Page 78 of Fang Fatale

The slash of branches.

The muddy taste of fear in my mouth.

And Alaric Grimhaven.

His arms around me.

His voice cut from midnight and expensive liquor.

The steady beat of his heart beneath my cheek as he carried me through the woods.

I remember drifting in and out, warm despite the rain, every time he adjusted his grip cradling the back of my head like I was something worth protecting.

My stomach performs an alarming little somersault.

There is a glass of water on the nightstand, already sweating its way toward a ring on the wood. There is also a note, which I recognize as T's handwriting, mainly because he adds a little ghost after every exclamation point.

YOU'RE SAFE!

I snort.

Why yes, Al, I am. Unless my ex-fiancé is hiding under this bed waiting to cut out my liver, which—statistically—feels unlikely, but you never know.

I sip the water. It tastes like minerals and the numinous calm of old pipes. Nobody is screaming or bleeding or arguing on the other side of the door, which I decide to take as a sign of progress.

I swing my feet onto the carpet and shuffle to the mirror over the dresser, mostly because I want to verify the carnage I already feel on my face.

The braid is worse than I'd feared.

There are twigs woven in, and a single black feather that I can't trace to any specific bird.

My skin is not quite my skin, more a riot of purples and ochres, and there's a scratch on my collarbone the size of a latitude line.

But I am alive.

Softly.

Safely.

Boringly alive.

I'm not sure I trust it.

I'm about to dismantle the braid when voices drift up from downstairs, echoing off the sloped ceilings.

Theo's is unmistakable, a chipper buzzsaw of interruptions.

Then Trent, his vowels wide as a barn door.

Someone else who sounds like they gargle thumbtacks for breakfast.

...

No Alaric.

My stomach sinks before I can explain why.

Well.