Fear ripples up my spine. It’s eerily similar to my dream, and I hate it. “Having nightmares?”
She nods glumly.
“Same.” Against my better judgment, I pull the sheets back. “Mattress might be a bit damp”—from my sweat—“but you can join me, if you’d like.”
My eyes flicker over her bony shoulders, to the window. It’s still bright out, with sunset not far off.It’ll only be for a little while. Then the night will show and she will wake from this strange sleepwalk.
It’s been three days since Palacia recovered. A full week since Lukain handed her to Skar. My dreams have gotten worse, combining my former traumas with those of hers and Cyprilis.
My two former friends, turned vampires. They’ve both had my blood, and now their thoughts are mingling with mine. It’s driving me mad, as expected—as Skar warned.
But what was I to do when I saw my friend in such painful, dire straits, and knew I had means to ease her suffering?
My dreams have been fragmented and reshaped. After learning from my mother what the yellow sunflower dream signified—my time in the recovery bed as an infant, staring out the window after being transfused with the Loreblood—the recurring dream has been different every time. More urgent, dangerous, and terrifying.
I no longer see my face in that reflection, turning into a vampire. I see the faces of those whohaveturned, and have tasted my blood.Why isn’t Skar or Vall or Garro in those dreams? Where are my protectors when I need them in dreamland? Perhaps it’s only the girls—the ones closest in age to me, closest in appearance—who show up.
Palacia crawls into the bed. She quickly curls around me, head on my shoulder as I face away from her. When her eyes close, I hear the gentle breathing from her soft, lavender lips, trickling and tickling against my nape.
I hear no heartbeat. There’s no sign of a rising chest when she breathes, as if she’s only making the motions out of familiarity rather than any need to actually breathe.
My friend is dead. She’s been replaced by this . . . half-monster.And yet she curls up against me like a child, almost. Like she has just wet the bed in her own room and ran to her mother because she was scared.
Is turning like being reborn all over again?
I can’t imagine this girl turning into an evil monster. A wicked murderer. Palacia was neverthat, even during our dark days in the Firehold. Then again, I couldn’t have imagined Sister Cyprilis turning out the way she’s turned out. And now she’s impaling severed heads on her bedposts like they’re macabre dolls.
I shiver.
“Mistress,” Palacia says in a soft croak.
“Please don’t call me that. Call me Seph, like you always have.”
“Seph. I like that.”
I gulp. “What is it, Palacia?”
“May I . . . drink?”
I blink rapidly.Cyprilis asked me the same thing the other day.My heart riots freely in my chest, with this small, cold body framing me. If I think too hard about our position, I’ll notice what else is going on back there, further south, with Pala unconsciously pressing longingly against my body, starting to grind into my back.
I’m ashamed it makes me damp between my legs where I wasn’t before. Not for her—I wish my mates were here.I wishI listened to Skartovius and didn’t give her my blood when she was Awakening!
Swallowing hard, I shake my head.Drinking my Loreblood is how we got in this mess in the first place. I can’t give her more or she’ll become wholly dependent on me. Truehearts know what else she’s capable of when my blood awakens . . . her urges.
I can’t be here for that. Can’t be here for her.
Gently, I shake my head. “Not now, Palacia. Maybe when we wake. Go to sleep now, yes?”
She murmurs something muffled against my shoulder blade. She’s already out, forgetting her inquiry, which makes me thank the Truehearts and Damned.
I close my eyes, worried I won’t be able to fall back asleep. Not with her clinging to me like this, impossibly close . . .
“Well.Thisis not what I expected to find to start the evening.”
I jolt from the deep voice, which sounds vaguely curious and amused. Palacia still rests near me, curled against my body as if seeking warmth she’s been denied in her undead state.
Skartovius stands in the doorway of the room, perched against the frame with his arms crossed. He’s in a lax position, inspecting me and my friend intently.
