Page 60 of A House of Cloaks & Daggers

His mood swings were like the strikes of a whip. Sharp, grating pain between brief moments of solace. And honestly, I preferred to just take the lashings until he’d seen so much of my flesh and blood that he got sick of it.

But no, he continued to offer those little pieces of himself to me—tiny, insufficient splinters of humanity that I grappled for like a life rope—because he wanted to manipulate the tides so he could pick when and where I washed ashore.

Anger started to take shape in my mind, like a cobra ready to strike.

He had used Delia to send me a message. A warning. Delia—who was a person, who deserved more respect, and who probably didn’t agree to being used like a pawn in his wicked games.

And the games! The games made mefurious.

Wren was as hot as a summer with no shelter, and then he was as cold as the blizzard that tore through Faerie the morning before. He was dark as night and bright as day, a protector and a predator. He couldn’t seem to make up his mind because he wanted it all. He wanted it all, and he—

I wish things were different.

Everything went dark.

Like a thick curtain of midnight velvet had fallen across the room, blocking out all of the light. Panic seized my throat, my heart slamming into my chest, and it was only Delia’s hands on my head, halting in the middle of gathering hair for another braid, that allowed me to remember where I was.

Who I was.

What I was.

Because something inside of me had caught on fire. My hands burned, palms pressed against my stomach, and there was something leaking out of me like blood. I couldn’t hear it dripping down into the bath water around my hips, but I couldfeelit…

“Something is wrong,” I whispered to Delia frantically. “Stand back—get help—”

She moved just in time.

Her lightning-fast faerie speed might very well have saved her life.

Because the wound inside of me, the burning hole of which my lifeblood was pouring out, exploded.

It was silent, but I screamed.

The sound tore out of me like someone was ripping out my fingernails as a whoosh of wind and midnight and ribbons of ebony rippled across the room. Glass doors rattled, the steam on the stone walls hissed, and the tins lined up on the counter clinked to the ground and echoed as they rolled.

Delia was silent, but I felt it.

The sudden emptiness. The finality of darkness enveloping me and everything surrounding me, maybe even the whole House.

Breathing heavily, I waited with my head tucked between my knees for the water in the tub to stop swishing from one side to the other. Until the vibrations of that silent impact stopped. And then I lifted my head. Slowly.

And gasped.

Colour had been drained from the bathroom. Its jade green stone had been washed out by greyscale shadows, like the ink on a black-and-white photograph. The marble tub and countertop were now obsidian, depthless in their appearance. And on the ground in the corner of the room, a small figure with dark hair was curled up in a ball.

She lifted her head and—

“Delia?” My voice was hoarse.

The young woman was familiar with silver eyes and metallic thread sewn across her mouth, but her hair was as black as night.

It was supposed to be white. Ithadbeen white.

“What have I done?”

Delia’s eyes softened, moisture making the silver glisten, and inclined her head to me in clear confirmation of my very worst fears.

Perhaps you found your magic.

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