Faye
Emelda tucks my hand in the crook of her elbow as we walk through the fog. It’s drizzling, and the sky’s a deep gray in the faint early morning sunlight peeking through the mist.
“Does it always rain like this here?” I ask, turning to Emelda. She smiles down at me, her face shielded by the hood of her crimson cloak.
“It does, honestly. There’s a thunderstorm almost every night. I actually really enjoy it.”
“Does it ever snow?”
“Sometimes.” She smiles with a shrug. “Usually around the Winter Solstice. Queen Emory celebrates it–she goes all out. It’s something both vampires and shifters honor. The longest night of the year,” she smiles wistfully as we cut through the expansive royal gardens, edging around a row of rose bushes.
She shoves open a rusty, old wrought-iron gate and
