Chapter One
Wylder
Every Friday Wylder Olsson ordered the same iced coffee from the same coffee shop. He received his change—one dollar and thirty seven cents—and dropped it in the tip jar. Saluting the barista with his cup, he took a sip and pushed through the door out onto the sidewalk. Chill wind whipped around him, making the ends of his unzipped jacket flap and the longer strands of his hair, that he always kept carefully swept back, blow into his eyes.
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With a huff, he tucked his hair behind his ear—something he hated doing—as his phone started to vibrate in his pocket.
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“Hi Uncle Sigurd,” he said when he got the phone pressed to his ear. He’d reached the crosswalk, checking both ways, as he started across the street with a group of other pedestrians.
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“Hey Wyld,” Sigurd’s deep voice rumbled in his ear, much like the distant thunder he could hear from the dark clouds moving closer to the city. “You want me to come pick you up? This storm could be a doozy.”
“Wylder, Uncle Sigurd. My name is Wylder.” It was a conversation they’d had a million times. Wylder liked things to be precise. Defined. Everyone’s insistence on shortening his name was only one item on the long list of his pet peeves.
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Sigurd chuckled just like Wylder knew he would. “Okay, kid.”
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Despite himself, Wylder’s lips tugged up into a small smile. His uncle was his only family and had raised him after his mother’s disappearance. Wylder had only been three years old at the time. He’d missed his mother every day of his life, but he’d also known that he was loved. Sigurd had loved, protected, and provided for him like Wylder was his own son. Knowing Sigurd always had his back was one of the things he was most grateful for.
“To answer your question,” Wylder said to get the conversation back on track. “I’m just getting to the bookstore. I’ll ride the storm out here and walk home as usual.”
“Black’s Books?”
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“Of course.” Wylder shook his head even though Sigurd couldn’t see him. It was always Black’s Books. Coffee and Black’s had been his Friday evening routine for much of his adult life. They had the best selection of Fae lore and literature in the city, and Merrick Black didn’t mind if Wylder hung out in the back stacks going through old tomes. Black’s was a bookstore, but Merrick was something of a collector. The shelves in the far back of the store held books that Wylder wasn’t even sure were for sale. Some so old their pages would rip at anything but the gentlest handling.
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Those back shelves weren’t as pretty as the shelves lining the rest of the store. All metal and dust and quiet. Wylder loved it like no other place on earth.
“Alright. Call if you change your mind or if it’s still raining when you finish up, huh?”
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“Okay, Uncle. I will.” He wouldn’t, and from Sigurd’s snort he knew it too.
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They said their goodbyes, and Wylder slipped his phone into his messenger bag and adjusted the crossbody strap.
The musty smell of books hit Wylder as soon as he pushed open the heavy glass and oak door of Black’s Books. He stood for a moment just inside, fiddling with his hair to get the strands back into place and letting his eyes adjust to the fluorescent brightness after the gray sky outside.
“Hey Wylder,” Merrick Black called from behind the counter.
Once his hair felt like it was laying right again, Wylder took a sip of his coffee and looked over at Merrick with a smile. “Merrick. Getting ready to head out?”
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Merrick Black was one of the richest men in the city, having inherited the Black fortune from his grandfather. He could have been a politician or sipping champagne on a private island somewhere, but he chose to stay in Solston and spent most days working in his bookstore.
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“Soon,” Merrick answered, tying his wild copper curls back into a low tail. “Leander is coming to pick me up. He’s hoping we can make it to dinner before the storm starts.”
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Everyone was so tuned into this storm.
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“Good luck.” Wylder started walking in the direction of the back stacks and his favorite reading chair. “Is Maple in this evening?”
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Merrick laughed. “Of course. She’s probably back there waiting for you.”
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With a chuckle and a wave, Wylder turned once again. The windows lining two of the big store’s walls had grown steadily darker, making the overhead lights seem that much brighter. He entered the narrow walkway between two of the rows closest to the inner wall—both several feet taller than his own five feet ten inches—just as the first crack of thunder sounded outside, rattling the windows and making Wylder’s stomach jump. Several gasps sounded around the store.
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Alone in the shadowed space between the rows, Wylder pressed a hand against his heart and took a deep breath. He’d read too many stories about the Wild Hunt in his search for answers about the Fae not to feel a tendril of unease during storms—even if he didn’t like to show it.
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Moving forward again, he stopped and frowned down at his leg. There was a weight against his thigh that hadn’t been there just a moment ago. Reaching down, he touched the spot to find the outline of a flat, circular shaped object protruding through the fabric of his slacks. It was much too large to be random spare change he’d forgotten.
He reached into his pocket, fingers closing around a cool, ridged circle. Definitely a coin. Still frowning, Wylder pulled the coin out of his pocket. It was large—bigger than a half dollar—and shiny gold with a dragon on one side and a bird on the other.
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Another boom of thunder split the air. Wylder startled, dropping the coin as he scrambled to keep hold of his slick iced coffee cup. Once his coffee was secure, he pressed a hand to his chest over his pounding heart.
Pulling in a shaky breath, he looked down to where he’d heard the coin land. Only it wasn’t there. He started to turn, looking around in case it’d bounced or rolled, but stopped when he felt the cool weight of ridged metal between the palm of his hand and his chest.
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“What the fuck?” he whispered. Lowering his hand from his chest, he looked at the coin resting solidly against his skin.
Thoughts racing as fast as his heart, he stuffed the coin into his pocket and took a big gulp of his coffee. He’d known magic objects existed, of course, but he’d never encountered one. And he’d certainly never had one tether itself to him. He swallowed again. The stories about people who got mixed up with magic objects almost never ended well.
***
Silvanir
“Honestly, Silva, are you going to brood all night?” Kallias simpered, the fae princeling forever on Silvanir’s last nerve. “You know we’ve only got a couple days in this realm before Mother gets in a tizzy and demands I come home. We should enjoy them.”
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Silva sighed, turning away from the window and the storm only starting to pick up outside. Kallias was situated cross legged on the floor in front of the coffee table with its half played Monopoly game. The princeling was in bright pink sweats tonight and a shirt that declared him fabulous. Despite himself, Silva’s lips ticked up at the corner. Kallias was a pain in the ass, and he was more than ready to be off babysitting detail, but the kid wasn’t lacking in spirit.
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The mother he’d mentioned—the dark fae Queen—had given Silva this detail after a small transgression at court earned him the ire of the wild fae’s leader. She’d also chopped off his glowing mane of silver hair. Knots of rage burned in his belly so he pushed thoughts of the past away. At least it hadn’t been his head.
Kallias’s own hair was pulled up into a bun at the back of his head. He’d dropped the glamour he usually wore when they were out and about in this realm, leaving his hair and eyes their natural deep purple instead of the dark brown he used to blend in more with the humans.
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“Are you finally coming back to lose all your money to me?” Kallias asked with a smirk.
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Silva opened his mouth to reply—honestly, he’d never understand Kallias’s love of human games—when the strangest sensation skittered across his skin as a loud clap of thunder rattled the windows. Turning back to the window, he gazed out at Solston spread out below their tenth story hotel suite and took a deep breath. He’d only ever felt that particular prick of power once before. And if it was here…
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“What was that?” Kallias asked from right beside Silva. He nudged Silva out of the way and nearly pressed his nose to the window.
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Silva tried to think of a convincing lie, but the little fucker of a prince was quick. And much too sharp for his own good.
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In the heartbeat it was taking Silva to get his thoughts together, Kallias turned on him, eyes narrowed. “You know, don’t you?”
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Meeting the prince’s gaze, he decided the full truth was better than a dodge. “I believe so, yes.”
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“Well—” Kallias swatted Silva’s chest with the back of his hand. “Spill!”
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Silva buried the ingrained reaction to grab that wrist and break it for even that split second of harmless contact. “It’s a coin. Far older than even your mother and rumored to be the most powerful of any fae-made object.”
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Kallias’s purple brows rose nearly to his hairline before he narrowed his eyes again. “If it’s so powerful, why haven’t I ever heard of it?”
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Shrugging a shoulder, Silva looked back out into the night. Rain sheeted down the window pane as thunder rumbled and rolled in the sky beyond. “It’s passed mostly into legend. Most doubt its existence altogether or never think of it at all.”
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“But not you.”
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“No, not me.” He clenched his jaw thinking of the last and only time he’d been in the coin’s presence.
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“Why?” Kallias had fully rounded on him now, hands on his hips and lips set in a hard line.
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Silva would do well to remember that Kallias was every inch the fae prince beneath his bratty nature. He may not be as ruthless as his mother—not yet, anyway—but it was still very much her blood running through his veins. “Because I’ve seen it.”
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“And what does it do, this powerful coin?”
“From what I’ve seen…whatever it wants. Its power is such that it’s capable of bending reality to its will.”
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Kallias glanced back out the window. “And can it be wielded?”
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Silva sighed. “I don’t know. From the stories and my own experience, it seems the coin has a will of its own. That will may align with whoever it allows to wield it and it may not.”
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“If it has a will of its own, perhaps it can be reasoned with…appealed to.”
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Shifting his stance, Silva eyed Kallias. The look on his face had a mix of apprehension and curiosity building in Silva’s chest. “What are you thinking, Prince?”
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Kallias turned and walked back to the coffee table, sinking down onto the plush white couch behind it. “I know you don’t like me, Silva. I’m not so focused on my own desires that I don’t see what’s happening around me.”
Silva grunted. He didn’t know how to respond without insulting the prince to his face.
“It’s okay,” Kallias continued, leaning back and bringing his feet up to sit cross legged. “I see you Silva, whether you like it or not. I know you want back on my mother’s guard.” He looked down, examining the manicure he’d insisted on getting earlier in the day. “The thing is, I want something too.” He brought his gaze back to Silva’s. “If this coin is as powerful as you say, I’m guessing my mother would happily grant both our wishes if we were to present it to her.”
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Something like hope jolted through Silva. He was a born warrior, from a line of warriors going back as far as his family could be traced. His place was with the Queen’s guard. “And you’d be willing to share the glory of that with me? Bringing such a rare and prized object to court?”
“Of course,” Kallias answered without hesitation. A slow smile spread over his face. “Since you’ll be the one retrieving it, it seems only fair.”