Crescent

9

He may as well have been another specter that had come to haunt her. Dressed in a long, dark robe that washed his alabaster skin several shades lighter so that he was as pale as death itself, he had the look for it. He stood eerily still, his back rigid and his shoulders pushed back like the fae of the High Council. If it weren't for the way his snow white lashes fluttered as his gaze followed her, she might have been able to convince herself he was a statue. His hands lowered, the small music box still grasped in one, and she jerked against the wall to put more distance between them.

Vera's hand flew to her side where her sword should have been. Her fingers closed around empty air; she cursed. In her rush to uncover the wisp's secrets, she had left it in the parlor. Though having it wouldn't have done much use—her sword hand was the one the stone had sliced, and it oozed blood from a burning cut across the middle of her palm. She started to blame her forgetfulness on the muddled state of her mind, but there was no avoiding that it was still a childish mistake.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, a telltale sign that he was still watching her with those stark white eyes. Though her body trembled with fear and her heart hammered in her chest, she forced herself to take a deep, calming breath. As she lifted her head to meet his eye, she wiped her expression clean. Be a fae. Be confident and cunning. Choose your words carefully.

First impressions were everything. If Wyn were with her, he would remind her to never let a potential enemy know her fear and to never let a potential ally know her weakness.

Adrenaline surged through her veins. She peeled herself away from the wall, fighting the urge to wince as her sprained ankle took her weight. Agony tore up her leg before she had fully planted her foot, but she bit her tongue against the urge to let it twist her face. Be calm. Be composed. Breathe in, breathe out. When the pain began to subside and she was certain her voice wouldn't waver, she asked, "Who are you?"

The prisoner inclined his head, unkempt snowy locks falling in his eyes. There were no fae marks around his eyes—neither the blue of moon fae nor the warm yellow and orange of sun fae. His ears were elongated into a point, too large to be fae and too sharp to be human. Images of the creature from the woods—the one she had killed with a blow to the head—flashed through her mind. Paired with that, she recalled the room above them and the experimental records she had skimmed.

She balled her fist to keep back the shiver that crawled up her arms. The cut stung as her nails dug into it, sticky with blood. "Well?" she prompted. This time, her voice faltered. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

A tiny smile curled the edges of his mouth. He lifted one inky black hand to his face, pointing to a mark on his cheek. The stars in his skin shimmered as the light shifted across them.

Watching him carefully, Vera limped forward. He tilted his face to allow the white light to spill across a small tattoo on his face, no larger than a coin. Etched into his face in black ink was the eight point star, the crest of Project 0-29.

Vera stepped back with a gasp. Horror twisted the knife in her chest as she took in his eerie smile, his glowing eyes, his delicate fingers that ended in sharp claws. "You're from the Project. You're one of the creations."

He didn't reply. His face darkened, and the air around them crackled with the electric touch of magic. Vera took another cautious step back. Iron bars and a glass wall were all that separated her from the creature. It suddenly wasn't enough. Not when she recalled the final page and the experiment that was branded with the crest. Not when Elizabeth's warning was still ringing in her ears.

000 cannot be controlled.

And yet the fact that he hadn't confirmed anything twisted something inside her. He couldn't deny that the evidence was overwhelming; he couldn't be anything but a creature of the project. Still, the mention of it did not excite him. There was a determined set to his jaw and a glint in his eyes that held no malice. He hadn't moved from where he stood either. Moreover, for someone who was supposed to be skilled at casting, he had made no move to call up any magic. Nothing to hurt her, nothing to let himself out. He hadn't been surprised to see her, yet had made no move to utilize the power he had. Weren't the subjects of the Project designed to weave magic like fae?