Rare Vigilance (Whitethorn Agency)

Squad—Distance doesn’t matter. You do.

My sisters—Your humor and encouragement when I had breakdowns about whether this was possible are true gifts. Here’s to continued Schitt’s Creek and Hamilton GIFs, and forgiveness for dirty houses during FaceTime calls.

The readers who’ve been following me, or who are about to discover my writing—All I’ve wanted to be was a writer. You have helped make that possible. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for taking these journeys with me and celebrating the characters and stories. I can’t wait to hear from you as we start in on this new trilogy together!

About the Author

M.A. Grant has always loved reading and writing, but fell in love with the romance genre when she started working at an independent bookstore in high school. After meeting her husband in college, they began a steady northward migration and are now happily living in the rugged beauty of Alaska’s Kenai Peninsula. When she’s not calling out to passing ravens or making a cup of tea, she’s writing dark and moving stories.

You can find out more about her—and her upcoming releases—at www.marionaudreygrant.com, on Twitter and Instagram at @authormagrant, or on Facebook at Facebook.com/AuthorMAGrant.

Phineas Smith has been cursed with a power no one could control.

Roark Lyne is his worst enemy and his only hope.

Caught in the middle of the impending war, Phineas and Roark forge a dangerous alliance. And as the walls between them crumble, Phineas realizes that Roark isn’t the monster he’d imagined. But their growing intimacy threatens to expose a secret that could either turn the tide of the war...or destroy them both.

Keep reading for an excerpt of Prince of Air and Darkness by M.A. Grant, Book 1 in the Darkest Court trilogy.

Prologue

Phineas

The tip of the blade skims over my ribs, burning from the cold of the ice, but not drawing fresh blood. Not yet.

“How much more do you think he can take?”

Some part of me wishes she’d just get it over with. We both know it’s the next step. The slicing. The screaming. The metal cuffs biting into my wrists, taking my weight when my knees go out from under me.

Except I don’t think I can scream anymore. My throat’s too raw.

Maybe that’s why she doesn’t press further. She said she liked hearing those cries. Called them music.

“He’s useless,” the man says, voice echoing from a distant place in the chamber.

It’s large, dimly lit—everything a subterranean torture chamber should be. I had plenty of time to memorize the dips in the walls. To focus on the pattern of the strange grates in the stone floor while I waited for someone to come tell me why the hell I’d been snatched off the street on my way back to the apartment. The kidnappings are something I’m used to. The torture...isn’t. At least the grates make sense now. They’ll need them to wash my blood away when they’re done.

“Let’s put him out of his misery,” the man suggests.

I recognize that accent. Vaguely Irish, but older. But this man isn’t Roark Lyne. Roark and I hate each other, but he wouldn’t play with me like this. Roark would have killed me days ago. Or has it only been hours?

I’m too weak to swallow the sobs working free. Can’t stop my eyelids from trembling when I shut them, desperate to stop the tears.

In the earth deep below me, the ley line pulses dully with each beat of my heart, each throb of the fresh wounds covering my chest, as if it’s bleeding with me.

“Let me ask him one more time.”

Strong fingers grip my chin, yanking my head up. Stars explode in my vision and the air rushes from my lungs, but I’m too exhausted to fight.

“Open your eyes,” she murmurs, shaking my face with far too much gentleness for all the damage she’s done.

I force my eyelids up, but the figure in front of me weaves in and out of focus as the tears spill free.

She’s beautiful. The legends always say that about Queen Mab, but no one has ever done her justice. Dark eyes with long lashes, a strong nose, a stern mouth. Hair black as ebony and skin pale as snow. Maybe she’s where the Grimms got it from...

“Good boy,” she coos.

I flinch when her other hand, the one holding the dagger of crystal clear ice, rises in the corner of my failing vision. She laughs at that and brushes hair off my forehead with her knuckle.