“Whose?”
“The Prince’s.”
Magic pulsed through her, down her darkened veins, and cooled the slip of parchment sitting hidden in her pocket.
Agatha nodded. “And still you doubt what you feel.”
“I feel this even with my potions.”
Her grandmother laughed. “Then why are you even asking me?”
“Because everyone, even Brax and Zimsy, thinks I’m. . .”
That’s not real, Maeve. That didn’t happen, Maeve. You aren’t remembering correctly. You’re wrong. You’re wrong. You’re wrong.”
“. . . crazy.”
Agatha leaned forward slightly in her chair and forced such an intense and motherly eye contact that Maeve struggled not to look away. “No one,” she began calmly, “thinks you are crazy. You asked for honesty, Maeve, and I will give it to you. Your projection of yourself is not what those who love you see. Least of all Zimsy and Abraxas.”
Maeve nodded and shifted the subject swiftly before her courage left her.
Quit fighting so hard.
“I’ve started remembering Maxius’ birth. Carrying him.”
Another slam of Magic barreled through her, egging on her confessions.
“Alphard wasn’t there,” continued Maeve. “I can see it, just barely in my mind, Mrs. Mavros and Astrea helping me, but Alphard’s not there.”
“Is there some significance in that to you?”
Before she could answer, the voice she’d drowned out with each potion slipped into her mind, its words crystal clear as water. Her teacup slipped from her grip, spilling its liquid onto her lap and rolling to the floor. The voice no longer needed to pry its way in. There was no forced entry. There were no more chemicals to dull it. It spoke unhurriedly, like a predator stalking towards its already wounded prey.
And Maeve welcomed it.
Hello, Little Viper.
Chapter8
Just a little blood, Maeve, please. Please. Please. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat—
Abraxas’ laughter burst into her ears.
I need it, Maeve, please don’t do this to me—
“Did you hear me?”
Warmth drained from Maeve’s entire body as Abraxas slammed into view. She swallowed hard, digging her nails into her palms as the voice in her head echoed into silence.
“Did you hear the joke, Maeve?” asked Abraxas.
The Ballroom at Castle Morana flickered to life behind him. He stood with a glass of liquor in his hand and an expression of expectancy. But Maeve’s eyes were elsewhere. A wave of pain rolled through her head as her eyes remained locked on Mal’s across the hall. He listened to Roswyn and Mumford with bored interest, his green eyes fixed on her.
She didn’t recall coming to Castle Morana. She didn’t remember getting dressed in formal attire. She didn’t know what the occasion was for a hall full of people. The voice in her head slipped through the cracks, returning as a whisper, growing louder with each word.
“Whoa,” said Alphard, his hand finding the small of her back. “You alright?”
Just a little blood, Maeve, please. Please. Please. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat—
