Page 7 of Infernal Bindings

Not really. Light witches may not die of old age or diseases, but we can still be murdered. We can still break our necks in freak accidents or be stabbed through the chest. We just get to live on Earth a little bit longer than most humans—and I’m no longer sure it’s worth it.

That ball of light flickers again, and gasps break out across the crowd as shadowy angel wings appear, spanning the entire rotunda, shading several balconies, including our own. Then, Patrick’s eyes and mouth open wide, and golden sunlight spills from them, splashing onto the floor like water. His chest rises and falls. The spectators clap, including Christopher, as a groggy Patrick rises from the marble tiles and stumbles toward my mother, the light rippling beneath his loafers with each step.

Ears ringing, I clamp my hand around my wrist, fighting back dizziness as the crowd around us blurs and the angel wings vanish. Seconds later, that little ball of light shoots off again, except this time it lands near me.

I shake my head while down below Mom and Martha exchange heated glances and hushed words—the Regent finally realizing I’m here. Martha shoves her. My mom shoves back and tries to pry the spellbook from her tightly clenched fists. Meanwhile, that bright ball of light burns my pupils as it wriggles ever closer, backing me into Christopher’s hard and unmoving chest.

“It’ll be alright, Ann,” he says encouragingly. “Go.”

But I don’t want to. Not yet. I need more time to think things through.

“I can’t do this,” I whisper.

“Yes, you can.” Christopher wraps his fingers around my tattooed wrist and tries to guide my hand toward the light. On reflex, without considering the consequences, I scream his name inside my head and summon him to me.

Daemon.

The orb fizzles out.

The room goes pitch black as strong and reassuring hands wrap around my waist, a warm and familiar body wedging themselves between me and my mate. And then someone screams.

4

MURDER

Eyes narrowed, Daemon looks at my mate and growls, actually growls. “If you hurt her—”

“Daemon, I’m fine.” I touch his cheek and drag his face to mine so he can see the truth for himself. Already the coven witches have started whispering, their voices bouncing off the walls as they try to figure out what’s happening. The near-total darkness has kept Daemon hidden, but it’s only a matter of time before the lights return. I have seconds—minutes at most—to get things under control.

“Daemon,” I say again, “he didn’t hurt me. He’s my mate.”

His eyes shutter, and his expression becomes unreadable. “Why am I here, Annie?”

“Why is he here?” Christopher asks.

Is it hot in here?

The walls feel like they’re closing in around me. Wedged between both men, I have nowhere to hide and no way to run. I swallow, glance between them, swallow again. “I—I don’t want to be here anymore,” I tell Daemon, whispering even though I know Christopher can still hear me. “I can’t go through with it. Please don’t make me stay.” My voice cracks on the words, my eyes burning with them, because I know I’m about to ruin everything.

My mother will never forgive me.

Christopher, who hasn’t even had time to get to know me, will always remember me as a coward.

The coven elders will prove themselves right: I don’t belong here and never have.

And yet, none of that matters because I can’t do it. I don’t want to be drowned. I don’t want to be a public spectacle at the bottom of the rotunda, crying or pleading for my life. Because I won’t be stoic like Patrick. “Daemon, take me anywhere but here.”

The lights flip on—not the glowing orb but the facility lights—casting everything in bright yellow. I blink a few times, letting my eyes adjust. Shouts break out, and at first it seems like an overreaction. Daemon hasn’t done anything besides exist. But then I see what they’re shouting for, what the scream was about when the orb first went out. At the bottom of the rotunda, Regent Martha lays inside the pool, her neck twisted at an awkward angle, her eyes glazed over. Dead. And not the kind of dead she can be brought back from.

My mom’s eyes shoot to me—to Daemon—and her anger becomes a living, festering thing. “He did this.” She doesn’t say it out loud, but she doesn’t have to. When she points at him, the entire crowd of witches snap their heads in our direction, and Christopher’s lips twist into a snarl.

Shit. I tug on Daemon’s suit sleeve. “We need to leave.”

He glances at Martha, then at Christopher, then raises his hand and flips off everyone in the rotunda—egging them on like a crazy person with a death wish. And then mist curls around us. My stomach sinks as we evaporate into nothing.

“Where are we?” My head swirls as Daemon lets go of my waist, and I drop my purse. I can count on one hand the number of times he’s teleported me, and the disorientation never gets better. I let myself sink to the ground and clutch the sides of my head as my vision stabilizes.

Daemon doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans against a gilded wall for support, breathing heavy. Carrying someone else takes a lot of his energy, and I already know that he’ll need to feed soon, or else he’ll feel like shit for the next several days. After a minute or two he groans, then joins me on the floor, lying his sweat-soaked head in my lap.