Hanna nods, attempting a smile. But something about her expression feels delayed, like her reactions are half a second behind where they should be. Like part of her is somewhere else—like maybe the creepy dark land behind the Bone Gates of that Hollow Necropolis.
Another dart of fear pierces me, but I try to hide it. I gesture to her untouched plate.
“Do you want to eat something? Maybe just a little? Those Eggs Benedict look amazing.”
She shakes her head slowly, not even looking at the food.
“No thanks. I’m not hungry.”
That alone terrifies me.
Hanna loves food. Loves it. She’s the kind of person who plans her day around meals—who orders dessert even when she swears she’s full. And now she’s refusing her favorite breakfast which I’ve never seen her pass up before.
This is bad. This is really bad.
I’m just about to insist she drink some tea or coffee—something warm and sweet to give her at least a little bit of sustenance—when there’s a knock at the door.
The maid enters, hands folded respectfully.
“If it please you, my Lady, Don Lucian has summoned you and your friend. He says you’re to go home. If you’ll come with me, I’ll lead the way.”
“Oh, thank you.”
I nod and glance at Hanna.
She nods back, slow and unsteady, like the movement costs her something. She looks as though she might faint or fade completely away right there.
“Here—let me help you,” I say quickly, sliding an arm around her waist.
Mr. Mittens winds around my legs, purring anxiously.
I look down at him.
“You’d better come too. I’m not leaving without you.”
He answers with a decisive mrrp, his white-tipped tail flicking.
As I help Hanna to her feet, I get another nasty shock—she feels… lighter.
Not thinner—she’s still her same, beautiful, curvy self—but when I steady her, it’s like she weighs far less than she should—like fifty pounds less. It’s as though something essential has already been taken from her.
How much of her soul has been siphoned away already? How long does she have before…
I don’t let myself finish that thought. I tighten my arm around her instead, anchoring her as best I can.
“Come on,” I say, trying to keep the fear out of my voice. “The sooner we get you home, the better.”
And with Mr. Mittens padding along at our heels, I guide my fragile, fading friend out the door—hoping with everything I have that we’re not already too late.
64
Lucian
The Grand Ballroom of the Crimson Spires has not been opened in decades.
Not since the last time a Don attempted a reverse passage through the In-between—and paid dearly for it. He was one of my ancestors—I refuse to think of his demise right now.
The room is vast enough to swallow sound. Its vaulted ceiling arches high overhead, supported by ribs of black stone veined with lines of crimson crystals that pulse faintly, like a buried heart. Chandeliers of smoked glass and garnet hang motionless, their candles unlit out of respect for what is about to occur. The walls are lined with tall mirrors framed in gold so dark it is nearly black, each etched with scenes of ancient bargains and broken oaths—men kneeling…women weeping…shadows swallowing light.
