Sleep doesn’t come gently.It never does anymore.
It drags me under by the throat sometime after dawn, when my body finally gets tired of pretending spite is a substitute for rest.One moment, I am pacing the apartment with Knox’s blood still bright in my mind, and the next, I am on top of the covers, boots still on, one hand wrapped around the little silver knife Akasha gave me two days ago.
“For protection,” she said.
As if protection can fit in my palm.As if the things that stalk me in dreams care about blades.
I wake to someone knocking on my door.My body reacts before my mind catches up.
I roll off the bed, hit the floor hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs, and come up with the knife in my hand.My heart is wild.My throat closes around a sound that wants to be a scream but refuses to become one.
The knocking stops.
“Briana?”Akasha’s voice comes through the door, careful and soft.“It’s me.”
I hate soft voices.I hate even more that I need them.
My grip tightens around the knife until the engraved handle bites into my palm.The room is bright now, gray morning light spilling through the curtains.The city is awake beyond the glass.Cars.Voices.A dog barking as if it has personal problems with the universe.
I’m not in that room.There are no velvet walls here.No teeth.
Just my apartment.Just me.Just Akasha on the other side of the door, probably holding tea and wearing that expression that makes me want to punch a pillow.
“I’m fine,” I call.
There’s a pause.“Open the door and lie to my face, please.”
Despite myself, a laugh scrapes out of me.It sounds terrible.Rusty and half dead, but it’s a laugh.That counts for something, or it should.
I lower the knife and push to my feet.My hip throbs from hitting the floor.Wonderful.Another bruise for the collection.At least this one is mine.
I cross the room, check the peephole because apparently paranoia has become a personality trait, and unlock the door.
Akasha stands in the hallway, holding two paper cups in one hand and a brown bag in the other.Her dark curls are piled on top of her head, and her eyes travel over me in a quick sweep that misses absolutely nothing.
The boots.The wrinkled sweater.The knife.The way I stand just far enough back to keep space between us.
Her mouth doesn’t tremble.Her eyes don’t go wet.She doesn’t ask if I am okay.I appreciate that last one more than I know how to say.
“Breakfast,” she announces, lifting the bag.“And a summons.”
I lean against the doorframe.“A summons?”
“Aldron would never call it that because he has manners and an accent, but, yes.”She holds out one of the cups.“Tea.”
“Is it emotional support tea?”
“Obviously.”
“I hate all of you.”
“No, you don’t.”She smiles.“You hate that we’re likable.”
I take the cup because arguing with witches before caffeine seems unwise.The smell of honey, lemon, and something floral rises from the lid.My stomach growls, proving it’s a traitor.
I turn away before Akasha can read my face, but I know I am too late.
She steps inside and closes the door behind her.“Did something happen last night?”
