Page 8 of Bone Year

“We leave now,” he replies.

My throat closes, panic spiking sharp and fast. I would step back if I could, but the desk is still pressed into the backs of my legs, leaving nowhere to go. “I need to pack. I need to tell my sister and my mother.” I swallow hard. I need to tell Jace. Gods, I wish he were here right now. He would know what to do. He always does.

The fae watches me impassively, as if none of that changes anything.

“Everything you need will be waiting for you when you arrive, and your family will be notified,” he says, placid.

It all sounds absolutely mad. For one wild heartbeat, I consider sprinting past him, racing into the clinic, locking the door, and bolting upstairs like I’m still a child who can hide from consequences. But he appeared out of an orb of light. A locked door won’t save me from that.

Relax, Maelis.

I don’t need to tell them goodbye. My mother would probably welcome the space, and Briana will be better off without me having another panic attack in the clinic.

They’ve managed this long. They’ll keep managing. Maybe this is exactly what I need, something to shock my senses, to drag me out of the fog I’ve been living in. It could force me to start really living again, the way Jace is always telling me to do.

“Very well,” I say, crossing my arms to steady myself. “What do you need me to do?”

He steps close enough that the air around him feels different, heavier somehow, and every muscle in my body tenses. “This may feel unusual for a moment, but you’ll be fine,” he says, looming over me. “I can’t say I’ve ever done this to a human before.”

My eyes widen, a dozen protests crowding my tongue, but none of them make it out. His hand settles on my shoulder, anchoring me in place. Light erupts around us, bright enough to burn away the room, the desk, the walls of everything I know.

The world folds in on itself.

Then everything goes dark.

The first thing I feel is cold seeping through muscle and bone, spreading beneath my flesh in a thousand prickling trails like tiny insects skittering through my veins. It lingers for a moment before slowly retreating, replaced by a faint warmth against my face.

My feet touch solid ground.

Soft light flickers as I blink, my vision swimming as if the world is struggling to reassemble itself around me. The pressure on my shoulder disappears, and I realize the man has stepped away.

I lift my head to see a wooden door directly in front of me. The number 303 is fixed to the center, the digits formed from what appear to be tiny bones fitted together.

An anxious feeling starts to fester inside me.

We’re in a narrow stone hallway lit by torch filled sconces mounted along both walls, their flames casting a low, flickering glow. The stone is dark, nearly black, and lined with paintings framed in tarnished metal. Most of them blur together at first glance. Shapes. Figures. Landscapes swallowed by shadow.

Except for the one beside my door.

A massive white wolf stares out from the canvas, its fur rendered in painstaking detail, its pale eyes unnervingly bright. I take a step back, certain I saw those eyes shift.

I tell myself it’s exhaustion, shock, my imagination running wild.

Still, the unease doesn’t fade.

If this is room 303, then we’re on the third floor, at least one would think. I glance down the corridor in both directions, counting seven doors spaced evenly along the hall, all identical, all closed.

“This is your room. Don’t come out. Someone will find you come morning with further instructions,” he says.

I turn toward him. “That’s it? Where is everyone else?”

His mouth settles into a thin, emotionless line. He pats my shoulder before abruptly turning away. A few quiet footsteps later, he rounds the corner at the far end of the hall and is gone.

I lower my gaze to the doorknob.

It too is made of bone. After a moment’s hesitation, I curl my fingers around it and turn. The door opens without a sound. I step inside and pull it shut behind me.

Thankfully there is a lock on the inside that I turn into place.