When Isaac took the wraith away through time and space, something changed. The powerful old magic that the wraith brought to Rookskill is beginning to fade. The creature on the floor has started falling to pieces, the vines have begun to wither and retreat, and even Daemon steps back as if he wants to slink away.

Enough, then.

Moloch raises his arms and calls on all fae magic. He’s been holding back, but he’s done with half measures. He’ll murder them all, any who get in his way, whether human or fae.

He’ll harvest their souls. Go full sluagh. He grins, his face twisting.

Becoming one with the Unseelie, forever a dark fae, forever harvesting human souls and preying on misery—becoming a true sluagh—requires a sacrifice. He pulls out a small knife made of glass.

Standing in this ancient castle with the magic that permeates the very stones, Moloch summons the most evil powers in the universe with a spell.

First he pierces his wrist and his fae blood drips onto the floor, hissing like acid. Then he raises the knife and cuts his face, a cut across his cheek to mirror the scar on the other side, and again his fae blood drips.

He is no longer a Seelie fae from any angle.

Moloch’s skin tightens; his wings grow larger. His heart shrinks and becomes hard, his remaining eye turns blood-red, his teeth sharpen to points. He was frightening before; he is terrifying now.

He wants humans and the Seelie to suffer.

As he says the last words of the spell, the room grows black as pitch and the wind whines through cracks and window jambs. The wraith’s creature on the floor stirs, Daemon perks up, and the forest resumes its assault.

Moloch grows huge, terrible, a dread being.

With Daemon padding behind, Moloch strides through the castle toward the great front door, pushing aside the forest as he goes, his footsteps thundering against the stone.

Just as he reaches the door, Moloch catches from the corner of his eye the glint of gold, and he finds his way into what had been a library. A golden man is stuck in a spell, still alive, though as solid as can be and entirely covered by vines and leaves and forest litter.

Well, well.

He’s part of this castle and that’s enough for Moloch, who waves his hand, muttering a spell.

The golden man doesn’t change outwardly, but Moloch knows he’ll never be the same, and he grins, a lopsided, warped, sharp-toothed grimace as the fresh blood on his cheek still drips. When all is finished, Moloch will come back and release this new monster, with some added embellishments, into the human world.

He turns and goes outside and calls through the storm to Wyvern, who gives an answering bellow and blast of fire.

CHAPTER 55

Isaac

1942