Page 61 of Dance With Death

But does he? My mouth parts—is this the reason he avoids many mixed classes? “Yes. But hospitals contain bloodier humans than the academy. When I visited the ER, there were many bleeding?—”

“Can we not talk about this?” he hisses. “Check on Holly.”

I’m several steps away from the bed, ones I’m desperate to—but also don’t want to—take. Holly’s lying on her side, covered by a white sheet and a blue waffle blanket that matches the poor artwork on the wall. The flowers Leif brought are now in a tall glass vase on the nightstand beside the bed, and the plush pig is tucked between the pillow and pale wood headboard.

Holly breathes steadily, not snoring loudly as she sometimes does, her curls spread across the pillow. Somebody positioned a chair with a cushioned seat close to the side of the bed, which I take slow steps closer to.

Holly’s aura isn’t different, but then Leif’s never was after Viktor’s spell. No. I tense. Her aura is different. Holly’s energy has dulled and the brightness drained away, but not through magical interference. She’s faded beneath her injuries. Gingerly, I take the seat and cross my arms tightly against my chest, gazing at her face where the freckles stand out more against her pale skin.

“Be subtle,” Grayson says from behind me.

“What if she opens her eyes and screams?” I ask. “The day Holly passed out in my room, her response to me brought humans running to us.”

“Talk to her.”

“She’s asleep.”

“Talk to her quietly?”

I glare at Grayson. “What is the point in conversing with someone who doesn’t reply?”

He chuckles. “Really, Violet? You’ve never noticed how many people ignore you?”

“Good grief!” I say. “Stand by the window again. You’re not helpful.”

“Violet?” Holly’s weakened voice pulls me away from Grayson, and my heart speeds as Holly stares at me through half-closed eyes. “Rowan?”

“No. Grayson’s with me.”

She blinks in my direction. Holly’s voice sounds faraway, thick, a little like when she’s inebriated. I eye the pouch of liquid and the tube feeding the concoction into a vein. Drugs.

“Hello,” Holly mumbles, then turns her head to the other side. “Where’s Dash?”

“You mean Chase?” Definitely drugged.

“No. Dash. He was here.”

Grayson joins me, standing at my shoulder and looking down. “Hey, Holly.”

I recoil when Holly snatches my fingers, purely because that tube-thing taped into her arm almost touches me. “I need Dash.”

“She’s confused,” whispers Grayson, then raises his voice. “How are you feeling, Holly?”

I squeeze her fingers. “I’d like to examine your mind and then question you about your recent whereabouts.”

In a move reminiscent of Rowan, Grayson nudges me in the back. “Violet!”

“How are you feeling?” I add.

Holly rasps a laugh. “I don’t remember.”

“How you’re feeling now, not in the past. You can’t forget the present.”

“Sore. The room’s a bit… spinny.” She takes a labored breath. “I can’t remember much.”

“Not to worry, I’ll discover all your memories,” I say and pat her hand. Holly winces as I knock the thing inserted into her skin. Honestly, human medical treatment is macabre.

With each second that passes while I hold Holly’s hand, I sense her. The girl beneath the pain and confusion hasn’t gone; she’s merely subdued. But Holly’s mind. I can’t go anywhere before I examine her mind, and certainly can’t return to Dorian until I do.

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