snow, overcome by two lamiak, as Celine is grabbed from behind by another.
I shout and try to stand.
Something starts to glow in Celine’s hand. With a cry, she brandishes the sphere of sunlight in the air above her head. It starts to burn brightly. She gasps, and I can see that her fingers have started to shine as if they’ve caught fire. With both hands, she lifts the bauble high. The lamiak shriek, their skin beginning to burn. The ones far enough away try to crawl toward the darkness, but many of them smolder and catch flame, their clothes turning to ash.
Celine waits until the last of the creatures is nothing but tendrils of smoke. Tears stream from her eyes, the scent of burning flesh carrying on the wintry air.
She collapses into the snow, her hands and arms blistered.
CELINE
When Celine sat up, panic began to set in. The same panic she’d felt in the hospital after she’d been attacked at Saint Louis Cathedral the night of Mardi Gras.
The first thing she noticed was the light. Even though dusk appeared to have settled around her, the sun still shone from beyond the window, its light faint and warm. Tiny baubles flickered throughout the room, multiplying as they neared the high domed ceilings. Her bed was the largest bed she’d ever seen in her life. It appeared to be fashioned of twisting vines carved from a pale tree that smelled of cedar and spice. The coverlet felt as soft as a cloud to the touch. The faint scents of honeysuckle and citrus suffused the space.
Even at a glance, Celine knew this was not the sort of chamber one found in the mortal world. All at once, recent events flashed through her mind’s eye. She swallowed at the memory of the lamiak coming toward her, the chittering echo of its death cry. The perfume of the frigid mist in the Wyld seemed to curl through her nostrils and ripple down her spine.
Shivering, Celine pulled the cloudlike coverlet to her chin.
A buzzing sound rang in her right ear, startling her. A tiny winged fairy zipped before her, inspecting her as it muttered in a language Celine could not understand. Then it vanished out an open window, undoubtedly to deliver a message.
She was in the Vale. The sunlight alone told her this truth. She was safe and warm. No creatures of the night would barrel from the shadows, intent on causing her harm.
Celine fell back against her mound of pillows and sighed. With a start, she recalled the way the golden bauble had burned to the touch. She sat up to examine herself. Her hands and forearms should be horribly burned. Yet she failed to find a single mark anywhere. The smell of crushed herbs lingered on her fingertips, as if some kind of tincture had been applied to her wounds. She stretched her limbs, expecting to feel a twinge of pain.
Nothing at all disturbed her. It was as if she’d woken from a healing sleep.
A knock resounded at the door.
“Come in,” Celine said after tugging the coverlet higher once again.
Bastien walked in. Alone.
Celine’s grasp on the coverlet tightened. He was the last person she wished to see. The only person she wished to see. Conflict warred within her. It had been the same in the Wyld, whenever Bastien drew near. She wanted to push him away or pull him close so she might breathe in the scent of bergamot on his skin.
It was infuriating.
Bastien stood at the foot of the immense bed, dressed in loose trousers and a long, collarless tunic of raw silk. He looked . . . strange. The clothing of the Vale did not suit him. He wasn’t willowy enough. Too broad in the shoulders. But it would take far more than ill-fitting garments to make a young man like Bastien look less than beautiful. Perhaps it was the hue. Perhaps the soft gold clashed with the icy grey of his eyes.
Color rose in Celine’s cheeks. She’d spent the last minute staring at him like a lovesick fool. She cleared her throat and pursed her lips.
“Are you feeling well?” Bastien asked.
Celine nodded. “It’s a bit shocking how . . . well I feel.”
He crooked a brow. “That’s the second time you risked your life to save mine.”
“I couldn’t very well let you die.” Celine crossed her arms, letting the irritation flow through her veins. It was better to be irritated with him. Better to kindle this aggravation than be consumed by