Flying was fun. The owl form made it feel natural, effortless—almost instinctive. She still missed her cat forms, but a part of her hoped Rowan would let her keep this one. Flying had too much utility to give up.

  That said, if she had to pick a new form, a two-ton griffon wouldn’t be a bad option. The tiger was great in a fight, but a griffon had both weight and flight, making it useful in more situations. Still, it lacked the sleek grace of her feline forms—feathers, fur, and raw muscle all mashed together into a single beast. Functional, but inelegant.

  Her hearing as a ferruginous pygmy owl was incredible—sharp enough to pick up the scuttle of a cockroach in an alley below—but her vision wasn’t nearly as good as her cat form. The city lights interfered with her night vision, washing out details, leaving shadows too deep in some places, too shallow in others.

  Worse, she was smaller than a robin. A great horned owl could swoop in and snatch her midair before she even heard it coming. It was an unpleasant thought, but she kept moving—she had worse things to worry about than becoming another owl’s midnight snack.

  She flitted from building to power pole, keeping her path erratic. More than fifty yards in a single stretch, and her wings started to ache. What had been a short drive took nearly twenty minutes in owl form, but she finally settled onto a tree just outside the restaurant.

  The scene had changed. The diners were gone, replaced by uniformed workers moving with purpose, clearing the remnants of an event. The enchanting music still played, but the source was nowhere in sight.

  The parking lot was nearly empty now—only one car remained. Even as she watched, some of the buildings flickered and faded, illusions dissolving into the night.

  Had all of this been staged for her? The thought sent a chill through her. Rowan could create illusions, but not on this scale—not with moving people, conversations, scents, and music so rich they felt real. This wasn’t just trickery. It was something else.

  Dorian was powerful—maybe even stronger than Rowan. Though, he hadn’t used brute force. He’d used charm, illusion, subtle manipulation. If he could’ve just taken her by force, he would have. That meant deception was his strongest tool.

  Good. She could work with that.

  The property warped before her eyes. Smaller buildings flickered and vanished, the lush garden twisting into a desert landscape. A grand white mansion materialized just past the pond, replacing what had been a massive hill.

  Workers moved with quiet efficiency, gathering the few real objects—dishes, books, candles, furniture—that hadn’t dissolved with the illusion. Two of them raked the ground, smoothing out footprints, erasing any sign that she’d ever been there.

  Dorian strolled out of the mansion, his posture composed, but his fingers tapping idly against his pocket. Gretta focused, letting her owl hearing do the work.

  “Nyxiel, finish tidying up and set a watch,” he said. “I’ll go after her myself, but she might double back. I don’t want her crossing over. I'll lose my fee if the queen finds Miss Sullivan roaming Fairy without me presenting her.”

  “Yes, sir,” Nyxiel replied smoothly. “Should I have our people move the materials from your study as a precaution?”

  Dorian hesitated. “Having my contracts in Fairy is dangerous. I don’t trust Thadius—he might use his influence with the queen to claim them. I spent thousands of years clawing my way up from nothing, and I won’t go back to maintaining her highways because of some immortal with fangs.”

  Nyxiel shrugged. “Miss Sullivan is known to be curious and resourceful. The secrets there would be dangerous for any mortal to know.”

  “Then I trust you’ll make sure she never finds them. And that she doesn’t step near the pond.” Dorian exhaled sharply. “Watch for cats—she has four known forms: a cat, a tiger, an elephant, and an otter.”

  Nyxiel smirked. “And the griffon?”

  Dorian’s fingers twitched. “Thadius said magic from the desert pantheon is unstable. Maybe it’s that trickster god meddling.” His jaw tightened. “She does have a known association with him.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  “Have a good hunt,” Nyxiel said.

  Dorian patted his pocket. “She won’t know what hit her. I’ll bring her back by morning, and we’ll celebrate with a feast by noon.”

  Dorian turned and took a step.

  “How did she break the enchantment?” Nyxiel asked.

  Dorian paused. “The trickster god had given her a token that helped her break it, but it’s spent now. Next time, she won’t have such protection.”

  Dorian walked to his car and pulled away. Gretta watched after him.

  That stupid feather had protected her from enchantment? That was new. Had Rowan actually helped her for once?

  No. Rowan hadn’t given her the feather. Sofia had.

  Which meant this wasn’t Rowan’s interference. It was pure luck.

  Gretta huffed. At least she wouldn’t have to deal with that damn feather mysteriously reappearing anymore.

  Either way, she had her answer—Dorian relied on magic to manipulate people. That meant she wouldn’t eat or drink anything in his presence. And she’d assume everything he said was a lie.

  She’d be fine.

  When Dorian’s car, a Jaguar XJ, had pulled out onto the main road, Gretta stretched her wings and flew toward the mansion. Pygmy owls are quieter than most birds, but they are not as silent as their cousins, and Gretta became nervous as one of the people stationed at the mansion door looked up at her.

  She noticed that the man had pointed ears. He looked like a tall, slender human and if it weren’t for those ears, she wouldn’t have looked twice, but she wondered if he was a typical fairy. He certainly wasn’t the winged, two-inch-tall fairy from stories she remembered.

  The man reached for his pocket, and Gretta beat her wings harder to gain altitude. She saw him raising a pan flute to his lips. She might have dismissed this as absurd, but having her mind manipulated once already was enough to make her wary. She reached for the Astral and pulled herself in as the guard played the first note. The world shifted to grays and the music vanished.

  Every moment in the astral was taxing, and with magic as unreliable as it had been, she wasted no time diving straight through the mansion roof and into a large foyer. Flying in the Astral was more about willpower than strength, and she sped up—moving at speeds her mortal form could have never achieved. She passed through rooms, looking for anything that might have been construed as a study.

  Finally, she reached a room with large windows facing out at the pond with a comfortable chair and desk. Along the back wall were books, and framing the window were lush green trees and plants.

  The ledger lay open on the desk. Gretta dropped from the astral with a soft whisper of displaced air, her claws gripping the wooden surface.

  Her name was written neatly in the latest entry.

  Gretta Sullivan, age 25. Golden Goose — 500.

  What?

  She scanned the page, taking in other names, each paired with an object—Mirror of Pyr, Niffit’s Sword, Ring of Zelpixis, Goblet of Ice. Each had a number beside it. 500, 1200, 3500.

  Currency? Weight? Something worse?

  Her stomach twisted. The ledger wasn’t tracking stolen goods. It was tracking trades.

  Dorian wasn’t just some illusionist playing mind games. He was a trafficker, and she was on his list.

  A sharp pulse of anger flared in her chest, but it curdled into something colder when she looked further up the page.

  Madalin Sullivan, age 34. Maliphil’s Flute — 1500.

  Gretta’s feathers fluffed involuntarily, her whole body stiffening. The air in the room felt suddenly too thin, the paper beneath her talons brittle and wrong.

  Her mother’s name.

  The ink was old. This wasn’t recent. Fifteen years. At least.

  A hollow ringing filled her ears. A weightless, spinning feeling coiled in her chest, like the moment before shifting forms, like standing at the edge of a drop she hadn’t seen coming.

  Fifteen years.

  Before she could stop it—before she could even think—

  A sharp, indignant hoot burst out of her beak.

  The pages fluttered under her breath.

  Shit.

  She snapped her beak shut, flattening her feathers. Heart pounding.

  A sound—soft footsteps outside. A shift of weight. Someone was checking the room.

  She didn’t have time to scan for anything else. No time to make sense of the numbers, to figure out what Maliphil’s Flute meant.

  She was closer than she’d ever been—her mother was right here, somewhere in this tangled mess of trades. But Gretta had no idea how to reach her.

  Not yet.

  A shadow passed beneath the doorframe. A hand on the handle.

  No time.

  Her talons flexed against the desk. Move.

  She threw herself upward, wings snapping out, and dove straight through the ceiling into the Astral—

  —just as the door swung open.