The moment I’d touched it, it had hummed against my skin in recognition, as if it were finally home. That buzzing feeling haunts me even now, and no weapon I conjure with my shadows resembles it.
But it must be all in my head, because how could a dagger I have never touched before in my life recognize me as its true wielder?
It must be just another trick of my confused brain, clinging to any remnant of what I had with Killian. Because if his dagger felt like mine, then maybe I could still lie to myself that he was mine too.
Stupid illusions.
The sound of footsteps breaks the silence, and I raise my head just in time to see Nella enter the training hall, accompanied by a young vampire warrior.
“Aimee. Killian has asked to see you,” Nella says, a hopeful smile painting her lips.
That’s new.
What the hell does he want with me now?
“Why?” I ask in my best uninterested voice.
“He did not disclose such information to me, just that he requires your presence right away.”
The gall of this vampire! He thinks he can discard me for two weeks, pretend I don’t even exist and then summon me as if I’m a dog at his beck and call?
Fuck no.
He didn’t even have the decency to come looking for me himself. Instead, he sent Nella and this baby-faced henchman of his, who regards me with open curiosity.
“No,” I answer curtly.
“No?” the vampire asks, cocking his head to the side while Nella opens her mouth to say something too.
“No. I’m not going,” I answer more forcefully. “Run along to your King and tell him I’m not interested. Not available. If he has something to say, he knows where to find me.”
I stand up from the floor, preparing to leave the room.
“Aimee, please.” Nella sighs like an exasperated mother, tired of her children’s antics. She’s only a few years older than I am, though.
I shake my head vehemently, even as I notice the disappointment swimming in her eyes.
“I’m not going, Nella. End of subject. You can’t make me.”
“She can’t, but that’s why I’m here,” the boyish vampire says.
I pay more attention to him, and I sense the hardened resolve in his hazel eyes. He might look young, turned before he reached adulthood, but he’s not a kid.
“Look, uhm,” I scramble my brain for his name, but I come up with nothing.
“Axel,” he provides curtly.
“Look, Axel, I have no quarrel with you.”
“Nor do I with you,” he interrupts, stone-faced. “But I have been given the task of making sure you join the King in his study, and I take my duty seriously. So we can stand here and argue until you finally concede, or you can come willingly and say what you have to say directly to Killian’s face.”
He signals towards the doorway in a sweeping gesture.
“After you, Foretold One.”
I roll my eyes at him and humph indignantly. How did he just make that moniker sound so mocking?
I feel a headache forming between my eyebrows and sag my shoulders in defeat. I could probably beat his ass if push comes to shove, but I suddenly feel so drained—of this conversation, this castle, this cursed war.
