by Cecily White
Inside, I felt sick.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not here. Not now.
“Petra’s tracking us through the bond,” I told Luc. “Dane warned me about this. With Jack touching me, plus my allergies, it must have been like setting off a Crossworlds beacon.”
Jack’s head jerked toward me, and an irritated expression zipped through his eyes. “First, I didn’t touch you. You sneezed on me. Second, remind me to kill Dane.”
“Done.” I started to move toward the fireplace, where Jack had faced off with the first wave of demons, but Luc pulled me back.
“Amelie, just let him handle it.”
“In your dreams.” I jerked my arm from his grasp. “This is my job.”
“No, he’s right,” Jack said. “It’s too dangerous. I can contain this without the bond. Just wait in the hall until—”
But he never got to finish. A familiar, high-pitched squeal pulsed out of the rift, along with a rush of blistery fumes and angry shadows hot enough to peel the varnish off the wood-paneled walls. It drowned out every sound in the room. Whatever demons had crawled to the surface a moment ago, they were about to be eclipsed by something much, much larger.
“Get down,” I shouted. “Concedia.”
A pulse of power flew out of my hand into the rift, ricocheting off the edges in a lightning bolt of static energy. Shrieks of pain and rage echoed from the opening, but it stayed open.
“Luc, get her out of here,” Jack yelled over the din.
Luc made another grab at my arm, but I dodged out of the way. Bond power gathered under my skin in hot pulses, like the reverse pull of the tide before a tsunami. Strands of light coiled within me, fully amped to stretch out toward Jack.
“Amelie, stop!”
“Incendia.”
I flung both arms toward the rift as another peal of anguish tumbled through the room. Jack hacked at the air, sending tiny chunks of demon wing flying. It was like watching one of those hibachi chefs cut an onion midair, except the onion had really sharp teeth and a nasty attitude.
And blood. Lots of demonblood.
I gave a sharp yelp as black goo splashed over my face, clinging to my hair in drippy globs. “Gross. Jackson!”
“I told you to leave.”
I ignored that, because frankly, it deserved to be ignored.
Across the room, Luc grabbed an antique sword off the wall and slashed at the air in wild strokes. The blade wasn’t sharp enough to actually cut anything, mind you, and his form reminded me of Katie’s little brother when he played Star Wars light sabers. But Luc did do a rather nice job of banging dents into the heads of the demons.
“Get ready,” I shouted, raising my palms to the rift. “Exitus.”
At once, the demon shrieks coalesced into a single, horrifying vibration that shook the chandelier and rattled the stained-glass windows. The French tapestry above the fireplace gave a harsh shudder, then leaped off the wall into the rift. At the same time, the light fingers between Jack and me tightened around the rift.
“Jack, what’s happening?”
“Ask your fiancé. It’s his house.”
“He’s not my—” I fumbled. “Luc, make it stop.”
“With what? My magic wand?”
“Your wand isn’t magic. It’s just overused.”
Luc shot me a dirty look. Which, admittedly, I had earned.
To be fair, this was really freaking me out. I’d only done a few of these closures in my lifetime, but never had I felt quite this much gravity. Even the bond threads seemed to panic, whipping wicked arcs through the air then, one by one, tightening around the rift closure like rubber bands stuck in a garbage disposal.
Jack scurried back until his shoulder pressed against my chest, blocking me from the pull of the rift.
“We need to get out of here.” Luc gave a last clumsy hack at the winged demons still circling the room.
I hated to say it, but I agreed with the semi-evil dude.
Whatever force was fritzing with Jack’s and my bond—allergies or residue from Petra’s attack earlier—it had done wonky things to the rift kill. It should have been finished about four seconds after I gave the exitus command. And yeah, there might have been some explosions and demon bits flying around, but if everything had gone according to plan, the rift itself should be closed. Firmly. Irrevocably. This thing, on the other hand, looked like a giant guppy mouth gasping for its last breath. It kept chewing the air—sucking in tablecloths and spitting out demon parts. Hardly a fair trade, if you asked me.
Not that anyone did.
“Go, go, go,” Jack shouted, shoving Luc and me toward the door.
The three of us had just taken our first steps toward the exit when it happened. The unthinkable. The thing I never believed could happen.
One of the strands connecting me and Jack…broke.
It didn’t fizzle the way they usually did when we were done channeling. This was something different. It actually broke.
Snapped.
Ripped in half, until the two halves draped lifeless and deflated between us.
For a moment, calm hung in the air—an eerie stillness so quiet I swore I could hear the heartbeats of the squirrels outside. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t look away from it—this slowly darkening piece of myself that used to be connected to Jack.
No way.
I grabbed Jack’s sword, fully intending to attack the rift in hand-to-hand combat. Not that I could have done anything useful, but at least it would have made me feel better. About three paces from the opening, I had to abort that plan because a shredded demon the rough size and shape of a cocker spaniel hit me in the chest.
Jack launched himself at me at the exact time Luc tackled the demon carcass, both of them knocking me to the cut-stone floor. Like a hellish vacuum cleaner, the rift reversed polarity above me, blowing everything into the room from its endless, black belly.
It was, hands down, the most revolting thing I’d ever seen.
And, believe me, I’ve seen a world of revolting things. Shreds of demon skin covered the table. Scraps of demon spaniel littered the floor. On the salad plate near Seamus’s seat now lay a severed cloven hoof. And the worst part—the very most disturbingest thing I could possibly have imagined—was the bond thread that had just broken off from Jack.
Because it wasn’t broken anymore.
It had resealed itself to the nearest person to me, and quivered there like a tired kitten after a good romp. Securely connected.
To Luc.
Yeah, if this had been the end of dinner instead of the beginning, I probably would have hurled.
He must have seen it at the same time I did, because his gaze snapped to mine in such a look of utter shock, I couldn’t help but feel compassion for him. He rolled away from me before Jack could glance up, effectively hiding the bond thread from sight.
Thank goodness.
When the last demon shriek had faded to the Crossworlds and the remaining light strands dissipated into the ether, Jack finally swiveled to face us. “Maybe this cohabiting thing isn’t the best idea.”
I dragged myself upright enough to glare at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You should have let me handle it,” Jack said. “Alone.”
Luc raised a doubtful eyebrow.
“You mean let you get killed alone?” I said. “No, thank you. Besides, it’s not that bad. A few wet rags, maybe a mop—”
As if on cue, the chandelier landed on the table beside us in a spray of plaster and splintered wood that sent Jack into a wretched coughing fit.
“You were saying?” Luc said.
Let me just acknowledge, I knew this was a serious situation. I understood that. I also understood that, despite the excuses, it probably was my fault. “Well,” I said, when the dust had settled, “at least it can’t get any worse.”
For the record, one should never, ever utter those words.
It was like watching a train wreck in
slow motion—you see what’s happening but you can’t, for the life of you, stop it.
“Luc, darling? Is everything all right?” Luc’s girlfriend peered through the doorway at us, her perfect features lodged somewhere between curiosity and horror.
Luc scrambled to his feet.
Or tried, at least. It took him a few attempts, slipping on his Gucci boots. By the time he got vertical, there was a streak of demon guts down the side of his pants and a fabulous patch of rubbery black demon skin attached to his cheek.
“Mum,” he said, blinking.
Jack stood slowly, his shoulders hunched like a toddler caught in the cookie jar. “Aunt Arianna, I’m so sorry about this. We’ll clean it up.”
“Heard that before, haven’t I?” She smiled, her lips pressed into the same adorable quirk I’d seen on Luc’s face a hundred times before. “Shall I tell Marguerite to cancel dessert, then?”
Nobody said anything for a few minutes.
In my case, it was because I’d forgotten what English sounded like. In the boys’ case, I suspect they were trying to figure out how to apologize without accepting responsibility.
“Mum?” I said, when my voice started working again. “But I thought you were his girlfriend. You’re so pretty. And so young.”
Luc dropped his forehead into his hands as his mother’s grin widened.
“Immortality does have its perks,” she pointed out. “Jackson?”
“Aunt Arianna,” Jack said, careful not to touch me, “this is Amelie Lane Bennett, Luc’s fledgling and lieutenant for the Sovereign Trials. Amelie, may I present her Sovereign Ladyship of the Immortal Southern District, Arianna Fassnight Montaigne. Luc’s mother.”
“Mother?” I repeated, dumbfounded. “As in, you gave birth? To that guy?”
The woman crossed the room and gave me a giant, inexplicably warm hug. “No worries about mistaking me. Luc should have introduced us ages ago.”
Flashbulbs popped, slashing bright spots across my vision. In the back of my brain, the jovial atmosphere registered, but I had no clue what to do with it.
“Amelie, are you okay?” Jack asked from a few feet away.
I wasn’t okay. My chest felt like I’d been hit by an NFL linebacker. Like I’d been run through a washing machine and shaken out to dry. It was weird enough to think of Luc having a mother, like, in the abstract sense. Weirder still to have her sending me dresses and starting rumors about me. But to realize that she was also possibly the most beautiful woman on the entire planet?
It fried my brain.
“Amelie.” Jack nudged my shoulder carefully. “Are. You. Okay?”
It wasn’t until I followed his gaze to my hands that I got his meaning. The glow of the bond—minus the one disconnected thread—had receded to a small cluster of moving light threads at the palm of my left hand. Jack’s skin still held a gentle luminescence, but nothing as pronounced as the light wad I held. Under the dim flicker of the candelabras, his was barely noticeable.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“Good,” Jack said quietly. “A curtsy would be appropriate now.”
But all I could do was stare. Because it wasn’t just the bond that had me wigging out.
For the first time in months, it occurred to me that that could be me. Young forever. Frozen in time. Immortally preserved.
Without Jack.
And for the first time in months, my heart started to pound.
Chapter Nine:
Pieces of Normal
“I can’t do this.”
I flopped on to the fleecy, cashmere blanket at the foot of my bed. Messy, yes, but better than passing out on the floor. In the fireplace ten feet away, flames crackled in manic orange bursts, and downstairs, the hall echoed with servants cleaning up after the fight. It didn’t seem to matter that the guests had left or that Arianna had long since retired to her suite. My nerves still jangled like a wad of spare keys.
“Marguerite, did you hear me?” I repeated to the woman tending the fire in the hearth. “I don’t think I can keep this up. Maybe I can get Luc through the Sovereign Trials, but that’s it. I can’t be Immortal.”
She poked at the embers and added another log to the fire. “You may not have a choice.”
“My cafeteria lady says everyone has choices. For example, this morning I chose not to rip out Luc’s entrails and feed them to the dog. Look where that got me.”
“We have no dog.”
“To the cat, then.”
“Annabelle keeps an aquarium,” she noted. “You could discard his Lordship’s innards there.”
I lifted the heels of my palms to my forehead, but said nothing. It’d been nearly an hour since the disaster at dinner, and in that time, Luc and I hadn’t uttered a word to each other. The bond thread between us had faded almost immediately after I’d noticed it, but that couldn’t erase the memory. When I’d left him downstairs, he’d cocooned himself completely in a blanket and had his eyes closed and forehead pressed against the bar.
I didn’t blame him.
I kind of wanted to block out reality, too. The whole time Jack and Arianna chatted with Seamus, I’d looked everywhere but at them. The wall. The ceiling. My hands. By the time Seamus’s crew departed, I knew precisely how many antique tiles there were in the dining room ceiling, how many wood grains in each board of the table, and I held a whole new level of respect for whatever poor peasant workers had woven the millions of meticulous knots in that priceless Persian rug beneath the table.
“You’re making this more difficult than necessary,” Marguerite said as she settled the fireplace poker back in its holder. “I know life here can be complicated, but perhaps if you tried a bit harder—”
I cut her off with a groan.
Not to sound like a teenage cliché, but she clearly didn’t get it.
I had tried. Every day, I tried. Every time I didn’t run to Jack’s office or hightail it home to my dad, that was me trying. But it was like trying into a vacuum. No one would tell me what was going on with Petra and Dominic. And now Jack had decided it was too dangerous to hang out with me.
Defiantly, I began to strip off the jewelry I’d slathered myself with earlier. Garnet rings and ruby bracelets, crystal earrings that dangled still-moist bits of demon flesh. My fingers shook as I tugged on the blood-slicked clasps. This whole being in limbo was killing me. Everything that made me happy was fading away, and I had no idea if I’d ever get any of it back.
Like clockwork, the things I cared about mentally ticked off in my mind: Dad, Lisa, my friends, my freedom…Jack. He might not be gone yet, but I couldn’t deny this weird sensation I kept having, like things were changing and I couldn’t stop them. The bond thread snapping just punctuated what I already suspected.
“I’m going to bed,” I announced, facedown in the blanket. “And showering. Definitely showering first.”
“Shall I send Annabelle to help you undress?”
“Only if you want her to die.”
Marguerite sighed. “I’ll get back to you on that.”
I don’t know if she expected me to say something else, but she stood at the door for an eternity. Or maybe it was just a few minutes. Either way, it was a relief when I heard her exhale and shut it with a click.
I waited until she’d gone before stripping off the heavy gown. Each starched ribbon and threaded jewel seemed to weigh a ton, far more than it had before dinner. I balled it into the laundry basket then reached around to pluck the sparkling barrette out of my hair. It fell in sticky red waves over my shoulders.
Okay, so maybe I was being an immature snotbag. There were tons of girls who would kill to be in my position. Engaged to Luc Montaigne. Surrounded by money. Never mind the assassins and the heartache and the constant chill. Life could be a lot worse, right?
I hauled myself vertical and dragged my body to the shower. Rivulets of water traced chaotic paths down my body, but I just stood there, unmoving, until every memory of blackness and demon goo ha
d vanished.
With a deep sigh, I shut off the water and toweled dry before the chill could take hold again. It didn’t matter. Even the searing shower couldn’t ward it off for long. It made me wonder if the demonblood inside me had turned my heart to dry ice—like if it ever did melt, maybe it would just vanish to mist. Then I’d be heartless.
I grabbed a hairbrush and flopped onto my bed. My bed—although it was an exact replica of my old bed at home—felt alien and strange. Such a great metaphor for the Montaignes’ life. It looked comfortable from the outside, but when you took away all the pomp and fluff and luxury, it just felt fake.
I was still lying facedown on the bed, clinging to my hairbrush and self-pity, when a knock sounded at the door.
“Go away,” I shouted, muffled by the pillow.
The door cracked open.
“If you’re here to kill me, make it fast. I won’t fight you,” I said as Luc settled onto the edge of the bed a few feet from where I lay.
“We’re not there quite yet,” he replied. “First comes the psychological torture.”
I peeked out from my pillow. “Nicholas Sparks movie marathon?”
“I’m not that cruel.”
“Says the diabolical overlord.”
I half tucked my face back into its hiding place in the pillow, but the smell of him still reached me—sandalwood soap and musk with just the hint of alcohol. Like he’d showered, changed clothes, then kept drinking. At least, I hoped he’d changed clothes, otherwise Marguerite would have a nasty time cleaning the bedspread.
“Are you mad at me?” I asked, still muffled.
“That’s a bit like asking if I’m conscious, don’t you agree?”
After tonight’s disaster, I totally did.
Seriously, that had to be the most disturbing dinner party I’d ever been to, including the family dinner Lyle had dragged me to where his grandmother asked if I wanted to borrow her vibrator. Granted, she’d been referring to post-demon-slaying muscle soreness, but that’s not the kind of thing you expect to hear at the dinner table.
“Speaking of people who hate me”—I sat up with a sigh—“is your mom still here?”
