Somethings wrong.
The color drains so fast it’s like the world tilts. Her lips part in a sharp, terrified gasp, her eyes wide and glimmering with panic. My stomach drops. One of the men that walked in with her pull out a knife, holding it to her throat. I freeze for just a moment.
Pain explodes along my neck, like fire crawling under my skin. Every instinct I have ignites at once. I spin, arm snapping up, driving my elbow backward with every ounce of strength I’ve got. It connects with a face— hard—a satisfying crunch of bone under skin. The man grunts, stumbling, but I don’t stop. My other hand comes up to rip whatever’s in my neck free—too late. The fire’s spreading. I close the distance as he holds the blade toward me. A lazy right cross drops my weight into him, and he hits the ground, knife skittering across the floor. Everything blurs, hazy and electric.
“Shh… it’s okay,” I rasp, but my own voice sounds foreign, ragged, broken. My head swims. The edges of the room blur. I can see the reporter’s face now, the gleam in his eyes, but it’s distant, like watching through a lens smeared with smoke.
“Sera,” I rasp, reaching for her, pulling her in.
Her hands find my chest, trembling.
“Trey—”
“Shh.” I press my forehead to hers. My world is narrowing, tunneling. The floor wavers. My vision smears at the edges, voices warping into noise. I can barely make out the man’s face now—eyes cold, burning into mine—but the darkness eats away the details before I can lock on.
My knees hit the floor. My arms refuse to listen. The burn turns to numbness. I try to speak, to calm her, to reassure her, but the words choke halfway up my throat. The hum of cameras, the scuff of crew feet, distant murmurs—all of it distorts into an incoherent roar. I see flashes of her eyes—wide, bright, terrified—and something raw and feral surges in me. I take another breath, try to push back the darkness…but it’s fast. Faster than I can fight. Sounds call out, sirens alarms, we might be alright, sounds like somebody knows.
“Run…” I manage to rasp before my vision tunnels, light fracturing into shards of white and gold. Her pulse against me, warm and frantic, is the last thing I see before the black swallows everything. I feel a foot pressing against my skull, grinding down. The pain isn’t sharp yet, just pressure building, suffocating, before the darkness swallows me whole.
Chapter forty
Seraphina
THE DEATH OF PEACE OF MIND – Bad Omens
The world tilts before I can open my eyes.
Sound comes first—whispers, water dripping somewhere close, a low hum that pulses behind my temples. I try to move, but my limbs float, boneless, uncooperative. My head feels stuffed with cotton. My tongue, heavy and dry.
What happened?
The question slithers through the fog, slow, disoriented. I try to remember—the interview room, Trey’s smile. Then…nothing.
My chest tightens. I try to speak, to call his name, but all that comes out is a weak, broken sound.
Hands touch me—too many of them. I blink, but my lashes stick together. The room swims in and out of focus. White fabric. Candles. Figures moving around me.
“She’s waking,” someone says softly, like I’m something sacred.
“Praise be.”
My body doesn’t listen when I tell it to move. My muscles twitch but refuse to obey. I can feel them lifting me, sitting me up. My skin prickles where air meets dampness. My thoughts slide apart before I can hold onto them.
A hand tilts my chin. My eyes meet faces. Five women, all dressed in white linen gowns, their expressions serene. One looks barely more than a girl, wide eyed and solemn. They smell of soap and rose oil and candle smoke.
“She will be cleansed,” another murmurs. “Made ready for her vows.”
The words scrape through my skull, dull and echoing.
Vows.
My pulse kicks weakly. I shake my head, or at least I think I do. My body barely shifts.
I’m weightless, but not free.
They work in silence, washing my skin with cloths dipped in fragrant water, their lips moving in a steady rhythm of prayer. I want to scream—to tear their hands off me—but I can’t. My throat refuses, my voice trapped.
They lift me again, drying me, dressing me in white—thin, sheer, a mockery of purity. The fabric clings to me as if it has a life of its own. My hair is brushed smooth, my wrists perfumed. I see my hands, trembling faintly, and realize what’s missing.
