The room is done in pale stone. Blood red vines snake up the walls, strange flowers blooming from them.

Across from me, is a pool of some sort, the water luminous. And to the left of it, the Thief reclines against a pillar.

A shudder courses through me.

“My, what a reaction.” His onyx eyes seem to glitter in this strange place. “I take it you missed me.”

“Where am I?” I ask, rising to my feet. I can’t tell whether I’m inside or outside. Behind me, the walls seem to give way to open air, and the night sky shines down.

But within the walls of this place, wall sconces burn, the sound of it muffled, like cloth snapping in the wind. And amongst it all, the Thief of Souls, his lips soft, his eyes cold, his attention fixed to me.

This is a dream. Just a dream. But if it’s a dream, and I know it’s a dream, then—

Wake up.

Wake. Up.

Nothing happens.

“Tell me, does the term small death mean anything to you?” the Thief asks from where he leans against that pillar.

It’s just a dream. It’s not real.

“No,” I say, distractedly.

It’s only after I answer, that I process his words.

Small death. That does sound familiar.

The Thief of Souls smiles. “Come closer, and I’ll tell you.”

“How did I get here?” I pinch the fabric of the white shift I wear. It’s all but translucent.

Not what I went to sleep in.

The Thief pushes off the pillar. “I called and you came.”

My brows knit.

His hair and eyes are so dark they seem to absorb the light; it’s a sharp contrast to his pale skin. He crosses the room, his steps echoing.

He’s not real. This is not real.

That’s the only thing that keeps me from running. I don’t need to be frightened of a phantasm. He can’t hurt me. Not here.

The Thief steps up to me. “You didn’t run.”

“You’re not real,” I say.

A slow, creepy smile spreads across his face. “Is that what you think? That I’m not real?” He searches my face. Whatever he sees there makes him laugh. “You don’t believe any of this is real, do you?”

The hairs on my forearms rise.

Just a dream, a really screwed up dream.

“If none of this is real, then I guess you and I are free to do whatever we please.”

He reaches out and runs a finger down the slope of my nose. “I could touch you. You could touch me—the Night King would never have to know. There are no repercussions for reveries, after all.”

I sidestep him. “If I touched you,” I say, my claws still out, “I doubt you would enjoy it.”

The Thief once again steps into my space, forcing me to back up. “That’s where you’re wrong, enchantress. I have … peculiar tastes.” His eyes flick down to my throat and chest. “I’ve never been with a human. Or a siren. Or a mortal made fae. But I have been with women who fight back—that I have a healthy appetite for.”

Healthy is the last word I’d use to describe the Thief’s fetishes.

I go toe-to-toe with him. “That wasn’t the case when you were Karnon,” I say softly. “The way I remember it, you wouldn’t touch a woman unless she was incapacitated.”

The Thief of Souls stares at me; there’s something foreign and merciless in the dark depths of his eyes. “You have me entirely figured out, don’t you?” he says. “The Thief, too frightened to fuck a woman unless she’s prone.”

Before I get the chance to back away, he grabs me by the throat. “Perhaps I could disprove that notion? This is just a reverie, after all, just a twisted dream where a wicked man takes you against your will.”

My skin brightens.

“You might even enjoy it,” his eyes dip to my skin. “I know I will.”

My heart quakes at his rising interest even as another, insidious part of me is coming alive.

He pulls me in close.

The Thief is going to kiss me, just as he did when he was Karnon. And perhaps he’ll breathe that same vile magic into me now as he did then. Only this time, I won’t be immune to it.

A human would struggle against this. A siren, however …

Let him come closer. Let him think he has us.

My eyes drop to his lips. “I know you can wear the faces of the dead.”

He leans in, his lips skimming my jaw. “And to think I believed you’d never figure out any of it.”

He releases my throat, and I stagger back, massaging my raw skin.

“Do you want to know something?” he asks.

I gaze back at him with barely masked repulsion.

“Mara met me more than once. The first time, I was courting her sister.”

Just like Janus, Mara once had a sibling. I’d almost forgotten. I rack my brain, trying to remember her name.

Thalia. That’s what it was. She was the Flora Kingdom’s heir apparent, only she died before her time, falling on a sword or something like that, after, after …

My eyes snap to the Thief. “The traveling minstrel. That was you.”

A man had come to her kingdom, and Thalia had fallen hopelessly in love with him. The way I heard it, the whole thing had ended poorly.

God, but how long ago was that? Centuries? All this time the Thief has been moving his pieces into place.

His eyes seem to smile. “I was an enchanter—I just happened to have a penchant for serenading young royals. You want to know something those histories never mentioned?”

He pauses, and the silence of this strange place seems to close in on me. I never knew that something as insubstantial as silence could have such weight.

“I fucked Mara then too. To this day she has no idea that I’ve been inside her as two separate men.”

Nausea stirs low in my belly.

Just a dream.

“She was always the envious one, but especially then, when her sister had everything and she had nothing. The first time we exchanged anything more than pleasantries was after it was known that Thalia and I were together. She pulled me away at one of those frivolous parties, dropped to her knees, and well … what she lacked in power or rank she made up for with enthusiasm. I didn’t even have to enchant her—truth be told, at the time, I didn’t want much to do with her, but I just couldn’t resist the temptation.”

I grimace.

“I remember how the story ends,” I say. “You were killed,” I say.

“Do the dead ever really die?” he asks.

The same damn question he posed to me back in the Flora Kingdom.

I can feel the answer right there, on the tip of my tongue. I glance from the Thief to the strange blooming vines, to the column he rested against just minutes ago, to the pool next to it.

My ears begin to ring as I stare at that water. The longer I look, the more it seems as though it’s shifting, whispering.

Save us …

Save … us …

Unwittingly, I take a step closer to it, my shoulder brushing against the Thief’s.

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“What … is in that water?” I can’t seem to look away.

“What does it matter? None of this is real.”

The next morning, I do in fact skip the meeting, choosing instead to nurse my hangover. (Praise Jesus for fae medicine—that stuff totally works.)

By the time Des and Janus leave their meeting, I’m feeling loads better.

The Day King nods when he sees me, his golden hair shimmering. “Callypso,” he says, formally.