Chapter One
Toulouse, France
1595
Vivianne tipped her head back to welcome the rain. The sky’s gift revived her parched throat and washed away the days of caked blood and grime from her body, though it could not cleanse the stains from her soul. Water ran over her bruised shoulders and down her gouged arms, stinging where it met skin rubbed raw by rope bindings.
Thunder roiled, inciting a murmur of anticipation from the jostling crowd. Fat droplets spattered the brick platform, stirring a haze that distorted their eager, hateful faces.
She closed her eyes, longing for the peace that would soon come.
“Brule la!” someone shouted. Burn her.
Yes, she would burn. Fire was cleansing too. She had much to be cleansed of.
“Madame Vivianne Regina Spurrier, Comtesse de la Feronique du Guard,” the herald began. The crowd hushed. The air thickened with a thirst for carnage and their fear of what she symbolized.
Witchcraft.
She had committed heinous, malicious acts against members of the French court, attempted to wile influential men to her bed for personal gain, bargained with the devil, and forsaken their Lord God. She’d been branded heretic and whore and a diseased piece of flesh to be cut from the arm of society. As the oration of her sins rang out, loathing seeped from the crowd into the rain-bloated sky and made her stomach churn like the clouds above.
For certain, she was a witch, but she had done none of those things. Zyne were not supposed to get involved with mundane affairs. But when she’d foreseen the plague, she could not stand by and let hundreds, mayhap thousands, die needlessly. She’d used her powers to try and help them, yet they hated her. The Synod would not come to her aide. They were more concerned with her trespass against Zyne writ. She had thought they would intervene rather than let the rest of her coven suffer, but no. They would leave her to face the justice of her accusers. And she would carry the cost of all their lives into her next.
The herald continued. For her crimes against God and the crown of France, to which she had given full, documented confession…
She searched the dais for the man who had taken said confession. Father Dolores oversaw the proceedings with a look of cold detachment. Vivianne’s heart throbbed with fury as she stared into his eyes and glimpsed the shadow floating in their depths. She had tested her mettle against the darkness consuming him, while he had delighted in watching the breaking of her flesh and repeated violations of her body. Still, she had emerged the victor. Unclaimed. Unbroken. The strength of her bond to Lucas—the very thing that made her an outcast among her own people—had helped her to withstand the Dark One’s treachery and keep her family’s secret safe. She had broken many rules, but her vow to protect the Legacy still held fast.
For that, she would burn.
The executioner lumbered forward as the herald rolled his damp parchment and scurried away. Villagers she’d known half her life vied for position to cast stones and putrid fruit. She reached inside herself, searching for the strength to forgive them.
They have only one turn on the Wheel.
Their journey was harder—a single lifetime spent un-awakened to the filaments of energy underlying the mundane world. Her tie to the Conduit had unraveled at some point in the long dark of the past days, along with her will to keep fighting. Her magic had drained, as if her soul had already released its hold on this body. She was ready to let go.
Her coven—all eight of them—dangled from the wall of the keep. Her daughter was safely out of reach of persecution, but her unborn child had been expelled from her womb by the abuses of her captors. Her lover…
Tears sprang forth at the thought of Lucas. Would he find her again? Even for an immortal, eternity was a long time to promise. Because of their union, the Synod would hunt him. She knew he would grieve, and fight. But he was also free to live. To forget. Perhaps even to find another. Their magical bond would never end, but would his love endure lifetimes of searching…alone?
The priest uttered the final prayer for Vivianne’s soul to be accepted into the Lord’s Kingdom. She let her head sink to her chest. Her soul would not be in the hands of their One True God for judgment or redemption. She had many lives yet to live. Endless lives.
However many it takes to find my way back to you…
The executioner tossed a bucket of tar at her feet.
She bit her lip and focused inward, forcing her body to relax. Cries of “Sorcière!” and “Putain!” chorused off the high walls. Raindrops fell harder.
“Brule la! Brule la!” the people chanted in senseless fury.
Father Dolores smirked, the Dark One slithering over his face like the shadow of a passing cloud.
You will pay.
His last words echoed in her heart. Yes, she would pay.
Vivianne let out a slow, deep breath. The flames of the torch danced and sputtered as it neared. She gazed into them. This was the Fate she had chosen—the fire only a doorway. The pain would mark her passage into the next revolution of her journey.
The torch lowered.
A cloud of heavy black smoke choked the air from her lungs before she felt the heat. Flames licked her ankles, but she had no breath to cry out with. The scent of roasting flesh filled her nostrils. Searing pain surged through her veins. Her skin blistered. Her blood boiled.
Let me pass.
And then she felt nothing. She was ready. Another turn of the Wheel. Another chance to do things better. To pay the cost of the choices she had made in this life. She struggled against her bonds, but her flesh melted and fell away. Somewhere, there was a hoarse voice screaming.
Her vision narrowed to a pinprick. The last cry to escape her charred lips was softer than a whispered prayer… Lucas.
***
Sydney, Australia
Present Day
Briana shot awake and tossed off the covers. The sheets were drenched with sweat, and her nightgown clung to her skin, which had erupted in painful goose bumps. She ran her hands over her arms and legs, finding the skin smooth and unmarred. Her wrists tingled, but there were no marks on them.
Just a dream. It’s not real.
Her nightmares were usually just snapshots…blood, crying, pain. She hadn’t had a detailed one in years, and they were never so vivid. None of them had never clung so hard either, as if she’d brought a piece of it back to the waking world. She could still taste the smoke and singed flesh. Acid bathed her throat, and she stumbled to the bathroom. Not wanting to wake Eric, she closed the door before flicking on the light. Stars burst in her vision. She squeezed her eyes shut and felt her way to the sink, trying to breathe past the burning itch in her chest. She half-expected to cough up a wad of tar as she gagged into the sink.
She fumbled through her drawer looking for her anxiety meds. She hadn’t needed them in weeks. Doctor Stevens had even dialed back her dosages. Valium still got her to sleep most nights, but she was actually starting to believe her nightmares were going away.
Her hands trembled as she tried to wrench the safety cap off the bottle. It popped open and exploded all over the counter. “Dammit!”
What had set her off? The extra wine at dinner? Or maybe the argument they had before bed? She’d been doing better since returning from her recital tour. With a handful of pills down the hatch, she gulped a glass of water and splashed her cheeks. Her reflection was harrowed, a wispy ghost of herself, with a halo of wild auburn curls. Like always, the sight brought another ghost to fore: her mother’s face locked in a silent scream. Hair drifting softly in dark water.
Briana shucked her nightgown and stepped into the shower. The sluice of hot needles grounded her in the present, but then it reminded her of the sensation of melting and peeling skin, so she turned it to full cold and tried to scrub the sting away.
It was just a dream.
She was in her apartment in Sydney. Eric was sleeping peacefully in the next room. Life was normal. They were leaving for New York in four days to sign on her album. Maybe that was it? She hated flying. Her to-do list was a mile long. Not to mention a pivotal moment in her career…and life. That had to be it. When she started to shiver, she stepped out and toweled off.
Briana…
She whipped around with a gasp. A faint outline filled the mirror beside her reflection, with curly hair gone silver. The soft brown eyes that used to be her safe harbor in any storm were staring right through her.
Her heart plummeted to her feet.
Briana, her grandmother’s voice was clear as a bell in her head. The floor tilted. She lurched, grabbing the vanity for balance.
You have to see.
“Oh, no.” Tears spilled from her eyes. “No. No. No.” This couldn’t be happening now. Not Ce-Ce. Not again. This was not supposed to happen. Never. Again. “Ce-Ce…no.”
You have to see. Her grandmother’s face was so frightened and sad, pleading with her.
Briana clutched the sides of her head, willing with all her might for the vision to stop. It felt as if reality was catapulting around her while she held still, huddled on the cold tile of her bathroom floor. The last time this had happened, she’d felt her lungs filling with icy water as her mother gulped her last breath. She’d woken the next morning to a world that was forever changed.
Briana, daughter of my blood, you have to see, the voice tolled again, stronger.
Somewhere in the distance, there was a loud pounding, a deeper voice yelling her name over and over. But the yelling blended into the crashing of waves. All she saw when she closed her eyes was a froth of white pouring over jagged rocks, spinning, spinning… Glass cracked against water, and the world imploded.
See…
“Ce-Ce! NO!” She screamed until she ran out of air, and blackness took her.
When she woke, the bright Australian sun was beating against her eyelids, which felt paper thin. Eric was posted on the bed beside her, his normally serene face lined with worry. He held out a glass of cool water. Her throat was shredded. She took a long sip before collapsing back to the pillows.
“You scared the hell out of me.”
“I’m sorry.” She closed her eyes to the steady throbbing in her temples. She couldn’t remember how many pills she’d taken in her panic last night. Enough to suffer a wicked hangover.
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
She cracked an eye open at his accusatory tone. He meant well, but Eric would never understand. No mundane ever could. The best doctors and therapists and serenity retreats money could buy would never heal her. Not even her own people could help her beyond what had already been done. She had accepted years ago that she was too broken to be fixed. So, she had perfected the art of taking the beating and hiding the cracks. “It was only a nightmare. I thought I was fine.”
“Well, you’re not fine. I’m going to cancel our trip. I called Doctor Stevens. He’s on his way.”
She sat up at that. “Our trip? It’s my record deal. You know how important this is to me. I have to go.”
“You’re in no state to travel. I just found you in hysterics and practically catatonic.” His hand, gentle, yet firm, pressed her back. He took a calming breath. “This is my fault. I’ve been too focused on work and not spending enough time with you. Forget New York for now. Let’s take a pleasure trip instead.” He stroked her hair, then her cheek. “Belize?”
“Eric—” she started, bracing for another performance where she convinced him she was fine and life should go along as usual. Her phone buzzed on the bedside table, making the words catch in her throat. She let out an aggravated sigh and reached for it, but he snatched it up first.
“Hello? Yes, this is her number.”
Briana glared at him as she sat up. Then she noticed she was in a clean nightgown and tucked into fresh sheets. A tray of food sat at the foot of the bed. A vase of lilacs perched on the nightstand, permeating the room with their calming perfume. All of her frustration evaporated. He was only trying to take care of her. Maybe he also had a point. A week on the beach soaking up the sun and drinking mai-tais couldn’t hurt. Put everything on pause. Take a deep breath. Get her feet under her before embarking on this new path in her career.
“Who is this?”
She gave him a meek smile and held out her hand for the phone.
Eric’s expression locked-down into that unreadable politico mask as he handed it over. “Astrid?”
Her entire body went stiff, the smile withering. The fine hairs up her arms stood on end. Her hand felt leaden, moving in slow motion as she lifted the phone to her ear. Astrid was the best friend she’d ever had, but they only spoke a few times a year now, unless… Her lip trembled, but she steeled herself. “Hello?”
“Bri.” Astrid’s voice was small. She sounded as if she’d been crying. “It’s Ce-Ce and Tara.”
No…it wasn’t real! It couldn’t be. Not Tara too!
“There was an accident.”
Briana closed her eyes. That spinning feeling took hold again. She rubbed her breastbone as her body recalled the feeling of her insides being crushed with the pressure of tons of water. Ce-Ce’s words echoed in her bones. Her throat felt like it was full of gravel as she answered, “I’ll be on the next flight.”
Chapter Two
San Juan Islands, Washington
Through eight human centuries and countless hosts he’d hunted the relic. With Cecelia dead and the line of Spurrier witches finally ground to dust, only one hurdle remained. The key to the vault had to be hidden somewhere in the old crone’s house. He began his search in the downstairs study.
He’d thought the wily Oracle had foreseen his endgame and magically cached it away before he could reach her, but his tracking spell had pinpointed it to within a few hundred feet of where he was standing. She hadn’t had time to hide it.
A thrill shook his muscles as he tore books from their shelves with a flick of his wrist.
The study turned up nothing but useless Zyne trinkets.
He climbed the stairs to the attic and tossed through every box, even checked for loose boards and secret nooks. On his way to Cecelia’s bedroom, he contemplated razing the whole thing to the ground and sifting through the ashes.
As if in answer, the house’s blood wards flickered to life.
Cold lightning stampeded up his spine. His guts curdled. He doubled over and faded to the porch. Raw power rose from the earth, singeing his tongue as the wards strengthened to a steady hum, locking him out.
“Damn the old magics.” With a sneer, he called up an invisibility shield and faded to the woods at the edge of the property.
Active blood wards on the Spurrier estate could mean only one thing.
Briana had come home.
Chapter Three
Thirty hours and several tense conversations later, Briana was on a ferry chugging through Washington’s steely blue waters towards North Wake Island. Eric had insisted on coming with her at first, but luckily he’d had business to take care of that bought her an excuse to meet him in New York instead. She’d convinced him it was for her own protection, that she didn’t want the media peering in on her private family life and making a spectacle of her grief. That white lie had bought her three days. More than enough time to meet with Ce-Ce’s lawyer, collect the mementos she wanted to keep, and make arrangements for the rest. The bodies had already been cremated in a formal Zyne ritual she wasn’t sorry to miss. She never wanted to stand in front of a pyre again.
She’d made the first part of the journey on auto-pilot, but now that she was here, she couldn’t wait to get back to the steady routine she’d worked so hard to maintain in Sydney. Without that framework, she relied more on drugs to keep her nightmares and resulting insomnia in check. Then it would take weeks to get back on track. She loved Ce-Ce and Tara and had always missed them terribly, but if she was totally honest, she’d never intended to come back home.
Home…
She gripped the frigid metal rail until her hands ached. Could she even call this place home anymore? The only thing left here was heartache. It seemed like she’d spent her whole life picking up pieces. Here she was, doing it again. Only… there weren’t enough pieces to pick up anymore. All she could do was sweep the ashes under the rug and move on.
The sun was sinking into the western horizon, saturating the dull grey clouds with orange and pink watercolors. Wild, jagged islands climbed out of the choppy waves. Her teeth began to chatter. Forty-two degrees felt colder than she remembered. The thin cashmere sweater she was wearing was the warmest thing she’d packed, further proof her brain had gone numb after Astrid’s phone call. It was one of those moments that was etched into her history now as a before and after, a reality shift.
She’d run to the farthest corner of the globe to escape anything reminiscent of her Zyne heritage and her family’s tragic history. She’d thrown herself at her studies, and then her music. Then she’d met Eric—with his decadent lifestyle and his carefree charm, and a work ethic that actually rivaled hers. She found she fit into his world quite well. Smile for all the cameras. Put on a brave face. Fake it till you make it. She was a master at that. She projected the image of the successful artist girlfriend for all the auction dinners and charity events, and the rest of the time they gave each other plenty of space. It wasn’t the Happily Ever After painted in the tabloids, but it was the closest thing she would ever find. Despite everything, she’d managed to build something stable. Her nightmares had quieted, old wounds slowly scarring over.
Then that vision had struck out of the darkness like a whip and flayed her wide open again.
It was the first death omen she’d seen since her mother, since before her power had been bound. It felt as if something had snapped deep inside, left a fissure oozing ominous doubts into her psyche—a nagging thought that was getting harder and harder to ignore. The closer she got to the island, the more something felt wrong. It made her skin tingle and her shoulders cinch tight.
She could be strong for a few days, suffer through the signing of papers and the condolences one last time. But if she gave the past a foothold, she was afraid the walls of her fragile fortress would come crumbling down.
What then?
Downtown Evergreen Cove hadn’t changed much since Briana’s youth. She drove from the ferry dock and felt as though she’d passed through a time portal. The same art studios and bookshops lined the cobbled streets, as if they’d been preserved in a painting. A traffic light had been installed on Front Street, and a few of the businesses had closed in favor of more trendy shops and restaurants. The high school had a new gym, which dwarfed the original building. Beyond that, cow pastures and farms gave way to familiar winding roads that tunneled through the tall firs.
She pulled up to Ce-Ce’s just after four. The faded dove-white Victorian with its wrap-around porch and oak tree sentinels had once encapsulated everyone she held dear. Now it loomed like a thunderhead. Every muscle in her body coiled into a tight ball, starting with the one in her chest. The glossy green door with its polished brass handle mocked her. She would find no heartwarming greetings on the other side. The house was empty of life now, a hollow shell of the home it had been.
The windshield of her rented Lexus fogged up as she waited for her courage to kick in or her sense to take over—whichever came first. After ten paralyzed minutes, she decided to find a B&B.
A sharp rapping sounded on her window, making her jump in her seat. She let out a slow, calming breath as the opaque glass slid down.
“My goodness, Briana Celine, what are ye doing? Come get in the house.” Geraldine Cameron, her grandmother’s neighbor and oldest friend, stood beside the car with her hands on her hips. She’d gained a few wrinkles, but her tone was just as in-charge as ever. She yanked Briana out of the car and gave her a head-to-toe appraisal with eyes that had glassed over white.
Briana squirmed under her gaze, knowing the Oracle was looking through her Second Sight. Could she see the dark cloud bundled around the broken spirit within? The threads of pain that were the only thing holding her heart together?
“Hello, Mrs. Cameron.”
The old woman smiled softly, her grip tightening around Briana’s stiff fingers. Her eyes cleared, revealing a soft violet-grey that twinkled with fondness. “Have you forgotten yourself, child? It’s Aunt Geri to you, and well ye know it.”
She also knew arguing would be pointless. Briana let Geri usher her up the porch and through the front door. The light tick-tock of the grandfather clock echoed through the downstairs hall. The scents of orange oil and sweet herbs made it feel as if she’d been gone just a few days. She took in the pictures on the walls, the furniture perfectly in place. As they walked into the kitchen, she half-expected to find Ce-Ce standing at the sink staring into the backyard, as Briana had found her so many times. Her throat tightened. “I thought it would look different.”
“Ach, no. Things don’t change much in these parts.” The gas stove clicked as Geri turned it on. She moved comfortably around Ce-Ce’s kitchen, while Briana huddled in the far corner, arms wrapped tight around herself. Nothing had changed, except for her. She no longer belonged.
“Sit down, dearie.”
A fresh muffin appeared before her as she sat at the beat-up farm table in the nook. A piping hot cup of tea followed shortly after. She inhaled a deep breath of chamomile-mint steam, and some of her tight muscles softened. She sighed. “Thank you.”
“My Stars, ye look so much like your mother, child.” Geri stroked her hair before tucking Briana into the rose-scented folds of her knitted shawl. “I had forgotten. It’s good to have ye home.”
She smiled and patted the wrinkled hand on her shoulder. “I’m only staying a couple of days.”
“Aye. We’ll see.” Geri sat down. Her silver brows lifted as she blew over the top of her tea. “I suspect those friends of yours will have a might to say about that. Ye’ve been gone a long while.”
Briana studied the nicks in the knotted pine, frowning. It had been hard enough holding Eric at bay for three days. She’d avoided factoring her two oldest friends into the equation. Astrid would want to grieve and console each other. Briana could brace for that. But Kean? Thinking of him just fuzzed her thoughts, her memories smudged from years of trying to rub them out. A cowardly part of her hoped they wouldn’t cross paths at all. “I might not even get a chance to see them.”
“Oh, they’ll make sure you do.” Geri’s left eye winked, a seemingly unconscious gesture. “Especially that Fitzgerald boy. He was just by earlier today, askin’ when I expected ye. I told him I’m an Oracle, not a cuckoo clock. He’s a Taurus if ever there was one, the stubborn brute. All piss and no patience.”
Briana choked on a bite of muffin and had to force it down with a long swig of tea.
Geri chuckled as she got up to clear the table.
“What’s so funny?”
“Come lass, ye know damn well,” Geri scolded. “I told ye—things don’t change much around these parts.”
“That was ages ago.” Briana scooped her muffin crumbs into a neat pile on her napkin. She couldn’t imagine Kean wanted anything to do with her. She’d made sure of it the last time she’d come home after college. When he’d asked her to stay and marry him. Forgiveness wasn’t Kean’s strong suit.
“Dear child. When are you going to learn? Try as ye might, ye cannae outrun Fate?”
Briana opened her mouth to argue, but Geri cut her off with an impatient sigh. “Now then, I’ve stocked the cooler and put fresh sheets on all the beds. Come and collect the ashes when you’re ready. There’s something else of your Legacy we should speak of, but don’t worry on it now.”
Geri pinched her chin and stared into her face with hawk-like scrutiny, clicking her tongue in vague disapproval. “Get some rest, Briana Celene. You’ve a trial ahead yet. I’ll be right across the way if you need me.”
I won’t be here, Briana thought, watching her go. She couldn’t stay there alone.
“And get the thought outta your head about staying anywhere else. They’re all booked up.” Geri smiled sweetly and swung the front door closed behind her.
Briana shook her head, muttering to herself. She’d forgotten what a pain it was to have an Oracle around. She would have to mind her thoughts better. She stood there for several minutes, shivering in her flimsy sweater, afraid to disturb the air with her presence. A sharp breeze shook the trees outside, moaning as it passed over the steep-pitched roof.
The hair on her forearms prickled.
She crossed into the front sitting room, and confirmed that everything was in fact still in the exact place she remembered. Eventually, she made her way to the center of the room. Her fingers glided over the smooth cherry wood of the piano top. She slid onto the bench, remembering her first lessons, side by side with Ce-Ce for hours. She gently lifted the cover and hovered her fingers over the keys. Her hands shook so badly, she couldn’t bring herself to play. She swallowed back tears and slammed it closed.
A vase of Geri’s prize-winning silver roses sat in the middle of the dusty wood top. Glinting beside them in the late-afternoon sun was one of Ce-Ce’s crystals—a smooth, polished piece of rose quartz the size of her fist. As a child, Briana had inherently known they thrummed with magic, but didn’t know exactly how they were used. She’d never been allowed to touch them. Before she realized what she’d done, she was cradling it in her palms. It warmed.
The curtains fluttered.
Briana…
She gasped and turned around, but there was no one there. Just her, the grandfather clock, and the wind. What she wouldn’t give to speak to Ce-Ce one more time, to tell her how sorry she was. To tell her she’d always loved her. That she ached with missing her so much.
The crystal pulsed with a faint vibration.
“Oh, Ce-Ce.” She squeezed the crystal to her chest. How idiotic to think she could come back here and remain detached. Ce-Ce and Tara were gone. How could she not regret every minute she’d stayed away, no matter what it might have cost to come back?
A child giggled.
She turned to see a five year old Tara standing in the foyer, covered in mud and holding up a toad almost as big as she was. Black ringlets were plastered to her rosy cheeks. Her gap-toothed grin flashed with mischief.
Tears sprang out of Briana’s eyes. Her breath hitched.
“Tara Jade!” Ce-Ce’s voice called from the kitchen, “don’t you take one more step in this house soakin’ wet!”
Tara laughed again and lunged up the stairs. Briana leapt from the piano bench to follow, but paused on the bottom step. She was barely holding her nightmares at bay, now ghosts were running amok in her mind in waking hours—not a good sign. Doctor Stevens would say not to indulge in the hallucination. Even knowing it was more than a figment of her imagination, she was inclined to agree.
Tara stopped halfway up the stairs and looked over her shoulder. “I’m gonna put him in your bed, Bri!”
“Tara,” Briana whispered, helpless against the pull of the memory, “wait.”
Her little sister stuck out her tongue and disappeared around the corner. Footsteps echoed down the hall, and a door slammed upstairs. A shroud of quiet fell over the house.
The floorboards creaked as she approached her old room. The last time she’d visited, Tara had taken it over. The walls were covered with posters and graffiti, the floor littered with clothes and fashion magazines. Now the room was clean, painted a cool green, and tastefully decorated with some of Tara’s paintings. Their mother’s dressing table took up the far wall, laden with candles, perfume bottles, and jewelry. Pictures were tucked into the corners of the mirror, of Tara with friends Briana had never met.
Tara wasn’t a little girl anymore. She’d grown up… and Briana had missed it. She had never gotten to know the woman her baby sister had become.
Her gaze swept over her reflection in the mirror. She’d spent hours watching her mother sit at this very table, brushing her hair and singing softly. Now she saw an empty copy of that vibrant woman looking back. Makeup smeared, blouse stained and wrinkled, rebellious auburn curls springing loose. She’d been back a few hours and all the polish and poise she practiced was already melting away. Underneath was the image that had haunted her the last fifteen years—her mother’s forest green eyes, the smooth curve of her cheek, the pout of her lower lip.
Briana bit it until she tasted blood.
This is your baby sister, take care of her, her mother had said the first time she held the squirming Tara in her arms. She’d promised to. She’d failed. She wasn’t strong enough. She wasn’t brave enough. Tara was gone. They were all gone.
It’s your fault.
“I’m s-sorry.” She clenched her fist around the rose quartz, willing her message into the ether. “I’m so sorry.”
The reflection glared at her.
She would be so ashamed of you.
“I’m sorry!”
She threw the quartz, and the mirror erupted into a web of cracks. Her voice broke on a sob. She’d failed them all, and now they’d left her completely alone in a world that was either tortured with nightmares or drugged into numbness.
She sank to the floor, surrendering to the tears she’d managed to dam up the last day and a half. She cried until she lost her voice. Until she barely had the energy to climb onto Tara’s bed and curl into a ball. Exhaustion made her breaths deep and her eyelids heavy. She fought off sleep for as long as she could, afraid of what horrors awaited her on the other side, but eventually it caught up with her and pulled her under.
The first thing she noticed upon waking some-odd hours later was that night had fallen, and she was frozen through. The second thing was…doorbell.
Her body responded automatically. She tumbled from the bed and zombie-walked towards the hall, tripping on her cast-off shoes. The lopsided bun fell out of her hair as she slugged down the stairs, wiping under her puffy eyes. A few steps later, she remembered the last two days. It wasn’t all a nightmare she could write off. The worst part was real.
A third ring.
“Coming!”
She bounded down the last few steps, swung the door open, and forgot to breathe.
Kean Royce Fitzgerald was on the porch, about to knock.