Lucinda’s here, along with her brothers, Jean-Pierre and Huxley, and so many more I can’t even count them.
A murmur ripples through the nave as the guests finally begin to notice what’s drawn our attention.
When I lower my gaze from the eves, I find one of those guests watching me intently.
The man from before. The one with the hazel eyes and the dimple in his left cheek. His eyes are glazed, his hand lifting as if he might reach for me again.
For a brief instant, the burning fades from my limbs and chest, replaced with a warm tugging sensation that has me lifting my hand and—
“Finishit!” Hunter shouts again, and that torturous pain rushes right back, making me sway on my knees. Hunter doesn’t let me fall, though. Just grips me tighter, closing his fingers around my throat, his other hand still locked on mine.
The High Priest shakes himself out of his stupor and lifts his arms again, but before he can complete the rite, Lucinda swoops down onto the altar and knocks over one of the black candles. It lands on my bouquet, the flame catching on the silk ribbon tied around the stems and crackling to life.
It burns through the flowers like kerosine-soaked kindling, and then—just as quickly as it began—the fire sputters out.
Black smoke rises from the charred petals, and for the first time since Eloise thrust those flowers into my arms, a clarity washes over me.
Hunter releases my throat and fists my hair, yanking my head back and forcing me to look up into his face. Rage twists his features, his lips curled in a snarl, and as he continues to glare at me, his eyes shift from their usual dull brown to a deep, endless black. A black that speaks of terrible, ancient things. A black that bleeds out from the irises and drowns out the whites until I’m left staring into two empty pits.
Zorakkov.The unfamiliar word clamors through my skull, every syllable scraping across my mind like claws.
“Zorakkov,” I whisper, and I know at once it’s not a word at all, but a name.
Hisname.
The High Priest glowers at me like I’m a puppy who just got into the trash.
He knows…
A chill skitters down my spine.
Hunter is not a mage. Not a man.
He’s a demon.
And the High Priest was about to bind me to him.
Run run run…
Everything inside me is screaming at me to flee, but I can’t break free of Hunter’s—Zorakkov’s—grip.
I frantically turn to my father again, hoping against hope there’s been a terrible mistake. He may not be up for any parent of the year awards, but surely he wouldn’t sell me off to Hell…
Would he?
My stepmother shoots daggers at me from the front pew, making a frantic “get on with it” gesture with her hands. But my father? The man I’m giving up my future to save?
He’s got his chin tucked firmly against his chest, eyes nearly burning a hole in the ground.
My heart turns to stone and drops into my stomach. And in that moment, I know.
Aside from the ravens, the ritual is happening exactly as planned.
My father and stepmother sold me out. Not just to a mage whose wealthy family offered to make their financial problems disappear.
But to Hell.
Cowards. Fucking cowards.
