TWO CAN PLAY THE FAE GAME

Elena Sinclair had always believed there were two kinds of women in New York.

Those who checked their husband's phones, and those who were secure enough not to have to.

For five years of marriage, she had proudly been the second kind.

Until 10:47 PM on a Thursday in late August, when her phone buzzed with an unknown number and a voice that sounded like winter.

"Is this Mrs. Sinclair? Elena Sinclair?"

The voice was male. British, but not the soft London kind. This was northern, clipped, tired. As if he hadn't slept in days.

"This is she. Who is this?" Elena was in her kitchen, barefoot, wearing one of Julian's old Columbia Law shirts. She had been waiting for Julian to come home from his "client dinner." Again.

"My name is Adrian Blackwood. I know this will sound insane. I need you to listen. I think my wife is sleeping with your husband."

Elena laughed. She actually laughed, a short, sharp sound that echoed in her marble kitchen. In Brooklyn Heights, you learned to spot scams.

"I think you have the wrong number, Mr. Blackwood. My husband is at a client dinner with Victoria Hale, my best friend. They are both married. To other people."

"I know," the voice said quietly. "My wife is Victoria Hale. And your husband is Julian Sinclair. They were at The Whitby Hotel last Tuesday. Room 412. Check-in was at 2:14 PM. Your best friend wore a gold necklace with an emerald. You lost it two weeks ago, didn't you?"

Elena's hand flew to her neck. The empty spot where her necklace should have been.

The necklace. Julian had given it to her on their third anniversary. An antique, he said, from his grandmother. "For my star," he had whispered. Elena had lost it two weeks ago after her yoga class. She had torn her apartment apart looking for it.

"You... how..."

"I found photos on her phone. I'm not proud of how," Adrian Blackwood said. His voice cracked. "My wife has been... different. Cold. Distant. I hired someone. I wish I hadn't."

Elena's knees gave out. She slid to the floor, back against the fridge. The tiles were cold.

"No," she whispered. "Victoria would never. Julian would never. We're like family. Victoria was my maid of honor."

"I know. That's why I'm calling. Because no one will believe us if we don't believe each other. Can you check your husband's phone? There will be a message from last Tuesday. 11:03 PM. It says 'Whitby was perfect. Same time next week? V.'"

Elena's heart was hammering so loud she could hear it in her ears. Julian's phone was charging on the counter. He always left it charging. He had nothing to hide, he always said.

With shaking hands, she picked it up. Julian Sinclair, 34, handsome, charming, the man who made her laugh until her stomach hurt. Face ID failed. She typed his birthday. 0912. Wrong. She typed hers. 0415. It unlocked.

She went to messages. Victoria Hale. At the top. Pinned.

Last message: Today, 9:42 PM. "Can't wait to see you tonight. He'll be gone. Wear that black shirt I like. - V"

And there, a week ago, Tuesday 11:03 PM: "Whitby was perfect. Same time next week? V."

Below that, a photo. Victoria in Elena's necklace. Nothing else. In Julian and Elena's bed.

The phone slipped from her hand and clattered to the floor.

Frost. Frost was forming on her fingertips. Literally. White, crystalline frost spreading from her nails up to her knuckles, even though it was 89 degrees outside and her AC was broken.

"What is happening to me?" she choked out.

Adrian's voice was suddenly urgent. "Elena? Elena, are you okay? Are your hands cold? Is there light?"

"How do you know? How do you know my hands are cold? My hands are freezing and it's snowing in my kitchen!"

There was a pause. Then, softer: "Look out your window."

Elena crawled to her kitchen window overlooking the small backyard garden. It was August. Her hydrangeas were in full bloom.

It was snowing.

In Brooklyn. In August. Thick, silent snow falling only over her house, as if the rest of the world didn't exist.

And in the snow, standing under the oak tree, was a man.

Tall. Dark coat. Hair black as ink, eyes so pale grey they looked almost silver. He was looking straight up at her window, as if he knew exactly where she would be.

Even from three floors up, Elena could feel the sadness coming off him in waves.

"Who are you?" she whispered into the phone, though she already knew he was the man outside.

"I'm the man your best friend has been trying to kill for three years," Adrian Blackwood said. "And I'm here to save you before she kills you too. Because you're not human, Elena. Not fully. And that necklace she stole? It wasn't just jewelry. It was suppressing your power."

The frost on Elena's hands flared into light. Pure, silver-white light that lit up her entire kitchen like starlight.

For the first time in her life, Elena Sinclair understood that her perfect life hadn't just been a lie. It had been a cage.

And someone had just unlocked the door.