered Gothel a bruised fruit from the stolen basket on the table.

Gothel shook his head. Calder shrugged and started peeling it for himself.

“Nothing here up to your standards, Little G?” Tor asked with a lively smirk. Leaning forward, she rested her chin on two dainty hands, both just small enough to pick someone’s pocket without them noticing, and ran her tongue along her teeth. “Maybe I can find something for you.”

She winked at him. Calder grinned and winked back for him. Gothel just blinked.

He’d never understand these two.

“Not hungry,” he muttered.

Irritation twitched in Tor’s expression. Then she gave Gothel a brilliant smile, her white teeth glittering against her brown skin—boosted by magic, he knew. When Gothel didn’t react, she rolled her eyes with a huff and Calder snickered before delving into his lumpy orange. Gothel pretended not to notice.

Suddenly, the front door swung open, barely clearing the edge of the table. Boone sauntered in with Ulf stepping lightly behind him, both of them taking up the rest of the kitchen.

The pair had founded the little group long before Gothel knew either of them, and their bond was difficult for him to figure out: the two were near opposites. Boone was a mass of a man, standing a half foot taller than all of them. His head was bald, his beard precise, and his footsteps heavy and forceful—a tread meant for making a mark on the world. Ulf, in comparison, was scrawny and gaunt, his head buzzed clumsily as though unsure whether it was supposed to grow or be shaved. While his friend stomped around the kingdom in an attempt to own it, Ulf seemed to float and encompass the space given to him without ruffling a feather. Calder once joked that Ulf was the most respectable out of all of them, but Tor had just scoffed.

“Oh, please, if he still had a tongue he’d be just as dirty as the rest of us. We are thieves, after all.” Then she’d winked at him, and Ulf had given her one of his rare half grins.

“Nice day out today,” Boone boomed when he came in, apparently already over his ‘agitation.’ “Royal council is holding a forum outside the palace gates this afternoon.”

Calder whooped and Tor bared her teeth in a wicked smile. Rising gracefully to her feet, she leaned her head on Boone’s shoulder. “Well, we should be good subjects of our beloved King Asher and attend, don’t you think?”

Boone grinned and wound his arm around her. “I think so.”

“Hm, then who should I be today?” She glanced around the barren room in thought and pretended not to notice Boone smelling her hair. “The pregnant bit gets the most sympathy, but the bump is a chore. A merchant’s daughter, maybe? Or just a girl looking for a friend in the crowd?”

“Careful with that one, Tor.” Calder aimed his easy smile at her and tilted his head like he did when he wanted something from someone. “You’ll break someone’s heart.”

“Why?” She smirked, breaking out of Boone’s hold to run her finger down Calder’s cheek. “Speaking from experience there, Calder?”

Calder smirked back and pulled her onto his lap while Gothel slid just far enough away to not touch them. Everyone was too wrapped up in Tor to notice, as usual.

“I got a plan for the forum, boss,” Calder said with a lazy kiss on Tor’s cheek. Gothel turned to look at another spot on the wall, though the pair were still in his peripheral vision. “How about Tor and I go as lovers again? Nobody dares look at us when we’re all over each other. Nothing like using discomfort to rob ’em blind.”

The smile didn’t leave Boone’s face, but it seemed to crust over slightly. “If anyone’s playing the partner game with Tor today, it’ll be me.”

Tor giggled at something Calder did. Gothel just wanted to leave, do the day on his own, but all the exits were blocked. Boone’s smile cracked when he clenched his jaw.

“Too bad,” Calder muttered.

“I’ll do what I want,” Tor murmured back.

Gothel looked up at the ceiling. He just wanted a plan for the day.

“If the boss needs his girl,” Calder started, “then—”

Tor jerked back like she’d been slapped. “Excuse me?”

“Come on, Tor.” Boone gave her a playful smirk like the one she doled out to every human within walking distance. “I need my girl.”

Shoving herself off of Calder, she shot a glare at Boone, her brown eyes blazing. “I’m nobody’s girl,” she snapped, her tone sharp enough to cut through even Boone. Then, making sure to elbow Calder on her way, she turned and ducked around the corner before stomping up the stairs.

It caused Gothel physical pain to keep from rolling his eyes. Tor needed attention like a plant needs sunlight: the more she had, the more she bloomed. She’d likely shrivel up and die without it.

Calder ran a hand through his perfectly tousled hair, unperturbed by the outburst, though Tor hadn’t been that angry at him since he’d tried to playfully throw her in the river. Apparently, their ferocious feline didn’t like water.

“Women,” Calder muttered with a shrug. “Can’t live with ’em, definitely can’t live without ’em.”

Boone watched Tor go for a second longer than necessary, then straightened up. When he caught Gothel looking at him, he forced a casual expression, but his grey eyes were still nearly as sharp as Tor’s comment.

“So,” Gothel said, only because he hated the way Boone was staring at him and he was itching for a plan. For something to do other than watch Tor’s drama and pluck at rotten fruit. “The forum?”

“Right.” Boone seemed to internally shake himself off, though he didn’t regain all of his previous enthusiasm. He stepped backward, nearly flattening Ulf in the process, to open one of the three cupboards. Gothel didn’t know why he bothered. They hadn’t had a successful raid in over a week. “The forum will—”

Boone froze. The color drained from his face, his body rigid, as he stared at something in the cupboard.

Gothel’s gut dropped at the foreign behavior, and he and Ulf exchanged glances over Boone’s shoulder. His nerves pulsed with anticipation, possibilities running through his mind, a dozen plans brewing in his head.

What’s your play, Gothel? It had long since been the only question that mattered in his life. What’s the threat and how are you going to escape it?

But based on Boone’s expression, Gothel knew there was no escaping this one.