Instead of an art museum in Paris, I’m standing in an empty gallery that smells faintly of turpentine and something older—magic maybe. I glance down. The book in my hands flashes a deep, sparkly violet before fading into the dull brown of an antique relic.

The room is long, with high white walls and ceilings that stretch upward like a cathedral. At the far end looms a massive tapestry—so black it seems to devour the light around it. It’s stunning. Eerie. Alive, somehow.

The other walls are lined with paintings. One shows a boy and his dog beneath a tree in autumn. Another burns with fire. All of them stir something inside me. They don’t just depict emotion—they are emotion.

A child’s laugh rings out from somewhere nearby. A moment later, a boy—no older than six, with paint smudged across his cheeks—steps into view. His hair is dark as night. His eyes are glowing blue starlight.

And then he’s right in front of me.

His movement is silent. Instant. Inhuman.

His pointed ears twitch slightly as he studies me. Shadows curl at his feet like affectionate pets. “My books aren’t like yours,” he says quietly, as if confessing a secret.

I blink, gripping mine tighter. “How do you know this book is special?”

“Like calls to like,” he says simply, and turns just as a woman steps into view.

“Nyx,” she calls sweetly, her voice somehow wind and music. She’s stunning—tall, golden-brown hair, tattoos like flowing ink down one hand. A cropped blue sweater and fitted jeans do nothing to hide her strength. She watches me with a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

Nyx grins at me before dashing off toward the back again. She bends to kiss the top of his head as he passes, never breaking her gaze.

I reach behind me, one hand gripping the doorknob instinctively.

She follows me with her eyes, her expression shifting the moment the door shuts behind her son. Now it’s sharp. Dangerous. The kind of danger you don’t reason with—you run from.

“You won’t get far,” she says calmly. “My mate is on the other side of that door.”

I match her smirk. “That’s fine. I just need to open it.”

With a whisper, I twist the knob and step through—right into the Fox Library.

Drummond looks up from a desk stacked with books and scattered notes. He stares at me with wide eyes—and then beyond me, paling. “Who is she?” he whispers.

A voice behind me answers. Cool, clear, and commanding.

“I am High Lady of the Night Court. But you can call me Feyre.”

The door clicks shut.