Clara’s blonde hair ripped from her skull.
Dara’s runes carved into her forehead.
Nadya and Geryll’s tongues ripped out.
Ryker’s blue eyes staring up at me lifelessly.
I sniffed the air. No metallic hint of blood, at least.
But my mind couldn’t stop picturing a massacre on my pillow.
Slow and tense, I stepped forward.
By the time I’d reached the foot of the bed, my tendrils were already coiled around my wrists.
The blue light cast eerie shadows on the invader in my bed.
I gritted my teeth and in one move fast enough to rival Ryker’s, I yanked the duvet to the side.
The view before me knocked the air out of me.
Sitting there on my pillow, where my head should have been, was the Protectorate crown.
The tendrils vanished at the same time I let go of the duvet.
“Dax,” I groaned and pinched the bridge of my nose.
That’s why he’d kept asking about my room, not out of some misplaced fear. I turned to look at the balcony doors–closed and untainted. No marks left in the plush carpet, either.
He’d come inside and left without a trace, like the ghost he was, always flitting undetected between places.
Heart beating faster, I gazed down at the crown sitting there. Perfectly motionless, perfectly defiant.
Waiting.
Daring me to do something.
Anything.
I remembered those sharp spires rising from Grandpa Constantine’s head, veiling him in an otherworldly air as he’d towered over all. Not through brute force or viciousness, but with real power that demanded respect.
Still high off the dread, I didn’t hesitate this time.
No doubts.
No reconsidering or questioning.
I grabbed the crown as if it had mocked me.
The second my skin touched the metal, shame flooded me.
It wasn’t its fault I didn’t feel worthy of wearing it–or that it had ended up in my room in such a sneaky, unceremonious way.
I thumped my foot against the floor. If Dax heard, he didn’t say anything. Not even a snicker.
The crown caught the moon’s light, glinting.
Beckoning.
