Page 27 of The Duchess Curse

“It’s quite a strong theory. Don’t fret. I’m the fire eater, remember. And you, old boy, are the death cheater. This is nothing new for you.”

“I did not actually die last time,” Bran reminded him.

Apollo waved his worry away.

Finally, Bran abandoned his position of retreat by the door. “What do I do?”

“Just stand there.” Apollo tilted his head. “No, no. Better not.” He grabbed Bran’s upper arms and moved him toward the sofa, sat him down on it. “Might be better to lie down. You are going to die, after all. Don’t want you falling and hitting your head and dying in a way I can’t bring you back from.”

Bran shifted, stretched his legs across the sofa and propped his head on the arm.

“Now close your eyes… No, no, never mind. Keep them open. I think they might be a good marker for how far I’ve gone and if I go too far. Need to see the light in your eyes and all that.

“Too far?” Bran popped upright.

Apollo pushed him back down. “I’ve got this under control.”

Bran stared at the ceiling. “This had better work.” Or he’d be dead. But in that case, he wouldn’t know if it had worked. And really nothing would be different. Everyone thought him dead to begin with. And Guinevere would be free of him and his title would go to someone who actually wanted it. “Go ahead.”

Apollo did a few more stretches. Then he stood, legs wide, hands hovering over Bran’s body.

First the lights in the room extinguished, every gas lamp and candle flickering out at the same time.

Then the fire in the grate slowly, slowly, slowly died.

“How are you feeling?” Apollo murmured, his voice low and almost rhythmic.

“Same as ever.” But his lips formed the words with effort, and his tongue was heavy.

“I suppose you can’t check in the darkness to see if your glamour is still on. Can you feel it? A regular glamour feels like a light almost tickling warmth.”

“I know… And yes… I feel it.”

“I suppose this is no different from what you did previously. Hmm. Hold steady.”

Silence.

Then even the shadows outlining their bodies in the darkness disappeared. Bran had only thought they’d sank into the dark before. This was true darkness.

Each thought stretched into nothing.

Every image popped out of existence like a dying fairy light.

Words existed in the black void of space, more out of reach than stars.

Bran—whoever, whatever that was—floated in the flimsiest sense of consciousness, a gossamer spiderweb, almost invisible, ready to break.

But it didn’t break.

It unraveled into nothing.

He was being slapped. And someone’s voice was too high pitched. And another voice was low and worried, and those hands just kept slapping him, the first voice rising and rising and⁠—

“Fucking Jupiter.” Bran’s head felt like it had been split by an axe. His mouth was dry and didn’t quite work right. He reached up to make sure the weapon wasn’t still there. Found only skull.

Until other hands found him. “Braxton! Good Gaia, Braxton, what happened?” The hands—small but strong—wrapped around his wrists.

He tried to sit up.