No. I shake my head, dismissing the irritating thoughts. Nothing has ever been more right.
The flames in my hands surge, reflecting in the fae’s black eyes, his cruel smile stretching into a malicious grin I can’t help but mirror.
“Burn it, my moon,” he commands. “Burn it all.”
Without a thought, I turn to the nearest bookshelf and press my palms against it.
The old tomes ignite immediately.
I move to another shelf and set it ablaze, watching as my dark flames chew through book after book, turning every story, every poem, every passage into ash. Soon, the entire library is engulfed, the smell of burning parchment and wood filling my senses, magic tingling across my skin.
A terrifying, otherworldly laugh bubbles up from inside me as smoke fills my lungs. Heat surges over my face, and I drop to my knees and raise my palms to the sky, ready to burn and rise from the ashes.
* * *
Tap tap tap tap tap.
Tap tap tap.
The sound is like a jackhammer against my skull. Fire licks my face, heat coating my neck and chest with sweat.
Heat. Fire. No…
“No. No!” I open my eyes, wincing against the assault of bright sunlight. Images of Rook’s library flicker through my mind… Books burning… Wooden beams crashing to the ground…
And then they fade away.
I suck in a shuddering breath. It wasn’t real. None of it was real.
Goddess. Just another nightmare. A terrible fucking nightmare.
Relief crashes through me, but… wait.
Sunlight? Why is their sunlight on my face?
I sleep during the day, and even if I didn’t, my windows aren’t positioned to let in the morning sunlight…
I’m not in my bed. I can’t move. Why can’t I fucking move?
I glance down at my aching body, my eyes still trying to adjust to the bright light. I’m bound to a heavy wooden chair, ropes around my wrists and ankles, chains around my middle.
Panic skitters across my chest.
I take another deep breath. The scent of fire clings to my hair. My mouth is parched, lips coated with ash.
No. This can’t be happening.
Tap tap. Tap tap tap.
That sound again… It’s coming from a window high overhead. I crane my neck to find the source of it—that must’ve been what woke me up. Squinting against the too-bright light, I finally make out my raven.
It’s Jean-Pierre. He’s alone.
The panic kicks up a notch. Where are Lucinda and Huxley? Where the fuck am I? Where are the guys? What happened last night?
I cast around the space, desperate to orient myself.
Think, girl. Think.
