Nothing.
The demon yanked open a door and dragged me inside. Torches flared around the walls of a wide, circular room. There was no furniture inside because there was no floor. An enormous dark hole extended across the entire width and depth of the door.
Flynn, if you can hear this, I’m about to get my arse tortured by a demon. Wake me upnow.
The demon raised me over the edge of the hole. My feet scrambled for purchase, but there was nothing below me but that deep, blackened presence. My head spun as wretched, inconsolable anguish crept along my veins, poisoning me from the inside.
This is what you deserve. This punishment is just.
“A few weeks in the Pit o’ Anguish should loosen you up a bit, Sonny Jim,” the demon rasped, his fingers tightening around my throat.
This is where I belong now. No sense in fighting it.
The ends of my fingers tingled. Another presence pressed against my back – a void in the hopelessness opening up behind me – a gateway where my nightmares called me back to earth.
Yes, yes, thank you! I promise I will never again mock you about being Irish.
The demon’s grip loosened. His face twisted with confusion as my power surged through his fingers. “What are you trying to do, punk?”
I leaned forward and planted a kiss on the demon’s lips. “It’s been swell, darling. But you’re not my type.”
The demon swiped at me, but its hand fell through my face. The tingling ripped through my whole body. I laughed as I toppled backwards and the void of my own nightmares swallowed me up.
“Blake…” Flynn’s wide eyes met mine a few harrowing moments later. “Did you find out anything?”
I sat up, rubbing the burn on my shoulder from where the demon touched me. “How am I, you ask? Oh, just fine and dandy. I was nearly thrown into the pit of anguish, but whatever. No biggie.”
“What’s that? A giant swimming pool filled with American beer?”
“You took your sweet time saving me, and now you’re making jokes.”
Flynn waved his hand. “That’s not important now. The important thing is that you’re here with all your limbs attached.”
“Not important? Have you ever been left hanging over a pit of anguish? You might think it’s pretty bloody important.”
Flynn punched me in the arm. “Hey, it’s not my fault you sleep so soundly. So did you learn anything useful?”
“Yes.” My throat tightened. “Liah told Daigh she knew about the painting of Maeve’s mother. He was all ready to kill her for aiming that arrow at Maeve, but when she mentioned it, he completely caved to her. She’s blackmailing him, but I don’t know how.”
“What does that mean?”
“We thought Daigh was the dangerous one,” I said, my mouth dry. “But maybe he’s not. Maybe it’s Liah.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
MAEVE
Iwoke to the smell of frying bacon.
I rubbed my bleary eyes, for a moment transported back to my childhood in Arizona. Mom usually had breakfast on the table by the time Kelly and I dragged ourselves downstairs – cereal and toast and the usual stuff. But a couple of times a month we’d wake up to the crackling sound and savoury smell – all the evidence we needed to conclude that Dad was in the kitchen, producing towering pyramids of bacon, freshly made waffles drowning in maple syrup, or piles of scrambled eggs like yellow mountain ranges.
I cracked one eye open. Light flooded the room, illuminating the two slumbering figures on the single beds opposite mine. Corbin’s face was smushed into the pillow, his curls sticking up everywhere and one arm draped over the edge so his fingers trailed on the ground. Arthur was turned toward the window, the sunlight catching on his golden hair as he let out a rumbling snore.
Behind me, Rowan’s chest rose and fell against my back, his warmth almost enough to keep me in bed. But he was competing against bacon and even against my beautiful broken boy, bacon won. I turned over as I slid out from under his arm, balling up the sheets into a Maeve-shaped parcel for him. He looked so peaceful in sleep – his face relaxed, his lips slack, his locs streaming over the sheets. I grazed my lips across his forehead, then pulled on a blue dress and padded out into the lounge, following the sound of laughter and sizzling.
Kelly leaned over the kitchen island, gesturing wildly as she told one of her crazy stories. Flynn stood in front of the stove, wearing a hot-pink apron with white lace trim as he turned bacon and sausages like a pro. Blake stood with the fridge open, buttering toast with all the aplomb and none of the skill of a TVsouschef.
“Einstein, they have bacon in England!” Kelly grinned, beckoning me over.
