Page 84 of Devoured

I swallow hard. No, I choke. I can’t swallow anymore. My throat is closing, and the room around me is closing with it. “I know, Calix.”

“Sure, you do.” His answering smile is deprecating. Too soon, he’s turning, leaving, and I rack my mind for something, anything, that’ll keep him here just a little longer.

“Bring Arielle back in two days. She’s finally getting control of her powers.” My voice is hoarse. I can barely speak. “I can help her.” It isn’t enough.

It has to be enough.

Because Calix is twisting the knob now, nodding and stepping into the hall. I need him to know that I’m sorry for everything. Even for what’s still to come. But this is all I can give him now. This is all I can fix.

I swallow hard as I watch him go.

He will never stop being my best friend. No matter what.

He hesitates before swinging the door shut behind him. His red eyes meet mine, softening slightly at whatever he sees. “Thanks, Sin.”

“Calix,” I murmur thickly.

“I know, Sin,” Calix says, the door shutting behind him. “I love you too.”

29

VANESSA

THE NEXT FEW WEEKS PASS QUICKLY.

Portia, Evie, and I aren’t able to meet outside of stolen hours whenever Cora is busy entertaining her guests. Usually under the cover of night and always after Evie has done something to distract Cora’s guards. So far, she has set fire in a communal bathroom, thrown smoke bombs down the Great Hall, and hidden dead fish in a few air vents. It’s still not enough time.

As much as I practice, I can’t manage to manipulate much besides hair or nails—and even then, every single time I use my new powers, I always end up with a sickening migraine. I always end up on the floor, barely conscious. Because of that, we haven’t been able to plan beyond letters or maps, scheming which courts might align with Cora and which duchesses or barons we desperately need on our side.

The Mating Rite is approaching quicker than expected, and the truth is, we’re afraid to take action again. To poison or kill without any knowledge of what the consequences might be.

After everything, I’ve learned that risk always outweighs the reward.

I press sweaty palms on my bedroom floor and throw my head back with an agonizing groan. My muscles shudder from transforming half a dozen times since sunset, but I can’t stop now.

All I can do while we wait is train.

Train, and keep myself awake by any means necessary.

My nose cracks, once at the bridge and once at the tip, breaking as my snout forces its way through bone and cartilage. My ears gather into excruciating points as pain ruptures along the tense ridge of my spine, and my skin flays. Every part of my body hurts as if I’ve been set on fire. As if my flesh is melting—not breaking or transforming or changing—but melting off my bones, the wolfish bits of me growing from the simmering decay inch by brutal inch.

I glance under the bed, stifling a scream of agony when I spy the box Evie carved for me. The box that contains only three more sleepless draughts. It reminds me why this pain is tolerable. Preferable, even, to the hallucinations. I spend my nights transforming, training, so I don’t have to take the draughts.

I transform so the hallucinations are banished with my exhaustion, and I can think without being afraid. It isn’t a forever fix. Maybe it isn’t even a Band-Aid fix, but for now, this is all I have. I am so tired of being haunted by ghosts.

A ferocious snarl rips from me as my head snaps down. As my neck splits open. My wrist bones twist alongside my ankles—always more painful than the rest now—and the transformation finally completes. Fur mats, hot and sweaty, all over my wolfish body as my snout lifts from the floor to inhale sharply.

Someone claps.

My hackles rise as I tilt my head, seeking the source of the noise.

A man stands in my doorway, leaning against the threshold, his wiry build lean enough for me to snap in half with one firm bite. Thick chestnut brows complement glowing yellow eyes while a Cheshire cat smile stretches wide across his devilish face. He looks to be about twenty years old. I growl at him, but he doesn’t move. He continues clapping slowly, almost languidly.

“Good little wolf,” he purrs.

He dresses more casually than I’m used to, in a black corded sweater and jeans, and smells like ashes where Cora’s stench of withering roses hasn’t already infected him. Like ashes and salt and green, green grass. I stare at him, snarling a low warning.

What the hell is he doing in my room?