The silence that follows is suffocating. My rage is still there, coiled tightly, but it’s bumping up against the reality that I’m running out of time and options. The fury doesn’t change the fact that I’m still bound to Julia. Still trapped.
Riley takes my hands. “Hannah, please don’t try it again. There must be a way to break the bond that doesn’t involve her feeding on you. Right, auntie?”
Rebecca glances at her. “Surrender is the only way.”
“But—”
I pull away from Riley. “This doesn’t concern you.”
I can’t stand the pity in her eyes. It’s the last thing I need right now.
“It does,” Riley insists. “I love you, and I won’t watch you become another Charlotte.”
I furrow my brow. “Another who?”
Rebecca stops pacing. Riley goes very still. Even through my anger and exhaustion, I can feel the shift. A creeping dread settles in my stomach like ice.
“She didn’t tell you,” Rebecca says, almost inaudible.
My heart stumbles. “Tell me what?”
“What she did to my sister.”
Between her dark tone and the knowing glance they exchange, I’m not sure whether I want to hear this.
She moves closer, and I fight the impulse to step back. Having Riley beside me is a small comfort.
“Auntie, don’t scare her,” Riley says, but Rebecca slices her hand through the air to silence her.
“She deserves to know.” Rebecca’s eyes bore into mine. “Charlottedeserves to have people know.”
Riley bites her lip.
Rebecca moves even closer, her hands glowing with pale light. The room swims around me, and I sway.
“What’s happening?” I ask, my voice wobbling.
“Auntie…” Riley says, sounding far away.
A sliver of another room ripples into my vision, like peering through blinds. Ornate picture frames and bone china on the walls. Bright yellow wallpaper.
I want to back away and refuse whatever Rebecca is about to show me. But I can’t move. I need to know who Julia really is.
So I let Rebecca come closer. I stand still and squeeze my eyes shut as she presses her glowing palms against my temples.
The world dissolves.
18
Hannah
I’mseeingthroughRebecca’seyes, much younger, watching my sister through our bedroom doorway.
Charlotte sits at her vanity, brushing her long blonde hair with slow strokes. The lamplight catches the strands, turning them to spun gold. Eighteen years old and grown into her womanhood, she’s the kind of beautiful that makes men stop in the street, that makes our parents keep the curtains drawn and insist she never walk anywhere alone.
But right now, she’s not looking at her reflection. She’s looking at my grimoire, which lies open on her bed.
“Becca?” she calls softly. “When you cast spells, what does it feel like?”
