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I looked to Arran; he stared at her as well.
She hadn’t moved. Simply appeared through the wall of mist. Around her neck—a white crystal, exactly as Percival had described. A priestess on Avalon. Was she… was she the one we sought? The priestess who’d made the prophecy that had saddled me with this power—and foretold the return of the succubus?
She looked eerily familiar. Something in me shifted, some sort of recognition.
Iknewher.
But that wasn’t possible. I’d never been outside of Annwyn, outside of Baylaur, until a couple of months ago.
I opened my mouth, trying to call for her even though I knew it was useless.
She stood on the edge of the lake, unmoving. Watching us as we watched her.
I started taking in the rest of the scene. There were trees behind her, still shrouded in mist. I couldn’t see anything beyond the island in the middle of the lake—not the landscape in the distance or the other shore. Everything was shrouded in mist. I only knew it was a lake by instinct.
I tried to look at what was around me. Because I was not on that island. I was not in Avalon. The priestess’s vision of the future—was it the future? —had brought me to the shore, rather than the island itself.
The beach gave way to thick grass, wet with dew, the long drapery of willows in the periphery of my vision swinging in the breeze—
Blood. The grass at my feet wasn’t green at all. It was scarlet. Soaked in blood.
Suddenly, I could lift my hands. They were covered in blood. Thick. Fae blood.
My vision flickered.
Time was up.
It was less jarring than the feeling of being pulled through the void. It felt more like waking up. Like those moments right before full consciousness, when you can sense the world around you, but you resist its pull and try to remain in dreamland.
The scenery around me flickered and blurred, until it was nothing more than mix of colors and light. I couldn’t make out the female on the shore.
But the next flicker was clear—only for a moment. Emerald and gold. A smile that was as much a part of me as my own. Then it blurred away.
My eyes were open. I stared up at the dark ceiling.
I gasped for air, Arran’s scent flooding my senses. I was in his lap. He was slumped against the wall of the alcove, his hands loosely around my head. He seemed to come awake at the same moment as me, stirring and trying to right himself.
His hand tightened in my hair. I touched my fingertips to his and he eased his hold. I carefully sat up, grabbing the wall and then my mate to steady me. We were tucked in tight together against one side of the alcove, farther away from the priestess and her altar and fire than we had been when I had swallowed down the vial.
But I didn’t try to move away. I let every inch of my mate’s warmth sink into me, let his arms close around me. He needed to hold onto me as much as I needed his strong, steady touch.
The priestess pressed cup of water into my hand. I drank, then passed it to Arran.
I was about to ask why he’d joined me, what had happened, when we heard the echo of footsteps in the tunnel.
“I apologize for interrupting.”
I knew the voice even before I turned.
Isolde stood just outside the alcove, head tilted to the side as she considered us. Her normally bright smile had softened. But it was her hands that gave her away—clasped tightly in front of her. Too tightly.
“What is it?”
Her lips pressed into a straight line. “Taliya insists that she must speak to you urgently.”
Arran’s eyes were waiting for mine. The look we exchanged—What had happened? Had the succubus breached the underground city? Did she have news from Annwyn?
A glance at Isolde told me she had none of those answers.
