Now he smiles. “Because it’s Benji’s stable.”
My mind goes blank.
The room pitches.
He pets my hair. “Yes, my golden faerie, yes. You understand now. You were a gift from Illusion, but I’ve decided something today. Nothing could ever convince me to marry Kassandra Morella, even if she is extremely powerful. Even if it means saving this kingdom. But I will never return you.”
“What…” I try to focus, keeping the words even. “What are your plans for us?”
“Stop digging,” the king hisses, his eyes dilating.
My genius scrapes and scrapes, dust billowing around it. But it is not enough; erosion takes years and I only have a few minutes, and the magical organ inside me is spasming, the walls around it trembling, screams filling my ears.
My attention snaps back to the library, to the shaking fae. I have a hand around his throat, a bruising grip, and his eyes are glassy. His arms have fallen limp at his sides, the effort too much to hold me anymore. We are both split between our inner and outer battle, only he must also keep Lila in place and lace the endless stream of icy water into the pitcher.
Even if the king is the most powerful fae in the land, it may not matter, for his mind is more splintered than mine in this moment.
The room around us quakes, and books slide off the shelves. His magic retreats from my limbs, focusing instead on our battling geniuses in the back of my mind.
I have control over my physical body once more.
But it will have to be quick, lest he realizes.
Taking a breath, I slip from his lap. The king cocks his head, eyes flashing black to violet, brows furrowing, as if checking each environment to find the source of change.
I sprint to Lila, whose lips turn blue as she stands in a puddle, feet bare.
Bare feet? Why are they—
A high-pitched whine escapes her gritted teeth. I try to pry her hand from the pitcher, but it remains frozen solid as rock under his Reign magic. Instead, I grip the pitcher, an ice block.
“I’m so sorry for this,” I whisper, and yank.
Bones crack. The fingers jut out at odd angles. The arctic water splashes across my torso, my heart seizing with the shock of a thousand needles. I toss the pitcher to the floor, water soaking into the carpet.
The Reign walls quake in my mind, my genius shuddering. I shake my head, my focus fragmenting. Lila remains rigid, though her eyes close, unconsciousness taking her, cheeks bloodless. It’s a terrifying image, like a corpse stuffed and dressed to be displayed.
Her hand holding the overflowing cup is worse. Blotchy gray and blue and black, digits swollen. A dead limb. I pull the cylindrical glass up through her grip, the bottom narrower than the base. It comes easy, a small miracle. Yet could she be removed from this puddle? Could I lift her legs to slip on my shoes or will I break more than just a few fingers?
I have seen this freezing once before. A kitchen boy accidentally locked in the ice room. When a cook found him, his pulse fluttered weakly in his neck. My mother urged me not to cry.There is always hope,she whispered.There is always hope until they are stiff like an animal found after a snowstorm.
To get Lila out of this frozen puddle, I must break the king’s grip on her. There is no choice in this, for I refuse to watch another friend die.
Grasping the pitcher from the floor, I throw it across the room with all my strength into the back of Maxian’s head. The king groans, sliding forward, and I feel the smallest blip in his control. The walls in my mind crumble, his Reign magic retreating.
Lila collapses, and I catch her. As the plane vibrates like scattered sand shifting into a storm, I haul my friend over to the lit fireplace and drop her into a leather chair. Stripping off her soaked cotton shirt first, I tug the warm shirt off my back and over her head. She groans. When I lift an eyelid, I find a large, dilated eye.
“Lila?”
Nothing.
It’s not enough. I peel off my pants and rub the silk against her arm. The material begins to fray, fall apart. I need something stronger, more absorbent. I need cotton, better if it’s warm. I unwind the band of cotton from my breasts and wipe down her damp torso and legs, cup hands around her frozen feet, urging life into the skin. I can’t lace her out with my genius occupying the king.
Then time runs out.
An arm drags me backward.
“No!”
