“Oh, I’m being unreasonable? I’m the one being unreasonable?”
“I will take you to see him, but not tonight. I will check on him, okay? But you can’t go down there.” I try to break free from his arms, and his grip tightens so much I can barely breathe. “I am not above knocking you unconscious and locking you in your room.”
“Get the fuck off me.”
“Swear to me you won’t go down there.”
I pull against his arms, my blood running hot.
“Swear to me.”
“Fine! I won’t go see Connor. Now get the fuck off me.”
He releases me, and I stumble forward a step, breathing hard. His eyes sweep my face, his jaw tight. But then he turns and wordlessly strides from the hall, leaving me alone in the quiet. In his absence, the rage simmers, which leaves me with nothing left to do but cry.
I spend a lot of time that night running through imaginary arguments in my head, trying to figure out the perfect thing to say to my mother when I see her. But it ends up being a waste of time because she never comes.
Despite this not being particularly unusual, a heaviness settles in my chest all the same. We’ve never been ones to check up on each other. We’ve never been outwardly affectionate or emotional at all, but given what happened today, I thought maybe she would at least try to talk to me. Come by, even if not to apologize, to congratulate me on passing the final trial. On doing what needed to be done. On jumping through the sick little hoop she set up for me.
But she never shows.
And now that hours have passed, and the adrenaline from the final task has faded, everything else trickles back in. Wendigo claws tearing into my chest. The Russians drugging me in the hospital. Knives in my stomach. The snake—
A full-body shudder rolls through me, and I realize how exhausted I am. My entire body feels raw and bruised.
Texts and missed calls from Kirby and Monroe litter my phone screen. I don’t know if they’re asking about the final trial or worried about me going missing from school. I can’t bring myself to listen to their voice mails or call them back. Even though I wouldn’t be able to tell them exactly what happened, all it would take is a few words for them to know something was wrong. Then they would have a million questions and want to talk about it and be there for me.
Though that’s probably exactly what I need, I don’t have the energy for it right now. I send them a quick text to let them know I’m okay and I’ll talk to them later, then turn off my phone and climb into the shower.
The water is hot enough to turn my skin bright red, and I stand under the spray until it goes cold. It takes several minutes of scrubbing my skin raw to rinse off the blood and grime.
I change into some sweats, crawl under the covers of my bed, and curl in on myself. The room feels too big around me, so I slip one hand free from the blankets and brace it against the wall like I used to do when I was younger. It helped me feel anchored enough to fall asleep. It reminded me of where I was, that I was safe, that I was alone.
But tonight, it doesn’t bring me as much comfort as it once did. Because I know tomorrow I’m going to have to wake up, get ready, drag myself into the throne room, and pretend the events of tonight never happened—or at least that they didn’t affect me. I’ll stand there for the initiation ceremony, smiling at the queen and my mother in gratitude, and pledge my undying allegiance and loyalty to them, all the while choking back the bile in my throat.
I guess that’s assuming what just happened with Connor won’t change things. What if they find out about the glamour and decide I don’t pass after all? Or they think I somehow was involved in turning him? Then this was all for nothing. This thing I’ve worked my entire life for, the only outcome I’ve ever been allowed to entertain, is over?
I can’t muster the energy to worry about it. To care. The Marionettes was always expected of me, sure, but it was also supposed to give me some sort of protection. More than witches on the outside have, at least. But this? This is their idea of protection? This is the group of people I’m going to pledge my life to? The ones who ripped my heart straight out of my chest and enjoyed watching it bleed into the floor?
God, I just want Connor. I want to curl up against his chest and feel his arms around me. To hear him tell me it’s going to be okay.
I let out a choked sob and press my face into the pillow. I did this to him. I’m the reason he’s in this position, that he’s locked up God knows where now, that he’s now the thing he hated the most. Loving me has only put him in danger. There’s no way he could know about the glamour too. So he must think I did it. That I really chose them over him.
How could he ever forgive me for that?
And to think, this is all I’ve ever wanted.
Chapter Two
A human servant shows up the next morning with a dress. He stands stiffly in the hall when I open the door. I offer a weak smile, but he doesn’t return it. He looks familiar. I think I’ve seen him talking with Connor before. Judging by the way he looks me up and down with obvious disdain, he knows who I am.
So. Word has spread already. And apparently I’m to blame.
I hold out my arms. He hesitates a moment before dropping the dress into my hands, then turns on his heel and leaves the hall. The plastic garment bag crinkles as I carry it inside and lay it on the bed. So all of the vampires and witches would have blamed me for not killing him, but now the humans blame me for going through with it.
I can’t even fault them for it. Working in the Carrington estate was supposed to grant them protection other humans don’t have. The queen practically spit in all of their faces with this task. Of course, they can’t be angry with her.
But they can be angry with me.
How they know, I have no idea. The details of the final tasks are always kept under lock and key, everyone in the room getting spelled to secrecy. Either they got sloppy because of the chaos, or people have put two and two together.
The invitation to the ceremony sits on my desk—the official announcement I’d passed my initiation. They’d slipped it under my door while I slept. At one point, I probably would’ve framed the stupid thing or put it on display somewhere.
I grab the thick piece of stationery, rip it in half, then shove it in the trashcan.
The same headache I’ve had since the moment I woke up pounds against my temples, intense enough the room feels wobbly around me. I brace myself against my desk and let out a slow breath through my nose. Once the dizziness subsides, I prick my finger and rub the blood between my eyebrows. The tension eases, but not completely.
I startle at a knock on the door. Adrienne pokes her head inside. She’s already dressed for the ceremony, and she suddenly looks much older than seventeen. The silk red dress hugs her body, the neckline dipping down in a sharp V, exposing the thin, gold necklace that hangs all the way down her sternum. The hair, though, is the same as always. Straight and smooth, perfectly in line with her chin. Her eyes dart from the dress on the bed to me, and she purses her lips.
“I thought you might need help getting ready,” she says.
I stare at her for a moment, the surprise likely evident on my face, then nod. There’d been a time when I couldn’t picture this moment without her, but given our track record these past few months, I’d figured a casual glance across the room would be the best I’d get tonight.