She watched them through gritty, half-closed eyes. The butterflies were beautiful, and somehow, almost alive. Was she controlling them? She didn’t think so. She dropped her hand and blinked slowly, waiting for them to fade.
The butterflies gathered into a tiny flock and flew purposely toward the door.
Huh.
They flew back, circled her twice, and then fluttered back to the door. Did they want her to follow?
Emma kicked off the covers and stood up. They settled on her arms and face, tiny points of friendly contact. But then they lifted in a fluttering mass and flew away to squeeze themselves through the tiny crack at the bottom of the door.
She needed them with her, and they needed her. Without really thinking, Emma pressed the door handle down and the door swung open. The butterflies waited for her in the dimly lit corridor.
Deep in the back of her mind, she knew that she couldn’t possibly have gone through the door and that her body was still resting on the bed. But she wasn’t worried. The butterflies were magnificent in their gleaming blacks and reds, and they wanted her to join them.
She followed the shimmering butterflies to a low door hidden behind a large vase at the opposite end of the corridor. She slipped through it and found a narrow staircase leading upward. The butterflies danced and floated, and she followed them up to a big black door. Its lock was huge and intricate, and she wondered briefly how she was going to open it, but then the door swung open.
It led into what must, at one time, have been a terrace but was now enclosed by a massive conservatory. The roof was made entirely of glass, while the walls were clad in wood so dark it was almost black.
She stepped inside, gaping at what could only be described as a forest glade. Potted oak trees were thick with mistletoe and ivy, while vervain and blue-green mosses tumbled from an array of gleaming bronze containers. Water trickled and splashed from a small fountain that fell into a layered pond, the bottom shelf a reflecting pool of darkness. On the far wall, swathed in shadow, was a dimly lit oil painting. Below it, a low table held a gleaming silver bowl.
It was darkly beautiful in the glade, but very still. The trickling of the water echoed, almost menacingly, from the fountain. Emma pushed forward, but with every step she took, the butterflies faded. Their reassuring figures stuttered and faded out, one after the other, until there was only one left. Heavy shadows climbed up around her as the trees seemed to sway closer despite the stillness.
Her footsteps scuffed over the stone tiles. It was too hot, too humid, and her breath grew more and more labored with every step, as if a huge weight pressed down on her chest. By the time Emma stood in front of the huge oil painting, her skin was damp and her hands were shaking. God. She wished that Zach could have been there with her. That she didn’t feel quite so desperately alone.
The painting was massive and ancient. Its gilt frame was faded and the oils long since cracked. The subject was a sharp-faced druidess with bright blue eyes. Her black cape had fallen back to reveal gleaming red-gold hair. And somehow, in the way of dreams, Emma knew it was her great ancestress.
She could see a similarity to herself in the shape of her chin and the color of her eyes. But their resemblance was inconsequential compared to the second subject of the painting: a captive man bent over a wide silver bowl. His face was a tight grimace of pain, his arms were tied behind his back, and his clothes were those of a Roman soldier.
The druidess gripped him tightly by the hair, her gleaming dagger pressed against his neck. The bowl, waiting to catch his blood, was identical to the bowl below the painting. The same bowl that Gordon had used to mix her blood into Shadows.
Emma’s stomach heaved. Everything about this was wrong. The ominous grove. The dark energy of the bowl. The woman she would have despised—but looked just like.
She turned to run, but before she could move, the last remaining butterfly danced in front of her. It spun and fluttered, traveling a few inches away and then returning, blocking her path. She clenched her fists and forced herself to follow it, winding past the row of trees to the hidden back corner of the room.
There, completely incongruous in the forest grove, was a deep chest freezer.
Emma didn’t want to know. She wanted to fly away with the butterflies back to the strange safety of her prison-room. But deep inside she knew that this was why she’d come. This was why she’d sacrificed her chance with Zach. She closed her eyes for a moment, wishing everything was different. Then she opened them and made herself take the final step.
Emma lifted the lid and stared down into the cold depths. Rows of vials were nestled in the bottom, all bearing wards that gave off a strange dark Shadow. The vials themselves were clustered in three distinct sections. The smallest section held only three vials. Two were labeled “Abigail” while the third label was too smeared to read. The next set held a handful of vials labeled “Emma”. And finally, the largest set was all labeled “James”.
Her belly clenched. She tried to reach down and take the vials, determined to destroy them. Determined to rid the world of Gordon’s darkness. But her hand passed through them. The butterfly settled on the freezer lid, and it slammed closed. And then the last butterfly winked out, and she was alone in the dark.
It was too much. Emma couldn’t handle anything more. She was more alone and more terrified than she’d ever been in her life. She turned and ran, and she kept on running until she climbed back into her bed beside her own body where it still lay, stiff and glassy-eyed.
She pulled the covers over her head and closed her eyes, holding in her need to vomit.
Long minutes passed as she huddled in the bed, her breath slowly warming the small space under the blanket. Eventually, she forced herself to reach out across the sheets. Her body was gone.
No, that wasn’t quite right. She was back within it. Her vision was over. But now she knew exactly what to do.
ChapterTwenty-Seven
Zach woketo the sound of gently falling rain. He glanced at his alarm clock and groaned. Six o’clock. Which meant he’d had two hours of restless, broken sleep. But he wasn’t leaving Emma alone any longer.
He hauled himself out of bed, pulled on his jeans and T-shirt, and made his way to David’s office still wiping the sleep from his eyes. If he’d known how he would toss and turn and think of Emma again and again—his Shadows reaching out hopelessly, as if they could find her if they just looked hard enough—he wouldn’t have bothered trying to rest.
David looked up as Zach walked into his office. His face was pale from lack of sleep and worry. “She’s still there, on the same residential road in Belgravia. It looks like she’s inside one of the townhouses. I tried calling, but it goes straight to voicemail.”
“I think I should go and take a look,” Zach said, expecting an immediate denial.
