Though I’d cooed at the (huge) squirming bundles, Aric’s gaze had gone distant. “She grows more formidable each day.”

Now I waved at the castle, telling him, “I’m not doing too shabby with my powers.” Ivy and roses draped the walls. Inside, vines ran along every hallway, climbing over ceilings. Past Circe’s moat, my thorns covered acres of uplands. They would act as more sentries—because I could sense through them—and possibly help ensnare an advancing Bagger army.

Yet something was definitely off with my abilities. Had been for a while. They seemed muted.

Aric rested his sword over his shoulder. “But you can do more.”

I straightened. “Like you? You’re faster and stronger than ever before.” Each time I watched him train in his sexy chain mail, with his sword raised as he controlled his massive warhorse, I would disbelieve he was mine. The actual Grim Reaper.

Whenever he caught me checking him out, he would cast me a smoldering look, his eyes promising wicked things for later. He always delivered. . . .

Now he yanked off a glove to cup my cheek. Never enough touch. “I attribute my strength to you. Now I have something to protect.”

In return for everything Aric had given me, I showered him with affection. If he’d been arrogant before, now he was growing breathtakingly cocky.

He’d begun to change in other ways as well. He no longer drank, unless the two of us shot vodka. He grinned a lot. Even laughed.

All he’d needed was a companion, someone to call his own. The Endless Knight had been no more equipped to handle solitude than I would be.

Circe had commented, “He’s disgustingly happy, Evie Greene. As if he’s not even an Arcana anymore. It grows embarrassing.”

I was succeeding in at least one of my missions. Making Aric content distracted me from grief. From the past. Whenever we had sex, I lost myself in him, finding oblivion, my mind blanking. . . .

He gazed down at me now. “I will always protect you.” He’d told my grandmother that before she’d died. Like Jack had died. And my mom.

Aric leaned down and pressed his lips to mine.

Oblivion. I sighed, going soft against him.

But when he deepened the kiss, I somehow remembered to draw back. We tried not to flaunt our relationship in front of Lark’s creatures or Circe’s river.

“Very well, little wife. I’ll endeavor to wait until tonight. Seems you’re more in the mood for training.”

I almost groaned.

He stepped back from me. “Throw the seeds from your pocket and grow them in midair.”

“No way. I’m not strong enough for that right now.” I would pass out.

In a measured tone, he asked, “Why do you think that is?”

“Aric, what if those Bagman bites . . .” I hesitated, then said in a rush, “permanently damaged my powers?” There. My secret fear was out.

He shook his head. “Not a chance. You wouldn’t be this healthy overall. You have boundless energy when you dance.”

A few times a week, I would dance for him in the studio—which usually landed me back in our bed as soon as my skin grew damp from exertion. “Then what is it?”

“I’m not certain yet. I’ll let you know once I work out a theory.”

When the drizzle intensified to a downpour, I pulled up the hood of my poncho.

“Come.” Aric took my hand. “This was enough for today.”

We started back toward the castle, both lost in thought.

I was looking forward to a hot shower—with him. We rarely showered alone. To be fair, who wouldn’t conserve water after living through the Flash?

Then we would eat in his study, holing up in front of the fire to read the chronicles he’d acquired over the last three games, including the Lovers’.

Aric was almost finished translating theirs. When I’d pressed about the contents, he’d admitted there wasn’t much to help us. The entries were basically stream-of-consciousness murder fantasies—and I starred in every one.

I’d assumed those pages would, you know, make sense. Or be helpful. But even the Lovers’ father had admitted their chronicles were a revenge contract. No wonder Aric hadn’t wanted to share the deets.

He’d also read my own book. The information within had filled in blanks that had plagued him for centuries. Among a dozen other mysteries, he’d wondered how I’d defeated the Centurion, how I’d survived the Tower and the Angel’s fire, and what I’d done with the Magician’s chronicles after I’d killed him and Lark (burned after reading).

He’d also suspected Lark could create animals, but he’d never been able to verify that ability until now.

Just as he’d never been able to verify the Minor Arcana. Which made sense. The Minors had probably steered clear of him, letting him do his deadly thing. Would they repeat that strategy in this game?

Even after all these weeks, I still couldn’t shake my ominous countdown feeling; maybe I sensed their approach?

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. If not them, then what threat loomed . . . ?

I’d told Aric about my sense. He’d replied, “We can’t possibly do more to prepare against enemies, so try not to focus on it too much. Remember: this game will try to make you insane.”

He’d scratched his head at Gran’s cryptic writings in the back of my chronicles, promising to keep delving for answers.

Since she’d passed away, I’d tried to focus on good memories of her. She had taught me a lot about my abilities, and not all of the information had been geared toward killing.