Phoenix Flame - Sara Holland Page 0,43

to him.”

I spin out from under Brekken’s hands, pausing to kiss his cheek. I want to distract him from how antsy I am. I don’t know why I feel such a sense of dread, like an ax is suspended over my head. Maybe it’s just the effect of spending time in another world. Maybe I’m getting sicker, despite the protective effect of the phoenix flame gauntlet. Which would not be great, but I’d rather it be sickness than intuition that something is going to go wrong.

Without giving Brekken any more space to argue—and draw attention to us by speaking English in a room full of Fiordens—I stride off toward the serving table and grab a small wooden bowl, as I see others doing. The table is piled high with mostly roasted meats, the shapes uncomfortably reminiscent of the animals they once were. The centerpiece is a huge roasted boar with the tusks still attached, sharp and dripping with grease. My stomach turns, and I go for a fruit platter instead, grabbing a random handful of what looks like small sticky blue plums.

Then I realize I don’t know how to eat them. They seem messy. I’m searching for silverware when a sound cuts through the room. It’s the clear peal of cutlery clinking on glass, like people do at weddings. I guess some traditions occur across worlds. Or maybe they’ve permeated through the portals at Havenfall … Or elsewhere, if Kae is right, and other doorways to Realms are possible where phoenix flame is present.

The music fades out, and the chatter of the large room dies quickly. Everyone turns toward the head table as Cadius rises to his feet. I look for Brekken, my heart in my throat and my plate slippery in my now-sweaty hands. But I don’t see him anywhere.

Cadius begins to speak, his voice deep and rolling. I can’t understand any of it, except for a few random basic words like home and thank you and friends. After a few minutes of this, Cadius raises his arms, his voice rising to a finale. Around me, the celebrants laugh and cheer. The haunted silver glitters all around us, and I can almost feel the weight of the souls inside. Souls like Nahteran, captive and trapped. And maybe like Taya now.

Stolen.

I want to scream. I want to collapse. I want to throw a knife or put my fist through glass. I want to kill Cadius. But I can’t move.

Then the horror hits all at once, a concentrated punch to my stomach. Even though I haven’t touched anything at the feast, the meal I ate back at Brekken’s grandparents’ cabin suddenly threatens to storm back up my esophagus.

Instinct takes over. As laughter and jeers rise up all around me, I drop my bowl back onto the serving table. It cracks, and sticky plums roll everywhere, but I don’t stop to see if anyone noticed. Instead, I run from the hall as fast as I can with my gut heaving and my fist pressed to my mouth.

I have tears in my eyes and can’t really see where I’m going, but I hear people jump out of my way as I stagger to an alcove and throw up between a taxidermied wolf’s front paws. Brittle moth-eaten fur crackles beneath my hand as I sling an arm around the wolf’s neck for support and the stink of stomach acid burns my eyes.

Once I’ve finally emptied my stomach, I look up, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. Scandalized stares surround me; though my vision is still too blurry to make out details, I feel the weight of judgment. I stare back, unblinking, too angry and disgusted to care about the attention. If I were in Havenfall, someone would materialize right about now with a damp washcloth, a glass of water, and a comforting hand, but I know better than to expect any kindness here. A nest of snakes is too kind a phrase. As my eyes clear, the remnants of tears trickling down my cheeks, I channel my judgment into my gaze, letting all these vultures know I find them as disgusting as they must find me.

I can’t take this party much longer. I head back toward the ballroom, intending to find Brekken so we can get outside and I can breathe the fresh, cold air. But when I step inside and look around, I don’t see him. Just so many fast-moving strangers, a whirl of unfamiliar, unfriendly cloth and flesh.

12

Fear plummets