Page 85

I won’t run now—not when it’s him that’s in danger.

I steel myself, stepping forward and reaching a hand cautiously out toward him. Brushing my fingers against his chest, I can feel his heart beating fast and hard, even though my touch is featherlight.

“Sunday,” I whisper hoarsely. His eyes move again, and somehow, I know he’s still fighting it. He’s still there, trapped in his own body.

“Come back to me,” I plead, reaching up to wipe the saliva from his face, not caring that I’m standing in his urine, that it’s soaking through a hole in the bottom of my chucks.

He makes a strangled noise high in his throat, a wretched sound that reverberates in my chest as my fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt. It’s damp with sweat, his body burning hot to the touch.

His neck is still twisted unnaturally toward the ceiling, Adam’s apple bobbing as he tries and fails to swallow. His good eye still seems to be his own, but there’s something sitting behind those obsidian pools.

I push up on the balls of my feet, reaching up to his face to wipe away the tear that is rolling down his cheek. My thumb brushes across his cheekbone, and a wave of relief rolls through me when his jaw slackens and his eyes fall shut.

“Come on, Sunday, keep fighting,” I whisper, more to myself than him. I step closer, pressing my body against him, hoping that in some way it might be able to help him. That the pressure of my chest against his will act as a homing beacon so he can find his way home.

His arm moves and I sag in relief. His head jerks down savagely, a sadistic smile stretching across his features, even though his eyebrows are still pinched together, panic swimming in his eyes. The backs of his fingers brush my cheek, the same comforting touch that’s given me so many warm feelings lately.

But it brings a morbid sense of horror, being touched by a demon wearing my lover’s skin. The hand that caresses my face dips to my throat, and I am powerless when his fingers curl around my neck, pressing into the flesh there.

The blunt ends of his fingers dig in, his palm crushing against my windpipe as he lifts me from the floor.

I try to talk, to beg, but only garbled sound comes out. I wheeze, air burning against my constricted throat as I scrabble against his hand.

This is how I die. Just when I’m allowing myself to believe in a future with him, he’s going to end my life.

It’s not your fault.

I know he can’t hear me, but I wish he could. I wish for him to find peace in knowing this isn’t his fault, in the end. He’s a victim of this perverse creature.

How poetic the injustice is, for his disbelief in the occult to be fractured along with his body and mind. And maybe his soul, too. I don’t know how you come back from this kind of damage.

“The only way this is going to end is if you give up.”

The words come out of Sunday’s mouth, in his voice, but I know it’s not him. There’s an extra layer of gravel to it, his voice a shade too low, sending warning signals pinging inside my head.

I kick weakly with my legs, fingers tightening around Sunday’s wrist, wishing that I could drag air into my lungs. I want to scream at the demon, demand it tell me what it wants, beg it to let Sunday go.

“Ff-f-f-ight,” Sunday growls through his teeth, his actual voice this time. The grip on my throat slackens just enough so that I can claw back a lungful of air. His head jerks to the side again, eliciting a sharp grunt as he battles for control.

Fight.

The only weapon I have is my mind, my magic. My energy reserves are near-empty, but I open that connection and I scream down the bond.

I scream and I scream and I scream, until I feel prickling and the low warmth of a familiar spirit that I have missed so much.

There’s no time to ask where Delphine’s been, only a brief passing glance that tells me something is very wrong with her too. Her form is off, subdued. Like whatever corrupt magic is sucking the life out of Sunday is siphoning from her too.

“Be brave, my sweet,” she encourages, her voice giving me the strength to try.

I throw open the doors of my mind, clawing at my well of magic with unfettered brutality. I push it farther than I ever have before, hard enough that I can almost feel the space around me bow with the pulse of energy.

I’m not strong enough to direct it, the energy flashing and spreading in all directions, finding a home in Delphine, in Sunday.

Several things happen at once: Delphine’s form deepens in hue, Sunday’s grip falters, and he gasps as Delphine screeches and moves into his body. His hand around my throat slackens completely, and I fall.

My feet slip on the wet floor, sliding out from under me as I go tumbling backward into an old glass display, landing with a crash.

Broken glass crunches beneath me as I struggle upright, wincing at the hot, spreading pain in my arm. Looking down in a daze, I see a large shard poking out of a jagged laceration, oozing blood. Without thinking, I yank it out, causing a fresh wave of blood to spill down my forearm.