Page 83 of Big Little Spells

“Have faith, mortals,” Nicholas murmurs with his patented drawl that I know is meant to annoy us. I look around and see it’s working. “You are the chosen and the strong. Unless you lose, that is.”

This time when Ellowyn and I laugh, everyone else laughs too.

“I’m not a big fan of losing,” Emerson says, once the tension is broken, and even Zander sits down again. “There must be a way to avoid it.”

Georgie is nodding along, but she narrows her eyes when she looks at Nicholas. “This sacrifice. It isn’t one we get to choose, is it?”

Nicholas shakes his head. “No, I think your Warrior learned that the last time.”

“I refused to be the sacrifice,” Emerson says with some heat. “You were all there. You know that as well as I do.”

“You were willing,” Nicholas says softly, too much history in his blue gaze. Then it’s almost as if he’s quoting someone else. “It will not only be the willing who sacrifice or will be sacrificed. That is the nature of war.”

“This isn’t a war,” I hear myself say, almost desperately.

But I know that’s wishful thinking when his gaze meets mine. “It will be.”

Everyone grows silent again. I don’t think anyone is surprised to hear that, exactly. What did we imagine taking on the Joywood would involve? But it’s different to hear someone else just say it flat-out.

And it ends the questions. People begin to make their excuses. When Nicholas does, so do I. Why pretend?

He says nothing. I say nothing. But he takes my hand and we fly through the evening to Frost House. I can feel time slipping away, like the tick of a bomb. Once Litha arrives, this will be over. I feel it. I know it.

I hate it.

But it’s the way he spoke of sacrifice that stays with me. Long after we’ve glutted ourselves on each other for the night.

I am curled up in Nicholas’s bed like I belong in this mausoleum. With the moon shining down on us while he sleeps and I suffer.

I turn to face him. He looks no less dangerous in sleep. All angles and sharp edges. Beautiful, and somehow more at peace here in his sleep than I ever could have imagined.

Sacrifice.

It’s not right to look into someone’s future without their consent, particularly when they’re sleeping. My grandmother taught me the rules, and I’m trying so hard to live up to the level of responsibility she would expect of me. The way I couldn’t before.

But then it’s her voice in my head. Touch him.

Just like at the bar, and then again at our ritual.

There are many ways to be the death of someone, Rebekah.

I refuse to be your death, Nicholas, I think at him. He shifts in his sleep but doesn’t wake up.

Touch him.

I do it. I can’t seem to stop myself. It’s my grandmother’s voice. How can I refuse? I press my fingertips to his shoulders, and with the ring pulsing on my finger, I center my power. And let it lead me in.

The visions flicker like a deck of cards being shuffled. They aren’t clear. This isn’t the static from before. This is more like he protected himself because he knew I’d look.

I scowl at him.

But still the word sacrifice hisses along my skin, and in the images that move so quickly through me I see him fall. Over and over again while the word sacrifice echoes within me. There is something here in these visions I need to understand.

Maybe I can’t find an answer tonight, but I have found something to pay attention to. I pull my power back in. He does not stir.

And to my surprise, I fall asleep, with only visions of sunlight and laughter dancing in my dreams.

But somehow, when I wake up, I know Nicholas dreamed only of war.

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