Page 45

He pulls me toward him, begins to lift me, and a wicked, wicked idea occurs to me just as my heels leave the floor. I’m standing on my toes. I lean forward.

And I kiss him.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Tonight, it seems, I’m full of bad ideas. But this . . . it will be the shining jewel atop my crown as Queen of Shit Ideas.

Lonan freezes. I’m sure I’ve miscalculated. He’s angry, offended, disgusted. He’ll laugh. He’ll mock me.

But then something strange happens.

Just barely, his lips part against mine, enough for him to suck in a small, surprised breath. A shock travels through my system and an unfamiliar tension courses through my body. His lips barely brush mine, and I forget.

I forget the Ridding.

I forget his betrayal.

I forget to hate him.

Because the feel of him, the softness of his lips and the way he can hardly breathe and the taste of his breath and the way he grips my arms, all hit me as one heady concoction, magic more terrible than any other. And because they call me reckless and impulsive, because I am the girl who runs into the Blood Woods and climbs forbidden clocktowers, I sink into him.

I press my lips to his, slipping seamlessly around them like a lock and key, and a deep rumble emanates from his chest. The sound makes my toes curl and my lips part. Any restraint, any resolve to keep distance, breaks in both of us at once. And his shadows fall away.

One of his arms curls around my waist, pulling me into him as the other hand cradles my face, not gently but urgently, hopelessly. My fingers find his hair, that stupid, perfect, glorious hair that I’ve tried very hard to not imagine running my fingers through. Our lips move against each other, tasting, exploring, seizing.

This is hunger. But it is so unlike the hunger I felt from Galvin. This isn’t possession—it’s desperation. I don’t want to think. I don’t want to stop. I want—

Lonan pulls back abruptly and shoves me away. He’s looking at me with an expression of abject horror, and hurt sears through me. And then I remember why I kissed him. I harden my broken heart and draw my scythe, pulling the Light to it in a blink.

The realization of what I’ve done dawns on Lonan’s face. He unsheathes his sword, casting his anger in crimson light. “Clever, Fontaine. Vicious, but clever. Never thought you’d stoop to that.”

“It was stooping, wasn’t it?”

He huffs a laugh. “I suppose you’ve finally decided to make an enemy of me.”

“Now you’re seeing things clearly,” I fume. “If you thought I would ever, ever turn to Imaelhain, to the Dark, then you don’t know me at all.”

He blinks. In a low voice, too soft, too sincere, he says, “I’m the only one who knows you.”

I swing my scythe. Lonan is quick, meeting my blade with his and twisting it away, pushing me back. I swing again, backhanded this time, and he catches the edge of my scythe, scarlet and lavender sparks of Light bursting as we clash.

We parry back and forth between the statues that line the hall like soldiers. Pupilless white marble eyes watch us as we fight. My scythe gives me reach that his sword doesn’t have, and I swing for his legs. If I can keep him back, I have the advantage. But his sword is faster. With the curve of my blade, a wrong move could send his sword straight toward my head. So I stay on the back foot, backing away from him, trying to use the length of my scythe to my advantage.

Saints, he moves fast. It’s just now occurring to me that he might have been concealing the true extent of his abilities all this time. In the moments after my strike, when the momentum of my blade is against me, Lonan finds his opening. His scarlet blade clashes against the willow wood of my scythe, within the indefensible circle around me, and I know I’ve lost.

I brace for the blow, but then he shifts back, within reach of my scythe again. Saints, he isn’t attacking me, only staving off my strikes. I swipe for his waist and his sword clangs against my blade. I back around the side of the statue of the warrior holding the monster’s head.

“Fight me,” I shout. Nothing could infuriate me more at this moment than his reluctance. As though I can’t handle the full force of him. He thinks me weak, and it makes me want to scream.

He lowers his blade, watching me soberly from the other side of the statue. “I can’t,” he says calmly.

I scream and swing my scythe. I’ve misjudged my movements, and my blade slams against the warrior’s legs, nicking the marble.

The head of the statue turns.

I freeze, my focus fixed on the warrior as he turns his marble head toward me, eyes of white shifting into a glare. He raises a muscled arm, holding a wicked curved blade. The head of the monster in his other hand turns with him, its eyes widening. It bares its teeth in a silent scream.

The warrior leaps, and I run.