The bulky caster looks far more stunned than I feel is warranted before I push the doors open enough to slip outside, simultaneously slipping into the dream plane of existence.
What’s left of it, anyway.
Limbo fragmented six months ago, the turbulence becoming lethal as pieces of it fell out of place, drifting about the mortal realm. Wisps and shades have accumulated at a staggering rate, using Limbo zones to escape and feast on anything that wanders into those areas. The rest of them still roam Limbo, ready to kill.
There are a few nearby—but far more worrying are the ten or so incubi who are already here, waiting with bronze weapons in hand. These wankers came prepared for me.
We’re too cursed and weak for a fight like this, and they know it.
Fucking Frosts.
22
MAVEN
My exhausted brainwants to dream about things I’ve experienced, but since the pieces are missing, it makes do with shadow puppets instead. I sink deeper into this heavy darkness, more exhausted than I’ve ever been as tendrils of nothingness try to take up my mind’s stage.
The only dream I can make sense of is me sitting at the edge of a sea of clouds, golden liquid dripping from my arm and fingertips as I concentrate on…something.
Finally, the darkness ebbs until I claw my way groggily to the surface. Heat sears inside my chest in place of a heart. When it passes, a wave of weakness almost drags me back into unconsciousness.
“There’s our girl,” Crypt’s voice rasps, but it’s strained.
Blinking my eyes open, I frown at the colorless, icicle-covered chandelier above me in this freezing space. Why can’t I move my arms? They’re crossed in front of me, banded so tightly they’ve gone numb.
Then there’s whatever the fuck is covering my mouth. My breathing stutters as alarm sets in.
Something is very wrong.
We’re not in Arati’s temple anymore, so where the hell are we?
“Maven?” Everett checks.
He sounds bad, too.
Fighting through the residual heaviness of that impossibly deep sleep, I struggle against the claustrophobic tightness around me. I can’t make thisthing thatI’m trapped inside budge an inch, but I hear chains rattling. Apparently, they tied more of those around whatever this shit is.
Thanks to the tape covering my lips, I can’t curse out loud, but that doesn’t stop me from growling in helpless frustration and trying harder.
Crypt swears before quickly explaining, “It’s called a straitjacket, love. Careful not to fall off the sofa.”
Sofa?
Where the fuckarewe?
Finally, I’m able to half-swivel on the cushioned surface, which sure enough turns out to be a sofa. This room is excessively nice, complete with mirrors, sconces, chandeliers, rugs, a fireplace, a desk?—
It’s a suite, I realize. A completely colorless, expensive-looking one.
I’m on a couch facing a fireplace with a limited view of everything else, unable to see my matches. That’s not going to fucking work, so despite Crypt’s repeated worried warning, I intentionally fall off the couch so that I can roll on the notably charred carpet to see them.
Oh my fucking gods.
Everett is in a straitjacket like mine, minus the extra chains. A fabric bag is over his head. He’s been left on his back on the massive bed.
Crypt is encased from the shoulders down in bronze—clearly the work of a skilled metal elemental. He’s propped up againstone wall with the mother of all syringes stuck into the side of his neck at an angle.
When my gorgeous Nightmare Prince sees me on the floor, he tries for a smile that is more of a grimace. His mesmerizing violet eyes are a burst of color compared to the rest of this grayscale room, and his markings light up now and then.
