Page 144
“The eye holes were empty. I was certain a demon wore the mask, and when they spoke, their words were wicked and dangerous.”
... you are part of something bigger. An old cycle. That it was an honor to be chosen. Everyone else was just on the surface… but we were the roots.
An unsettling quiet fills my brain, and for a moment there is nothing but the echo of that voice and the memory of being alone beneath the ground. I remember lying on that cold, hard floor, staring into the darkness and wondering how long it would take before someone realized I was gone. I remember thinking about my uncle. Was he worried? And then wondering if anyone would ever find me at all.
“After that I slept. Cold and hungry. I cried–scared that no one would ever find me.”
The memory presses against the inside of my skull, and I try to push farther into it, but there is nothing waiting beyond those four walls. I can see the cell. I can smell the damp earth. I can hear the distant voices of the other girls, but every time I reach for anything beyond that, my mind slams shut.
Four walls. Nothing else. I push against the barrier again, harder this time, but it doesn't move. I exhale. “That’s all I remember.”
“Is it?” he asks carefully. “Or can you explore a little more?”
My heart starts to thrum, shallow at first and then louder into throbbing beats. My eyes fly open. “No. There’s nothing else. Nothing until I wake up in the hospital.”
I twist away from him before he can ask me anything else, scrambling to my feet so quickly that the room tilts beneath me. My bare feet hit the floor, and I have to catch myself against the edge of the chaise.
Timothy rises behind me. “Ari.”
“No.” The word comes out harsh. Firm. “There is nothing else.”
I turn on him, my hands shaking as I push my hair away from my face. The Rite of Spring feels like a lifetime ago. Like it happened to someone else. The candles around us suddenly seem too bright, their flames flickering against walls that are no longer stone but still feel like they are closing around me.
“I was there for three weeks, Timothy. Three weeks. I remember the cell. I remember being hungry. I remember the girls, but nothing that will help them. I remember that fucking mask that we all now know was Amber taunting me. What else do you want from me?”
“I know this is hard. Impossible even. Your mind is just protecting you.” That’s what Sarah had said. My mind and body were working perfectly right. Taking care of me. If that’s true, why would I go against that? “But Stella and Auggy need you.”
The words hit me like a slap. “I can’t,” I whisper. “I can’t go back there again.”
“You survived it,” he tells me. “You can survive the memory of it, too.”
I shake my head so hard my vision blurs.
“No. Someone else has to find them. Nothing I say makes a difference anyway. We’re too late. I’m too late–”
“Arianette—”
I turn away from him, but he catches my wrist before I can get farther. His grip isn't painful, but it's firm enough to stop me, and when I look back at him, his expression has changed. There is no frustration in his face, only that steady determination I have seen in him when everything around us is falling apart.
“You don't have to be afraid of what you find.”
“You don't know that.”
No,” he says quietly. “But I know you.”
His hand slides from my wrist to my upper arm, and then both hands settle against me, firm and grounding. He draws me closer until there is nowhere for my mind to run without running directly into him.
“I know what you do when you're scared,” he says. “When someone threatens to take what belongs to you.”
“I slip into my mind, where no one can touch me.”
“No. That’s not true,” he says. “You get angry. You fight. Sweetheart, you fucking slit Armand’s throat. You burn the goddamn house down. You challenge me, Hunter, and Damon. We already know how this story ends,” his thumb runs down the column of my throat, “we just have to know how to get there.” His hands move higher, gripping my shoulders, holding me firmly enough that I can feel every point of contact. The pressure gives me something concrete to focus on when everything inside me wants to scatter. “If I could ease this burden for you, I would. I would soothe every pain. Suture every wound. I love you, Arianette. I would do anything to make this easier on you.”
My head drops back, and I look up at him, into the face of a man that has never lied to me, but still… “You love me?”
“From one side of the veil to the next.”
Timothy pulls me against him hard, one hand locking at the nape of my neck while the other slides down the length of my spine, pressing me flush to his chest. He holds me there until the worst of the trembling fades, and when I finally tip my face up to his, he takes my mouth like he’s been waiting for it. The kiss is deep and slow at first—his tongue stroking against mine with claiming heat. Every pass of it sends a low, electric pulse straight through my body, dissolving the edges of the panic clinging to me. His grip tightens just enough to keep me grounded, the solid weight of his hands and the taste of him reminding me that this—us—is real, solid, and stronger than whatever memories are trying to drag me under.
