Right now, it didn’t matter. Once she was out of the dungeon with plenty of space between her and Malis, she would consider the various possibilities. Or maybe she would simply find the nearest pub and drink herself into oblivion.
“I don’t think so.” The words came out stiff, her lips refusing to work right. “You must have the wrong gal.”
“Impossible. I never make mistakes.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
Wynn once again glanced over the male’s shoulder, judging the distance to the door.
“Check for yourself, then. I don’t have anything,” she said, trying not to shudder at the thought of the demon getting closer. She wanted him distracted when she prepared to run.
“Your pocket,” Malis said.
“What?”
“You have something in your pocket.”
“The skipping stone?” Wynn returned her attention to the pale, unnervingly gaunt face. Could it all be that easy? “That’s what you want? Okay.”
He shook his head. “The other item.”
Confused, Wynn reached into the pocket of her coat, surprised when her fingers brushed a metal object. It wasn’t until she felt the delicate chain that she remembered she’d kept the medallion they found in the rubble of the pawnshop.
Pulling it out of her pocket, she held it up, grimacing as the polished silver reflected the ghoulish glow from the male’s eyes.
“You mean this old necklace?”
“You found it.”
The words were a statement, not a question. As if Malis was...not pleased but satisfied...she was holding the medallion.
Her plot to escape was put on a momentary hold. “You recognize this?”
“You wore it when we were together,” he admitted. “That’s how I tracked you to London. The goblin who was holding it was very unhelpful. A pity he escaped. I intended to punish him for leading me to his shop only to disappoint me when you weren’t there.”
Wynn clenched her teeth. Where had the medallion come from? And why had she been wearing it? And why had Axton kept it all those years?
The questions suddenly seemed important.
“Like I said, I don’t remember.” Frustration sharpened her tone. “Where did we spend time together?”
Malis stepped closer, ignoring Wynn’s instinctive hiss of revulsion. “Perhaps I can help you with your missing memories.”
“No—”
Wynn’s protest was cut short as the red strand of magic inside her abruptly flared with power. She assumed it was about to punish the male who’d moved too close for comfort. Or maybe destroy the black magic she’d absorbed from Pheral’s hexed dagger that ran like a sluggish toxin through her blood. Instead, the dungeon began to fray, as if it was an illusion that was fading.
Wait. Was it possible that this was all a nightmare and she was about to wake up? Could she be that lucky?
No, of course not.
The dungeon disappeared, but she didn’t return to a cozy bed. Or even to the weird misty place where she’d spent the night with Azh. And thinking of Azh, where was the aggravating dragon? He’d followed her for days. Now, when she needed him the most, he was MIA.
Shaking away her petulant annoyance, she concentrated on her surroundings as the last of the dungeon disappeared.
The first thing she noticed was the breeze that tugged at her long hair and the thin robe that was the only thing she was wearing. She sucked in a shocked breath as she glanced down, realizing it was the same robe she’d been wearing when she woke on the banks of the Thames two hundred years ago. Confused, she lifted her head and glanced around the sundrenched pastoral countryside. She was standing on the crest of a hill, miles away from London, but she sensed she was still in England. There was something vaguely familiar about the thatch-roofed cottages clustered together in the distance and the neatly trimmed hedgerows that framed the fields.
