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“Yes.” She jutted her chin, unrepentant as she remembered why she’d followed this path. Unrepentant but broken. The cold raindrops blended with her hot tears. “Your obsession was destroying you from the inside out. Now you can heal.”
“I don’t want to heal! And I don’t want you here, in my land, breathing my air.” He lunged. Gripping her by the nape, he dragged her through the camp. She struggled to keep up.
“You will heal, Kaysar,” she said, “You will heal, and you will regret this.”
“Shut up. Not another word.”
When she tripped and fell, he yanked her to her feet and kept going.
“Just listen to me. You had linked the king’s misery to your sister. You aren’t angry with me.” Maybe? “You’re mourning the connection you think you’ve lost.” The very reason he might never forgive Cookie, even after he healed. Even though a part of him had longed for this very outcome.
His footsteps stalled, and she stumbled into him, bouncing back. He twisted to glare down at her with pure malice. “I assure you, my anger for you is very real.”
Cookie tried again, cupping his cheek, but he flinched from her touch. She dropped her arm at her side. “Now, at least, you won’t think of Hador when you think of your sister. You can remember the little girl who followed you around as she clutched her pretty doll. You can smile. Peace is yours, if only you’ll grab it.”
When he started forward at double the speed, dragging her behind him, Cookie’s lower lip wobbled. She’d lost. For the first time since discovering her powers, she felt utterly powerless.
As soon as the mountain appeared in the distance, Kaysar flittered her into their castle. To the room with the permanent doorway. He held her before it. “You will leave this realm, Chantel. You will leave, and you will not return. From this moment on, you are my enemy.”
The way his voice crackled... She’d expected a one-sided war with him. She hadn’t predicted banishment.
“Don’t do this, Kaysar.” Tears gathered and poured. He didn’t know she’d eaten elderseed. That she was soon to pass out, and she was too afraid to tell him. Too afraid he’d do this, anyway, and that, she couldn’t forgive. “Astaria has become my home. I belong here.”
“I. Don’t. Care.” With that, he pushed her through the doorway.
* * *
COOKIE STUMBLED THROUGH the portal and tumbled into a dark, wooded area without pixies or poisonvine. Weakness stole through her, as if she’d lost the power of the elderseed as soon as she’d entered the mortal world. Fueled by a surge of adrenaline, she clambered to her feet.
She spun, hoping to dart through the doorway—“NO!” The gateway was gone.
Bone-deep cold invaded her quivering limbs. Fighting to remain upright, she darted her gaze left, right. Trees and bushes, nothing more.
Her vision blurred, obscured by more tears. What was she going to do?
Self-preservation instincts kicked in. Find shelter while she still had the chance. Soon the elderseed would steal her consciousness. But what if Kaysar changed his mind? What if he forgave her and came to fetch her? She should be here. Maybe they’d even work things out and live their happy endings together, after all.
He would remember he loved her. Any minute, he might come.
Cold wind blustered, turning her soaked gown to ice. Her teeth chattered, and she drew her arms around her middle. Though she tried, she couldn’t grow leaves to warm herself.
Any minute...
He was stubborn, so he would need a bit of time to work things out in his head.
But he didn’t come. A lump grew in her throat, trapping a sob. Cookie stumbled forward, frantically searching the area. Nothing mattered more than survival. She’d find shelter. Call Pearl Jean. Rest. Cry. From there, things got fuzzy.
Something loomed ahead, and her heart leaped in recognition. A cottage. Even though the quaint Victorian beauty struck her as familiar, she knew she’d never visited. Had Lulundria?
Was anyone home? Common sense bellowed, “Only witches who bake people in tea cakes live in cottages like this.” Which meant Cookie had a higher likelihood of finding a friend. Finally. Something might swing in her favor.
Although the cottage’s owner might take one look at her and freak. Torn white gown. Blood-smeared. Sap-splattered. Twigs tangled in her pink-and-brown waves.
She accelerated and missed the rock in front of her. The sharp edge sliced her foot, the pain slowing her momentum. When had she lost her shoes? Despite the pain, she didn’t pause to catch her breath. When she stopped moving, she stopped for good.
Blood trailed her as she climbed the porch steps and staggered over to bang on the door. “Hello? Someone? Anyone?”
No answer.
She banged harder, using the last of her strength. “Please.”
Still no answer. No movement or light, either. She tested the knob, surprised when it twisted easily. Obviously the odds of finding a serial killer inside had just doubled. Did she turn around? No.
