Something in them was moving.
Her panicked and shaking hands fought with the back laces of the dress, loosening its grip on her. But the ice running through her veins constricted still. She pulled the dress up and to the side, exposing her legs and stomach.
Thick black veins ran all across her skin. As they traveled up towards her collar bone, they also dipped down, wrapping her legs.
“Fuck,” gasped Maeve as terror set in.
. . .Somewhere in a marbled ballroom miles away The Prince of Darkness looked slightly over his shoulder, as though someone had called his name.
“Mal?”
He looked down at Ophelia as they danced. Her voice was muffled.
The hair on the back of his neck stood up. His hands slipped from her body, falling to his sides. . .
Maeve’s knees buckled beneath her, slamming her to the floor. A charmed tree ornament from Abraxas was chiming across the room. It was nearly midnight. Nearly Christmas Day.
She cast out her magic once more. But the blackness swarming through her surged and depleted her own instantly. Mal’s flat was freezing, her own skin was iced to the touch.
“What the fuck,” she whispered, her voice cracking as she shivered.
She needed Mal. But he was in Paris, sucking up to Ophelia and her family.
Her father’s face flashed before her- dark magic was his specialty. He was the Premier.
The sensation was spreading quickly into her chest. Breathing was next to impossible as Maeve’s lungs felt like they were collapsing under an enormous weight. Each breath strained and tight.
She pulled herself to the brick fireplace on all fours, straining and gasping.
“Father’s office, Sinclair Estates.”
The flames turned green and engulfed her. A moment later, her knees hit the old mahogany floors in her father’s office. Ambrose flew around his desk towards her.
His face instantly drained of its color.
A wave of pain hit her, and she doubled over, unable to make a sound, gripping at her stomach and her chest.
“Maeve?” Ambrose kneeled in front of her, pushing her hair back and cupping her face. “Maeve- tell me what’s happening!”
Looking at her father was not comforting; she had never seen his face terrified.
“Tell me, Maeve, I don’t know what to do,” said Ambrose, his voice struggling to hide his fear.
His magic wrapped around her as he tried everything he knew to pull the darkness swimming through her out. Magic isn’t always perfect. If Ambrose cast the wrong spell or something too strong, she could be more weakened or more wounded in the process.
But it didn’t matter. The darkness inside her wasn’t affected.
She looked down at her trembling hands. They looked as though someone had traced all her veins in black ink. The room was becoming hazy, but her eyes found her father’s. It only took a moment for her to realize he was helpless.
The room went silent until all Maeve could hear was her own heartbeat, thumping loudly, growing slower. She couldn’t even hear her father’s agonized pleas.
It was barely a whisper, hoarse and broken, but from her lips escaped a final desperate attempt, and she called to him.
“Mal.”
The veins across her chest ran black, spreading rapidly now through her neck. Maeve gripped her throat as tears began to stream down her cheeks as she was being suffocated.
Ambrose was gripping her face, desperately screaming her name. As the whites of her eyes, too, flooded with black pigment, green flames lit the room.
