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Stubborn, like that’s a surprise. Hand in hand, we walk toward them, Sindri staggering a little—and they’re still kissing.
Ugh. I want to grab her by the hair and haul her off him. Her hands are on his face, his resting on her waist, and it would have been a picture right out of the book on romantic love if it wasn’t for the incessant, ever-increasing pull on magic I feel as our steps bring us closer.
In the dimness, she seems to cast a light around them, a faint halo illuminating their features. Emrys’ face is slack, eyes closed, his Mohawk shimmering faintly in gold. Maybe it’s not the stars that make Sindri’s hair glow blue, I think, but the spill of magic in the air.
And it makes Emrys’ face glimmer, his earrings gleam, the thin braid hanging at his temple move as if in a breeze. Tall and muscular, he’s bent over Ophelia whose dark hair seems to dance in an invisible wind.
Beautiful.
And horrifying.
“Rys!” I start again toward them, pulling Sindri behind me until I reach her. I grab her arm and yank her back. “Stop it!”
Something happens then—the air seems to explode, throwing me back a step, and Sindri groans. Flames jump around Ophelia, on her hair, her clothes. They seem to dance in her eyes, the way I’ve seen them do in Emrys’.
“You’re feeding on them, Lia,” I hiss. “How dare you?”
“Oh, such nonsense.” She waves a dismissive hand and smiles but looks unsteady. “I’m not.”
I turn to Emrys. “You should come with us, Rys, you—”
“Go away,” he says, his voice a painful croak. “Leave us, Mia.”
“But, Rys—”
“He said you should go.” Ophelia’s smile widens. “And I agree. How dare you interrupt such a tender moment?”
“Tender? You use magic—”
And it slams into me, wrenching a moan from my throat. “Get back, Maddie. Go to your room and stay out of my affairs.”
Sindri puts an arm around me. “Step back, witch.”
“Oh, I see. Itisa romantic thing for you.” She laughs. “So misguided, poor girl. You think you’ve kept two boys for yourself, the fae and the vampire? Think you’ll get to keep them? Well, think again. They’ll come tome.”
“Never,” Sindri whispers.
“You can’t resist forever,” she says. “There are limits to everyone’s endurance.”
“What are you doing?” I whisper. “If you want to help them, why not convince them instead of sucking them dry?”
She laughs. “That’s what you think I’m doing?”
“I know you are. I can feel it.”
Her eyes narrow. “You can’t feel shit, Maddie. You’re not magical. A poor child left on the stoop of the church. You don’t know how magic works.”
“You’re… lying,” Sindri manages, his face pale.
“I’m pulling on your magic to wake it up, fae prince,” she says. “I’m doing you a favor.”
“You open holes in my magic,” Sindri hisses, “and pull on its threads. You’re feeding on us.”
“Okay, I give.” She smiles at him, then turns to me. “How else will I build up my magic to help them? Nothing comes from nothing. Sure, I swallow some of it, but that’s part of the ritual. A preview of the final event.”
“The Golden Moon,” Sindri breathes.
“Indeed. What would you know about that?” Her eyes narrow on him, then she seems to dismiss him. “It doesn’t matter. Witcraft is like a hook. It catches you where your emotions run wild, where they hurt you and break you, leaving cracks, leaving you wide open for the taking.”
