Archer swallowed hard. “Quinn… she wasn’t the one who deserved to win.”
Bridget nodded, words of gratitude lodged painfully in her throat. Without a word, she turned and headed to the bathroom. The moment the door clicked shut behind her, she twisted the faucet on and braced her hands against the sink, knuckles white. Steam rose. Too hot. She cranked the cold. Her hot cheeks needed something to cool them down. For the first time in months, Bridget looked at herself in the mirror.Reallylooked.
The face staring back didn’t belong to her.
Hollow eyes. Stiff shoulders built from relentless workouts. Hair that still flamed red at the roots, but from the shoulders down, it faded to lifeless white. Blinding white. Like life had been drained from the ends. Like magic had wanted one last price from her when she went through the gate.
In the hospital, Archer had said the moment they went through the gate, magic had exploded around them. That the second they landed in the human realm, a fissure formed in the stone and the ends of her hair slowly lost color. She looked down at her right hand. Even her ring hadn’t escaped unscathed. A crack now tarnished the middle of the emerald.
Maybe it had been Cade’s father destroying the gate after them. Maybe it had been another unexpected cost of crossing the gate with a human that had been gifted back her memories by the sacrifice of a Fae.
Maybe magic was really that unpredictable.
Bridget studied her reflection and made a decision. If she was going to let go—to move on, to smother the lingering grip Elyria still had on her and put her life with Nylah first—then every reminder of that night had to go.
And she knew exactly where to start.
Bridget reached down into her boot, and pulled out a pocketknife. Old habits did die hard. It glistened in the fluorescent lighting of the bathroom. Her mind traitorously presented an image of Cade and Elyria before she pushed it away. Before she tried to make sure she had every detail still memorized.
Gazing at the stranger in the mirror, Bridget lifted the knife to her shoulder blade. The ache in her throat swelled, hot and unmanageable, but she forced it down. Gripping the ends of her hair in one fist, she dragged the blade through and cut.
Chapter three
The dreams always started the same.
Tonight was no different.
Bridget walked around the palace in Cavamyne. Not the ruined husk she remembered, but something whole, untouched by time or war. Grand and resplendent, it gleamed like a memory too perfect to be real. Crystal chandeliers bathed the halls in golden light. The air shimmered with the scent of jasmine and rosewater. Gilded mirrors lined the corridors, and floor-to-ceiling windows revealed endless rolling hills bathed in sunlight, the sky impossibly blue, as if painted by magic.
There were two reasons she knew it was a dream. First, she had never actually seen or heard what the old Tuathan palace used to look like. Second, she was alone.
Most of the time.
Bridget always found the girl in the same place. The grand ballroom. It was the largest room in the palace, its golden marble floors stretching so far they seemed to vanish into haze. A crystal chandelier, larger than any Bridget had ever seen, refracted light into dancing rainbows across the vaulted ceiling.Tonight, the girl stood in front of one of the arched windows. She turned as Bridget approached her. With black hair and blue eyes, and a pale purple dress that was large, lacey, and made of silk, the girl never spoke. Instead, she usually hummed a song under her breath or pointed at random things every time Bridget tried to talk to her. Eventually, she stopped trying and kept following the strange girl around the palace until the whole place caught on fire and she woke up.
A shiver went down Bridget’s spine thinking of what was to come. When she made it to the girl’s side, she gazed out the window. Her stomach twisted. The gate. She hadn’t come across it in any of her dreams yet. It leered ominously. If she squinted, she would swear a blood stain dripped across it.
“Don’t you hate this room? I know I do.”
Bridget whipped her head around. “Excuse me?”
It was strange to hear the girl’s voice after so many dreams. Bridget couldn’t stop her mouth from falling open. She’d never spoken… and now her brain decided to have the girl talk to her about the ballroom?
The girl looked amused. “You’re having trouble remembering.”
“I remember perfectly fine,” Bridget replied automatically. A lick of panic shot up her spine. She would wake up and remember her life. She always did.
“You’re having trouble remembering the right words,” the girl reiterated.
Bridget’s anxiety quelled. The girl wasn’t talking about memories or curses, but spells. Spells couldn’t harm her in her dreams. But her obsession with finding any scrap of information about magic and Elyria was now fueling her subconscious. She sighed. “I’ve been told to let it go.”
The girl frowned. “By who?”
Tilting her head, Bridget paused. This was her dream… didn’t she already know who? “Archer,” she said.
“Since when have you ever listened to a Warlock?” The girl laughed.
But Bridget didn’t. The light outside had disappeared, darkening the ballroom a shade. Something wasn’t right. Slamming her eyes shut, Bridget took a step back. She wanted to wake up.
