Had the Book really “downloaded” a copy of itself into me while I was still an unformed fetus inside my mother?

Had it really created the perfect host for itself twenty-three years ago, making me a human facsimile of it, waiting for me to mature?

Most important of all: Was the spell to lay his son to rest really inside me?

Could I give it to him? Hear the joy in his laughter again? Free them both? At what cost?

I dug my nails into my palms.

Last night, right before I drifted off to sleep, I’d heard the child/beast howl. Hunger, anguish, eternal misery.

We’d both heard it. He kissed me, pretending he hadn’t. Then later, when he left to go do whatever it was he did for the child, I’d choked back tears of shame and failure.

He’d asked me for one thing. And I hadn’t been strong enough to get it for him and survive the getting.

I opened my eyes and stared at the bookstore, at the sign swaying gently in the breeze. Dusk brushed the store in shades of violet. A tinge of a metallic silver gauzed the windowpanes, one of the many new Fae hues.

Barrons would be back soon. I had no idea where he went when he left. But I’d learned the pattern. When he returned, I would be able to feel his heartbeat.

I didn’t let myself think about doing it. I knew if I thought about it, I never would. I’d chicken out. I let my eyes drift out of focus and took the plunge.

The water was frigid, unwelcoming, black as pitch, black as original sin. I couldn’t see a thing. I kicked deep.

I felt small, young, and afraid.

I kicked deeper.

The lake was enormous. I had miles and miles of dark, icy water inside me. I was surprised my blood didn’t run black and cold.

Melodrama. See you finally got some, a familiar voice purred. How is that flamboyance coming? Universe hates a dull girl.

“Where are you?”

Keep swimming, MacKayla.

“Are you really in here?”

Always have been.

I kicked harder, pushing deeper into the blackness. I couldn’t see a thing. I might as well have been blind.

Suddenly there was light.

Because I said let there be, it said silkily.

“You’re not God,” I muttered.

I am not the devil either. I’m you. Are you finally ready to see yourself? What lies at the bottom, the great taproot?

“I’m ready.” I’d no sooner said it than there it was. Shining, resplendent, at the bottom of my lake. Golden rays shot out from it, rubies shimmered, locks gleamed.

The Sinsar Dubh.

I have been here all this time. Since before you were born.

“I beat you. In the study, I saw through your games twice. I walked away from the temptation.”

Can’t eviscerate essential self.

I was no longer swimming but dripping wet and floating to the floor of a black cavern.I drifted to my feet, boots lightly touching down. I looked around, wondering where I was. In the dark night of my soul? The Sinsar Dubh was open on a regal black pedestal in front of me. Gold pages shimmering, it waited.

It was beautiful, so beautiful …

Inside me all this time. All those nights I’d been hunting it, it had been right under my nose. Or, actually, behind it. Just like Cruce, I was the Sinsar Dubh, but unlike Cruce, I’d never opened it. Never welcomed or read it. That was why I’d never understood any of the runes it had given me. I’d never looked inside. Only taken what it offered to use it as recommended.

If I’d ever dived to the bottom of my glassy lake and opened the Book, I’d have had all the king’s dark knowledge at my disposal, in detail. Every spell and rune, the recipe for every experiment, including how to create the Shades, the Gray Man, even Cruce! It was no wonder the Unseelie King had regarded me with paternal pride. I possessed so many of his memories, so much of his magic. I supposed that was as close to having a daughter as the king would ever get. He’d spat out a part of himself, and it was in me now. Sperm, essential self: what difference to a Fae? He could see himself in me, and the Fae liked that.

It was also no wonder K’Vruck had pushed at me mentally and recognized me. He’d found some part of the king inside me, and to him, king was king. He’d missed his traveling companion. Ditto with the Silvers. They’d recognized the essence of the king in me, and while most had resisted me pushing into them and spat me out enthusiastically—thanks to Cruce’s botched curse that hadn’t been Cruce’s at all—the oldest and first Silver that joined the king and concubine’s boudoir was unaffected by the curse and had permitted me passage for the same reason. I was wearing Eau d’King. Even Adam had sensed something about me, and I knew Cruce must have, too. They just hadn’t known exactly what. Then there was the time the dreamy-eyed guy had told the fear dorcha to look deeper and the pin-striped terror had backed off.

I am open to the spell you want. You need only come close enough to read me, MacKayla. It is that easy. We will be rejoined. And you can lay the child to rest.

“I suppose you have a perfectly good reason for destroying my sign?” Jericho appeared beside me. “I had to paint the bloody thing myself,” he said pissily. “There’s not a sign-maker left in the city. I have better things to do than paint.”

I gaped. Jericho Barrons was standing beside me.

Inside my head.

I shook it, half expecting him to be knocked off his feet and go rattling around.

He remained standing, urbane and implacable as ever.

“This isn’t possible,” I told him. “You can’t be here. This is my head.”