Page 41 of Forging Darkness

Next, I eye the armoire. Flinging open its doors, I find gowns hanging on the left and rows of drawers stacked on the right. Neatly placed shoes fill a cubby that runs along the bottom. As I look through the drawers, I notice every piece of clothing is white, silver, or gold, down to the undergarments.

What the heck?

Glancing down at myself, I take in the grimy piece of stretchy fabric covering me. I can almost hear Ash’s lecture about ruining the dress, one hand on her hip and the other wagging in the air.

My eyes prickle and well. What I wouldn’t give to be stuck listening to one of her lectures right now.

No time to wallow.

Bypassing the hanging gowns completely, I rummage around the drawers, searching for practical clothes to wear.

Ugh. Everything looks like it was made for a formal affair. Nova would be in heaven, but I need pants.

I toss clothes out of the way until I find something usable—white skinny jeans, a gold tank top, and a baggy off-the-shoulder sweater. I’m going to look like a real housewife of Orange County, but whatever, it’s better than a dress and will offer me some warmth against this glacial air.

Quickly shedding the blue dress, I shimmy into the new clothes. Finding a single pair of sneakers in the back—also white with gold glitter soles—I tug those on as well. The clothes and shoes are a perfect fit, including extra length on the legs for a tall angel-born. I chalk it up to coincidence, not wanting to consider the alternative. Tossing the worn dress in the corner, I twist my hair up and into a knot.

The door was a bust, so it’s time to try the window. I crack my neck and put on my game face.

Forty-five minutes later I’m still stuck in the strange white bedroom. I’ve done everything I can think of to open or bust through the only two possible exits, including, but not limited to, kicking and punching, throwing furniture—the white sofa chair now lies in scattered pieces—and pretending I know how to pick a lock with a splinter. The room is in shambles, but there isn’t a scratch or dent on either the windowpane or door.

I swat a sticky lock of red-tipped hair out of my face. My knuckles burn and ache from abuse. The skin is torn, cut up by the rough wood surface of the door. A few drops of blood have stuck to my clothes, marring the pristine surface, and that makes me glad.

If I can’t get out of here, I’m going to weapon-up.

Snatching the skinny accent table, I use my foot to crack off the base and top, leaving me with a two-foot length of wood thin enough to wrap my hand around—longer than a traditional dagger, but shorter than a sword. It’s an awkward size, but it will have to do. Both ends are splintered and jagged, just how I want it.

I spend the next few hours assembling makeshift weapons by stripping whatever materials I can tear or break apart in the room. Using ribbons of the silk sheets, I wrap glass shards from the accent table’s broken top to the tip of some of the spikes. I bloody the tips of my fingers pulling nails from the furniture to embed in the ends of the wooden rods I fashioned from breaking apart the bed, chair, table, and armoire drawers. Whenever I stop working, my mind floods with worries over my friends.

Did Silver hold true to her word and release Ash and Steel? Was Sterling okay? Did any or all my friends escape?

Sleeping is out of the question. Closing my eyes is a dangerous game. Images of sharp Forsaken fangs cutting into Ash’s neck or the blood coating Steel’s body play unbidden behind my lids. My mind concocts a never-ending stream of horrific possibilities for what may have happened after I was knocked unconscious.

As time drags on, my armory grows.

I stash some of my creations around the room, but keep my favorites—one with nails sticking out from the end like a porcupine and a particularly sharp stake—within arm’s reach. I’m practicing jabbing when I hear movement on the other side of the door.

Soundlessly, I grab my arsenal and slide into position to the left of the entrance.

When Silver’s matted head appears, I don’t hesitate to attack. Her bloodshot eyes widen, and she slams the door closed. My body smashes into the wood.

I beat at it in frustration, doing more damage to me than whatever strange tree created the impenetrable planks.

“Drop the weapons, Emberly, and move to the other side of the room.”

I slide back a few steps and crouch into a defensive stance, waiting for Silver to open the door again.

“Have you moved away from the door?” Silver calls out, her voice muffled.

“Yep.”

“You ready to disarm yourself?”

As if.

“Sure.”

“Why do I feel like you’re lying to me?”

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