Page 82

Oxygen isn’t something Séverin needs to survive, but vampirism won’t save his body from breaking. The creak of cartilage giving way is enough to unstick my feet from the floor.

I can’t look Sunday in the eye—too scared of what I’ll see there—but I tug on his arm and plead for him to stop.

I hit his arm, pull at his clothing, call his name. My feet slip as I try to yank him, but it’s a fruitless battle. He doesn’t even acknowledge me; I may as well be a fly buzzing around his head.

In a moment of violent panic, I shove my hand against the bare skin of Sunday’s bicep and unspool my magic into him, pushing it through his veins, begging it to work. I gasp as I feel it touch something in him, a foul taste filling my mouth like fire and brimstone.

I cough, wrenching my hand away. Relief floods my system as Sunday blinks harshly, his grip faltering enough that Séverin manages to draw back and kick him in the gut. The skull hits the floor and Séverin gasps, clutching his throat.

“What the hell is going on?” Lara cries as she bursts around the corner, alarm written all over her face as she takes in the scene.

I quickly pull Séverin aside. Lara can’t see him like this or the whole situation will turn into a bigger mess than it already is.

“Go. I’ll stall,” I say, low and quiet, urging him gently with my hand. He nods, understanding crossing between us. He will heal, but he needs the time and space to do that away from people who won’t understand.

I turn back to the others, Sunday’s low, wrong timbre mixing with Lara’s sharp tone as they exchange heated words.

“Sunday, walk away. I’m telling you right now—walk away before you get yourself into more shit.” Lara’s words aren’t exactly harsh, but there’s a sharp edge to her voice as she squares up to him, crossing her arms. “No, I don’t care. Take a walk and cool it. We’ll talk about this later.”

He starts forward like he’s going to say something else, but takes one look at me and turns away. I watch him go, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. My heart twists. I want to follow him.

The thought crosses my mind, but then I’m being accosted by Lara.

“So why exactly was Sunny trying to choke Séverin?” she says coolly, keeping her voice quiet.

I think about how to answer her, turning over the fact that the demonic presence seems to take more control when he gets angry or frustrated.

“They got into an argument. I don’t know what it was about.” The lie is smooth, but Lara still gives me a suspicious look. I get the feeling she knows that Sunday and I are…rekindling something between us.

We talk a little longer in hushed voices until I suggest we go and check on them. Whichever of them she checks on is a risk, but since Sunday seemed to be back in control of his body when he left, I opt to try and find Séverin.

The first law of paranormality: keep each other’s secrets.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Sunday

“What were you thinking? You know he could press charges, right?” Lara rebukes me as she dogs my heels. “I know Bellamy is important to you, but you can’t go around strangling people just because they’re being nice to him.”

She drones on and on, telling me that my behavior is not acceptable, and that as my friend she wants me to sit down and really look at my behavior. She tells me I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t want it to go further. Something about him being young, impressionable. She keeps talking, but I zone out.

I’m in my body, but I’m not controlling it.

I’m looking through my eyes, but I can’t turn my head.

My body is the house, but it’s not me that’s haunting it.

There’s a profound heaviness underneath my skin, pressing against my bones, my muscles, pushing me somewhere even though there’s nowhere for me to go. I can feel it more than ever before, like the thing itself is thickening in my veins, clogging my arteries.

“Sunny, are you okay? You look like you might be sick,” Lara asks suddenly from my side as she steers me toward the staff bathrooms, her tone swinging from irate to concerned on a pendulum.

I want to tell her how horrendous I feel. I want to tell her that yes, I absolutely feel like I might be sick, that my head feels like it’s splitting apart at the seams and that I’m not sure if I’m going to be standing in the next five minutes.

My throat works, desperate to tell the truth, but the voice that comes isn’t mine.

“I’m alright. Perhaps a drink would do, though.” The words feel alien in my mouth, my jaw aching from fighting them.

Lara looks at me oddly, probably because I don’t talk like that. But she just shakes her head, out of patience. Her hand presses into the small of my back, thrusting me into the bathroom with a promise to be back in ten.