When the time came, she thought, and lifted a jeweled mirror to admire herself.

She would use them first, let them lead her to the Fire Star.

Then she would crush them, take it. And it would lead her to the others. She would take what they had, drain them of it, fill herself, and leave their husks to rot.

And she would be eternal. Forever young, more beautiful than the sun, more powerful than all the gods.

But as she looked, the reflection in the glass began to whither, the skin drooping into folds, drawing back toward the skull. The ebony hair went thin, gray, dry, as the glass showed her aging years, decades, centuries.

On a scream of rage, she hurled the mirror away, smashing glass and gems.

With a trembling hand, she lifted the goblet beside her, drank fast and deep. And with its brew and her will, drew back her youth and beauty.

She had pushed too much of herself into the attack the night before, and needed more potion. Her banishment from the Island of Glass stripped away her rights—to that youth, that beauty.

She aged. Not like the puny humans. No, even this humiliation wasn’t so great. But she aged. Her body gradually losing its form, her skin its texture, her face its beauty.

She would have them back, not just the illusion of them, but truly. And she would banish the ones who’d lowered her to this until they turned to dust.

She would be queen of all, and all who had defied her would perish.

But they would suffer first.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Since everyone else seemed to have conveniently vanished, Sasha contemplated what to make for dinner. Sunset—she checked—was in just over an hour. If Riley did indeed fast until sunrise, she ought to eat a good meal first.

Privately, she could admit she was tired of cooking for their small army, but given the circumstances—full moon—she couldn’t suggest they take a break and go into the village for a meal.

She’d just about settled on pasta—a staple in her world—when Doyle walked in. He dropped three large pizza boxes on the table.

“I was in the mood.”

“Oh. That’s great,” she said, with genuine feeling.

“Probably need to heat them up, or have Killian wave his magic wand.”

“Either way it saves me from cooking.”

“You need to make a duty list, so it doesn’t fall so much on you. This is my way of cooking, so check me off.”

“Fair enough.”

He went to the fridge, shoved in the beer he’d bought along with the pizza, and took one out for himself.

“Do you have any other skills you’ve dreamed about?” he asked.

“I’m better at fighting in them. I’m not as good at the flipping and jumping and kicking, even in my dreams, as Annika or Riley, but I’m not embarrassing. But . . .”

She poured herself a glass of the sun tea someone—who hadn’t been her—had made that afternoon. “Unlike the crossbow, it doesn’t just come to me. Annika tried to teach me the basic handspring a little while ago. I got a D-minus.”