The small action of moving my tablet caused a cascade of events that distracted me.
Chiara continued to stare at me, repeating: “End. Lightning. Power.”
The flickering in my peripheral vision grew. Again, I swung my head toward it.
A scar appeared, small but unmistakable. Glowing, edges fluttering, as if some unfelt breeze flowed through it, just as it had with Tennyson and Branwell several weeks ago.
I blinked, trying to clear my vision.
This wasn’t happening. The rifting was tied to the brothers, not Chiara. There had been no scar here earlier. No scar in my villa, either. No scar had followed us.
And yet, a scar was clearly here now. What chain of events had led to it appearing?
Worse, my fingertip pulsed in time to the fluttering. I glanced down. My index finger fluctuated in and out of existence, as if controlled by some unseen heart.
“Listen!”
I jumped. Chiara had moved closer to me, her face a mere foot from mine.
I lurched backward with a yelp, half burying myself in the couch.
The scar continued to flicker.
“Find. Power,” her voice rasped.
“Power? What power?”
Chiara’s mouth moved, as if trying to speak. Her eyes rolled back into her head, shoulders jerking.
My finger flickered in time with her spasms. The entire supernatural world short-circuiting.
“Chiara!” I poked her with my still pulsing finger. Anything to wake her up.
That was the final straw.
The scar ripped fully open. Roiling blackness poured through, flooding the room, hungrily spreading over chairs and tables, eddying around Chiara. Clinging to nothing but me.
I scrambled upward, but not fast enough. The Chucky-slime latched on to me, creeping around my chest, legs, arms. And then, like before, it retracted, pulling me toward the rift. My finger ached, a fluttering heartbeat.
Frantically, I undulated in the air, desperately fighting the sludge, determined to escape the suction of the black, slimy goo. Glancing behind me, the edges of the rift flapped open. Inside, shapes spun and twisted, caught in the rippling darkness. Every now and again, I glimpsed an arm or torso, a head with accusing eyes glaring.
“Chiara!” I screamed, bucking against the slimy tar. “Wake up!”
I swung my arms and legs, wriggling my body, trying to kick my legs. But it wasn’t enough. The slime continued to crawl over me, dragging me down.
The maw of the rift loomed. The shapes inside . . . open mouths, black eyes, claw-like hands.
“CHIARA!!”
Chiara jerked and staggered sideways, shoulders slumping.
The Chucky-slime vanished off my body, releasing me.
The scar snapped shut.
I shot forward, my head driving into the stone wall. Rock slithered through me.
I pulled out of the rock and whipped around.
