Page 62 of Dance With Death

She blinks again. “Violet?”

“Yes. We established that.”

“Where’s Dash?”

Good grief, are we entering a circle of repetition? “Chase isn’t here.”

“Dash,” she continues. “He is. Was. Coffee.”

I’d dive straight into Holly’s mind, but I’m cautious. Viktor taunted me about his superior mind magic. The witch tore apart Leif’s mind, and I’ve heard of people’s minds breaking altogether from spells. Hence, why I’m risking such trouble with Dorian by reaching Holly before him.

One thing’s sure, the girl has lost touch with reality due to magic or drugs.

“You want a coffee, Holly?” asks Grayson.

“No. Dash is bringing me a coffee. Where is he?”

“Chase isn’t here,” I whisper.

“While we wait for uh… Dash, can Violet take a look at your mind?” asks Grayson gently.

“Grayson,” I hiss, turning to him. “Don’t confuse her further.”

“We have to look quickly and leave,” he urges. “If somebody sees us…”

Holly’s eyes go wide, and she sits, struggling to push up on her elbows. “Is your father here?”

“No. Holly. This is important. I want to look at your mind before anybody else does.”

“Why?” Holly’s voice wavers. “Someone attacked my body and mind?”

“I don’t know.”

Holly sinks back again. “Don’t tell me if there’s something bad inside my head.”

I only want to check if you’re a construct. I attempt a smile. “I’ll only glimpse to check if there’s any supernatural effect. Your memory loss could be a human reaction.”

Holly’s hands are warm in mine, and, as she looks at me, and I gently look into her mind, the affection, the hidden fears, and anger mingle and surge. I catch a breath. Holly is here. She’s alive. And, although Holly’s mind swirls in a mass of sounds and color stirred into undecipherable thoughts, it’s her’s.

I breathe more easily as she doesn’t react in pain, but I’d need a lot of time to unpick what’s in Holly’s memories. Is she similar to Leif, and Viktor knows where she is now?

Grayson jerks his head up and edges away from the bed as the door to Holly’s room opens, and I ready myself to defend the hemia’s presence in the room.

The heavy blue door falls closed behind the dark-haired guy who doesn’t move a muscle, gripping a tall coffee cup, eyes wide. He darts a look to Holly, then us, and reaches behind for the door handle.

There’s no doubt in my mind that the person standing in the room with us is the shifter I wasted time pursuing an hour ago.

I edge closer to Holly, and Grayson steps between the bed and the guy.

“I see you found clothing,” I say coolly. “How fortunate you have a rain jacket and spare jeans.”

The guy remains still, fingers around the handle. “I had spares,” he replies in a heavy Scottish accent.

“I told you Dash would bring me a coffee,” says Holly in her drugged voice.

Dash? Good grief.

“Don’t open the door, Dash,” says Grayson, his tone filled with violent warning. “Or you won’t leave this room.”

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