AI The air tasted of fermented starlight and crushed velvet as the rift spat them out onto warm, loamy soil. Aurora Carter landed hard on one knee, the silver chain of the Heartstone Pendant swinging forward to tap against her sternum like a second, frantic heartbeat. The gem glowed a sullen crimson, its inner light pulsing in time with the distant thunder that wasn’t thunder at all.
She straightened slowly, brushing black strands of hair from her eyes. The scar on her left wrist prickled as though the childhood cut remembered every time she had ever bled near something that should not exist. Behind her, the rift folded in on itself with a sound like wet silk tearing, leaving only the faintest shimmer hanging in the amber sky. The Veil had let them through. Whether it would let them back was another question.
Nyx uncoiled from the shadow cast by a nearby trellis thick with fruit that looked like swollen hearts . The Shade’s form rippled, violet eyes flickering open within the living dark. “We are seen,” they whispered, voice threading through the leaves like wind through bone chimes. “The realm already hungers.”
Aurora’s fingers brushed the hilt of the Fae-forged blade tucked at the small of her back. The moonsilver was cold even through her jacket. “Then we don’t give it a meal.”
Isolde stepped forward last, silver hair drifting as though underwater. Her bare feet left no prints on the rich black earth. She tilted her head, pale lavender eyes half-lidded, listening to silences only she could hear. “Gluttony does not devour flesh first,” she murmured. “It devours restraint. Mind your tongues, little travelers. Words have calories here.”
They stood at the edge of an orchard that stretched farther than sight could comfortably follow. Trees bowed under the weight of fruit the color of fresh bruises and ripening suns. Some branches bore golden pears that sang—soft, wordless melodies that made Aurora’s stomach clench with a hunger she had not felt since Evan’s last empty promise. Others dripped sap like liquid garnet that smelled of mulled wine and childhood Christmases she had never wanted to remember.
The sky above was the warm amber of late-afternoon whiskey held to candlelight. No sun, yet everything glowed with its own inner radiance. In the distance, marble colonnades rose in sweeping arcs, draped in flowering vines that moved with deliberate, sensual slowness, petals opening and closing like lovers’ mouths.
Aurora exhaled through her nose. “Dymas,” she said, tasting the name . It felt greasy on her tongue.
Nyx drifted ahead, their silhouette stretching and compressing between the tree trunks. Where their shadow fell, the grass curled inward as though trying to drink them . “The Prince’s table is laid somewhere ahead. I can smell the gluttons feasting. Their sighs are heavy enough to bend steel.”
Isolde drifted after the Shade, her gown of spider-silk and starlight brushing living petals that reached for her ankles. Aurora followed, boots sinking into soil so rich it felt obscene. Every step released a burst of scent—cinnamon and smoke, roasted figs, the metallic tang of blood oranges. Her mouth watered. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted her own blood instead.
They had come for the rift anchor rumored to lie at the heart of Belphegor’s domain, a thing that could stabilize the tear growing beneath London. Isolde had seen it in her grove: a black iron obelisk pulsing with stolen souls. Finding it meant walking deeper into indulgence than any of them wanted. But the alternative was London drowning in shades and fae-beasts by the next solstice.
A low stone wall curved into view, its surface carved with feasting figures that seemed to shift when Aurora wasn’t looking directly at them . She trailed her fingers along the warm marble . The carvings moved under her touch, lips parting in silent moans of delight. She snatched her hand back.
“Careful,” Isolde said without turning. “The stone remembers every tongue that has ever licked it.”
Beyond the wall lay a sunken garden arranged like a vast dining table. Long tables of living wood grew straight from the earth, their surfaces polished by centuries of spilled wine and eager hands. Platters the size of rowing boats floated six inches above the wood, laden with dishes that defied reason. Whole roasted beasts with six legs turned slowly on spits of living flame. Towers of pastries wept honey that sang as it fell. A fountain at the center bubbled not with water but with liquid chocolate so dark it drank the light .
Figures moved between the tables—helbound souls and minor demons dressed in silks the color of ripe plums. Their laughter was syrupy, their movements languid. One woman with antlers of crystallized sugar fed another slices of starfruit that left trails of glittering juice down her chin. A satyr-like creature lay on his back, mouth open, while a cascade of wine poured directly from a hovering amphora into his throat until his belly distended like a drum.
Aurora’s stomach gave a treacherous growl. The Heartstone flared hot against her skin in warning.
Nyx’s form flickered . “Do not eat. Do not drink. Do not even breathe too deeply. The air itself is spiced.”
They moved along the edge of the sunken garden, keeping to the shadows of overhanging branches. The path narrowed, forcing them single file. Isolde went first, then Aurora, then Nyx drifting behind like a trailing cloak. The temperature rose. Sweat prickled along Aurora’s spine. The scents thickened until she could almost chew them—smoked venison, caramelized onions, something sweet and sinful that reminded her of the night she and Eva had broken into her father’s whiskey cabinet at fourteen.
A low moan drifted from the trees to their left. Aurora froze.
Between two ancient trunks, a man—no, a once-man—knelt in a pool of cream. His skin had taken on the color and consistency of pâte à choux. His mouth worked around a never-ending stream of meringue that poured from a silver faucet growing from the tree itself. His eyes had long since glazed over with ecstasy. As they watched, a root crept up his thigh and slid between his lips to join the flow. He shuddered in pleasure so profound it looked like pain .
Aurora looked away first. Her throat clicked when she swallowed.
Isolde’s voice floated back, soft as thistledown. “He asked for eternity at the table. The realm gave him exactly what he wanted. Be wary of getting what you want in Dymas.”
They pressed on. The orchard gave way to a hedge maze whose walls were woven from sugar cane and candied roses. The scent was almost violent. Aurora’s vision blurred at the edges. She dug her nails into her palms, focusing on the sharp sting and the small crescent scar that pulled tight with the motion. Pain, at least, was honest.
Nyx suddenly coalesced more solidly beside her, a tall column of living night. “Something follows.”
Aurora drew the Fae blade. The moonsilver glimmered coldly , its leaf-shaped length catching the amber light and throwing it back sharper. “Define something.”
“A lesser glutton-spirit. It wears the shape of whatever you most crave.” The Shade’s violet eyes narrowed . “For you, I suspect it will wear the face of the lawyer who never quite managed to love you.”
Her grip tightened on the hilt. “Then it’ll die disappointed.”
The maze opened into a circular clearing dominated by a single tree so enormous its canopy blocked out half the sky. Golden fruit the size of melons hung from its boughs, each one engraved with a different sin in spiraling script. At the tree’s base grew a fountain carved from a single piece of black tourmaline. Instead of water, it bubbled with liquid starlight that smelled like every good memory Aurora had ever lost.
Isolde stopped so suddenly Aurora nearly walked into her.
“The anchor is beneath,” the half-fae said, voice threaded with something like grief . “But the tree is the price. To reach what we seek, one of us must give the tree what it desires most.”
Nyx drifted closer to the fountain. Their shadow rippled across the surface and the liquid starlight recoiled as though burned. “And what does it desire ?”
Isolde turned her pale gaze on Aurora. For the first time since they had met, the seer looked almost sorry. “A memory of love freely given. Pure. Unpoisoned by power or fear. The tree will drink it until nothing remains but the shape of the absence. Most who feed it never recover.”
Aurora felt the weight of both their stares. The Heartstone burned against her chest, a steady frantic rhythm that matched her own rising pulse . She thought of Evan’s hands on her throat. Of her father’s courtroom voice telling her that a good daughter would have stayed. Of Eva’s desperate text messages that had pulled her to London and into this madness.
She thought of the way Nyx had once wrapped around her in the dark of Silas’s bar, not to consume but to shield . Of Isolde’s quiet riddles that had, more than once, saved her life without ever quite lying.
Aurora stepped forward.
The tree sighed. Every leaf turned toward her like a thousand tiny ears.
She unsheathed the Fae blade fully and laid it across her left wrist, just above the crescent scar. The moonsilver kissed her skin with its eternal cold.
“Not my memory,” she said, voice steady . “Theirs.”
Before either companion could protest, she drew the blade in a swift, shallow line. Blood welled—bright, human, stubborn. She let three drops fall into the fountain of starlight.
The liquid flared white-gold. The tree groaned, a sound like every stomach in the world rumbling at once. Its roots heaved upward, revealing a set of spiral stairs descending into the earth beneath its trunk. Where her blood had touched the fountain, three perfect crimson blossoms now grew, trembling with inner light.
Isolde stared at her with something like wonder . “You gave it sacrifice instead of memory. The tree has never tasted honest pain given for others. It is…sated. For now.”
Nyx’s form rippled with what might have been relief. “Reckless, Carter.”
“Practical,” Aurora corrected. She pressed her thumb against the cut. The bleeding had already slowed; the blade’s magic saw to that. “Let’s move before it changes its mind.”
They descended.
The stairs were warm and slightly yielding, as though they walked down the inside of a throat. Bioluminescent moss clung to the walls in swirling patterns that resembled feasting tables. The air grew thicker, sweeter, almost cloying. Aurora’s head swam. She kept one hand on the rough wall and the other on the hilt of her blade.
At the bottom, the passage opened into a cathedral-sized chamber. Its ceiling was lost in amber mist. Massive chandeliers hung from nothing, dripping molten sugar that never quite reached the floor. In the center stood the obelisk.
It was taller than Nyx, black iron veined with pulsing red light. Trapped within its surface, faces pressed against the metal from the inside—souls screaming silently, their mouths open in eternal hunger. The anchor thrummed with power that made Aurora’s teeth ache.
Around its base, the floor was littered with discarded treasures: jewel-encrusted platters, crowns of sugar glass, the bones of those who had tried to claim the anchor and instead become part of the feast.
Aurora approached slowly . The Heartstone Pendant blazed so brightly it cast her shadow long and sharp behind her. She could feel the pull of the obelisk, a greedy suction trying to draw the warmth from her bones.
Nyx flowed past her, becoming incorporeal. “I can phase through the outer wards. The blade can cut the inner ones. Together—”
A wet, guttural sound rolled through the chamber.
From the far side of the obelisk, something massive unfolded. It had once been a chef, perhaps. Now it was a mountain of flesh and mouths. Cleavers and ladles protruded from rolls of fat like grotesque jewelry. Every mouth whispered recipes in languages that hurt to hear.
“New ingredients,” it gurgled, voice layered with a thousand wet smacks . “So fresh. So full of resistance. The Prince will be pleased.”
Aurora drew her blade. The moonsilver sang.
Isolde raised her hands, silver hair lifting as though caught in an unseen wind. “We did not come to be your next course.”
The creature laughed, and the sound was the wet pop of fat hitting a hot pan. It surged forward with impossible speed for something so huge.
Nyx struck first, becoming a lance of living darkness that punched straight through the creature’s center. The thing bellowed. Where Nyx touched, its flesh withered into charcoal.
Aurora ducked under a swinging cleaver the size of a car door. She slashed upward with the Fae-forged blade. The moonsilver sliced through warded fat as though it were butter. Black ichor sprayed, hissing where it struck the floor.
The creature roared and sprouted three new mouths where the wounds had been. They began to sing—songs of Sunday roasts and birthday cakes and the particular way Evan used to make her feel small and ravenous for approval.
Aurora’s steps faltered.
Isolde’s voice cut through the song like cold silver. “Rory. The pendant.”
She looked down. The Heartstone was blazing like a coal. Without thinking, she yanked the chain over her head and hurled it.
The pendant struck the obelisk dead center.
Light exploded outward—crimson and gold and the clean cold silver of moonlight. The glutton-spirit shrieked as the combined powers of Hel and Fae tore through its stolen mass. It collapsed inward, folding into itself until only a pile of grease-stained silk and one lonely chef’s hat remained.
The obelisk cracked along its length. The trapped souls sighed out in a rush of grateful wind that smelled, for one impossible moment, like fresh bread and freedom.
Aurora sagged, catching herself on the now-dulled iron. The cut on her wrist had reopened. She didn’t care.
Nyx reformed beside her, smaller than usual, flickering. “It is done. The rift will hold.”
Isolde knelt, gathering the Heartstone Pendant from the floor. It had gone dark, its power spent. She offered it back to Aurora with both hands, as though it were a sacrament.
“You gave blood and courage where others would have given memory,” the seer said quietly. “The tree will remember. So will Dymas.”
Aurora took the pendant. The silver chain felt heavier than before. She looked up at the staircase spiraling back toward the orchard, toward the amber sky and the waiting rift.
“Let’s go home,” she said.
As they climbed, the tree above sighed once more. This time the sound held something almost like respect.
Behind them, in the chamber, the obelisk crumbled to dust. In its place, three small crimson flowers pushed through the black soil—fragile, stubborn, and already beginning to glow.
The realm of Gluttony watched them leave. For the first time in centuries, it was not entirely hungry.