“She’s going to find a way to get to him,” I tell Alistair. He’s lounging on the bed, his long legs outstretched as he stares out, or more accuratelyat, the artificial window. Ciprian left a while ago to talk to his mom, and I’m crawling out of my skin.
“I know.” Ali sounds unbothered.
“We have to help her.”
“I know that, too.”
I toss a throw pillow at his head. “You’re chatty today.”
He catches it, then chucks it back at me. “Because I need to think, and I do that best in silence.”Point taken.
“Fine,” I grumble. “But try to come up with something that doesn’t involve her taking off on her own.” Celine’s energy through the bond is very ‘lone wolf’ right now. The ribbon of light isn’t curled around my basilisk. It’s flitting around inside melike a caged animal, testing its limits while my monster sulks from the sidelines. I can’t blame him.
I drop the pillow back on the couch where I got it and assess the piece of furniture with some skepticism. It has the skinniest legs I’ve ever seen. Stick-thin, bird-like, and curved. They look too weak to support the couch’s weight, much less mine. I run my fingers over the white velvet upholstery and yank them back. Awful texture too. This couch sucks.
Fuck, I’m losing it.
I massage my chest, trying to soothe the bond before distracting myself by examining the rest of the room. It’s the same shade of green as Celine’s apartment. I lean closer. The only difference is the delicate, whitish accent stuff. It’s squiggly and raised, like someone tacked an extra layer of wood to the wall for no reason at all.
I run my fingertips over the decorative lines. “What’s this shit called?”
“Wainscoting.”
“Did you have it growing up?”
“Yes.”
“Was it white?”
Alistair sighs. “My family’s estate is quite old. Neoclassical. Somewhat restrained stylistically, but my great-great-great...” He waves his hand. “Add a few more greats—grandmother came from France to marry. She demanded golden accents—a big Louis fan, if family lore is to be believed.”
I don’t have a clue what he’s talking about, but it’s better than silence. “Real gold?”
He shrugs. “I never asked.”
“Really?” I face him, my mouth dropping open. “Your walls were covered in gold, Ali, and you never wanted to know?”
“Should I have gnawed on them like a rat?” he drawls. “Forgive me for focusingon the more pressing questions, like why Mum’s eyes kept turning red.” He sounds posher than usual—all this wainscoting talk brings it out in him—hints of his accent creeping past his careful Fringe façade.
I want to keep him talking. “That’ll do it. How’s the thinking coming?”
“I’ll be sure to let you know once I get a chance to do it.”
I toss my hands up in surrender and drop down on the spindly couch, wincing at the lingering ache in my bones. After not shifting for almost thirty years, my body isn’t exactly thrilled by my behavior in the monster realm.
My palms prickle, anxious energy rushing along my skin. I wipe them on my jeans.
The strangest things keep freaking me out.
I walked into the bathroom barefoot this morning, and the cold tile against my toes nearly gave me a heart attack.
Part of me thought about calling my parents and telling them what happened, but I’m worried about how they would react. They would either be traumatized or too numb to care. I’m not quite brave enough to find out.
The door opens, and Celine walks in, closing it firmly behind her. She throws herself back on the bed with a groan.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Did you lose?”
She scoffs. “Of course not.” I wait for her to say more, but her eyes are glazed. She’s deep in thought, and I nearly groan. Not both of them; I won’t survive.
