Self-preservation instincts kicked in. Find shelter while she still had the chance. Soon the elderseed would steal her consciousness. But what if Kaysar changed his mind? What if he forgave her and came to fetch her? She should be here. Maybe they’d even work things out and live their happy endings together, after all.
He would remember he loved her. Any minute, he might come.
Cold wind blustered, turning her soaked gown to ice. Her teeth chattered, and she drew her arms around her middle. Though she tried, she couldn’t grow leaves to warm herself.
Any minute...
He was stubborn, so he would need a bit of time to work things out in his head.
But he didn’t come. A lump grew in her throat, trapping a sob. Cookie stumbled forward, frantically searching the area. Nothing mattered more than survival. She’d find shelter. Call Pearl Jean. Rest. Cry. From there, things got fuzzy.
Something loomed ahead, and her heart leaped in recognition. A cottage. Even though the quaint Victorian beauty struck her as familiar, she knew she’d never visited. Had Lulundria?
Was anyone home? Common sense bellowed, “Only witches who bake people in tea cakes live in cottages like this.” Which meant Cookie had a higher likelihood of finding a friend. Finally. Something might swing in her favor.
Although the cottage’s owner might take one look at her and freak. Torn white gown. Blood-smeared. Sap-splattered. Twigs tangled in her pink-and-brown waves.
She accelerated and missed the rock in front of her. The sharp edge sliced her foot, the pain slowing her momentum. When had she lost her shoes? Despite the pain, she didn’t pause to catch her breath. When she stopped moving, she stopped for good.
Blood trailed her as she climbed the porch steps and staggered over to bang on the door. “Hello? Someone? Anyone?”
No answer.
She banged harder, using the last of her strength. “Please.”
Still no answer. No movement or light, either. She tested the knob, surprised when it twisted easily. Obviously the odds of finding a serial killer inside had just doubled. Did she turn around? No.
Hinges squeaked as she pushed the door open, revealing a shadowed space. “Hello?”
Again, there were no indications of life.
Cookie tripped inside, the door whooshing closed behind her. She blindly patted a wall for a light switch. What surrounded her? Normal furnishings? A torture chamber?
She banged into something, and a sharp pain exploded in her big toe. Nausea curled her stomach. Though she fought to remain upright, she lost in record time and crashed to the floor.
A dark cloud engulfed her, obscuring the thoughts in her head.
She’d lost Kaysar.
If he’d used his glamara, there at the end, she might be unable to return to Astaria.
She still loved him.
She might hate him.
She...
Game over, Cookie.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
COOKIE AWOKE WITH a groan, her eyelids popping apart. Morning sunlight bathed her, and she blinked rapidly to soothe her burning, watering eyes. As her sight cleared, a wood-paneled wall came into focus, and she frowned.
This isn’t the Dusklands.
Memories surfaced. Hador’s death. Kaysar’s reaction. The doorway and her forced eviction. Her heart shriveled, reminding her of her vines when she severed their connection to her.
Had she spent the night in the cottage she’d discovered? The one filled with shadows?
She tried to scramble upright, but her dress had become stiff and itchy and now stuck to the floor. Great. A lock of her hair had gotten stuck, too.
Gritting her teeth, she struggled to free herself. The gown ripped in places, but the material remained adhered to the wood planks. Stupid stickysap.
She lay still for a moment, her mind whirling with next steps. Free herself, obviously. Search the place. Clean up and rush home to Pearl Jean and Sugars. Cookie’s forced slumber—however much time had passed—had restored enough energy to produce leaves. Already they budded beneath the surface of her skin. Could she create a doorway at long last?
Tears stung her eyes as she used her teeth to gnaw through the glued hair. When she finished with that, she contorted in a thousand different ways, finally slipping free of the dress.
After covering her nakedness with leaves, thankful the ability worked, she studied her surroundings. Beautiful furnishings, all antiques, with feminine decorations. Lace doilies and weird porcelain dolls. A tea party set up on the coffee table, each dish made of pink crystal, only in different shades.
Curious but unsure, she prowled through the rest of the cottage. To her relief, no one hid in the shadows, and she found no evidence of cameras. No computers or TVs, either. If someone had visited the place, they hadn’t cleaned. Dust layered every surface. What’s more, the cupboards were empty.
Her most astonishing finds were framed photos. One contained an image of Angel Ashtower, the creator of The Fog A.E. The others included Lulundria and three unfamiliar women, all in modern mortal clothes. The princess must have come here before and after getting hit with those ice daggers. But who were the rest?
Holding one of the frames, she padded upstairs, hoping to find a bedroom.
Her search offered a bountiful reward. A master suite waited beyond the last step, a spacious chamber as spinsterly as the rest of the house.
A ruffled comforter with pink flowers draped the bed. A vast closet provided an array of gowns. The same kind of gowns Cookie had worn in Astaria. Her eyes watered all over again.
A tunic hung closest to her. A tunic she’d seen before. In a vision. When the injured Lulundria had fled Kaysar. The bloodstains were gone, the tears lovingly repaired with pink thread shaped in a rose pattern.
Well. Here was confirmation. Lulundria had come here to die. And she’d met with someone—or several someones—who’d repaired the shirt. The women from the photos?
Cookie removed the garment from a hanger with a trembling hand. Forget the princess. Nothing mattered more than returning to Pearl Jean and Sugars.
What was meant to be a quick shower stretched into half an hour as she scrubbed off the battle grime and cut a hunk of hair. She didn’t let herself think of Kaysar. Not how much she loved him or hated him or missed him. Certainly not the way he’d hurt her. She didn’t wonder if he loved her or hated her or missed her, either, and she didn’t care if he regretted what he’d done yet. Because the answers didn’t matter in the slightest. Not anymore.
Throw me out once, lose me forever.
Under the spray of cooling water, lingering aches and pangs faded. When finally she emerged from the stall, she almost felt like a brand-new model fresh off the factory line. Almost. She dried off the old-fashioned way and donned the tunic, the hem reaching her knees. Good enough for a trip home. Now she had to figure out where she was. No, she just needed a phone.