Page 140 of Lore of the Wicked Wood
His Captain of the Guard was right.
If they wanted to survive this, they would need to—the bond lurched and Everinne’s scream tore open his heart.
Atlas was yanked backward, his arm wrenched in pain as something tried to pull Everinne from his grasp. He whipped around to face her, to hold on to her, but those gloves, those fucking gloves, gave him no traction.
“Ever!” he shouted, dropping his sword so it clattered loudly, using both of his hands to maintain a steady grip. He dug the heels of his boots into the ground, clasping her forearm and tugging. He gritted his teeth against the sting of claws as they bit into his legs, his shoulders, his neck. Searing pain burned through him as they tore through his clothing, finally reaching his flesh. The scour of their claws was fiery and hot, like a blade fresh from the forge. Agony splintered through him, but the pain would be nothing if he lost Everinne.
The horde of demons grappled him, smothered him, suffocated him. His knees were starting to buckle, and his boots were sliding against the damp ground.
“Atlas!” Everinne screamed, and tremors of fear ricocheted down their bond. “Don’t let me go!”
“I won’t!” The words were a hoarse promise, slipping through his clenched jaw. But her arm was sliding through that damn coat and the fucking demons were plucking at his fingers like violin strings, loosening his grip. His palms skated down the soft fur of her sleeve and he winced as another demon pounced upon his back, grabbed a fistful of his hair, and snapped his head back.
Atlas spat out a vile curse as pain exploded through his head, pounding at his temples, then down, ripping at his spine.
Another hard tug from the vile demons and his hands slid to Everinne’s wrist, where the glove she wore was starting to slacken.
He felt her sobs in his bones, they rattled him, upended him.
There was a suffocating crush of demonic energy, and the reek of vile, corrupt magic pressed in on him from all sides. It was tearing them apart, dragging her away from him into the fathomless darkness.
“Everinne,” Atlas ground out her name, ready to grind his teeth to dust, as the glove slipped from her hand.
Her answering scream was cut short, silenced by some unseen force.
The demons vanished, evaporating as though they were made of nothing more than ash and air. Atlas dropped to his knees, grasping the singular glove in his hand as each hollow, ragged breath was carved out of him. The mangled lanterns floating along the ceiling of the Marzena flickered to life, the faerie fire in them producing a waning amber glow. Wounds littered his body, but they were only insignificant tears of the flesh compared to the sensation of having his heart ripped out. His gaze trekked over the floor, and he grabbed his fallen sword, clutching the hilt with one bloody fist.
“I will find her.”
He lifted his gaze to where Caedian and Veros stood watching him, their faces marred with filth and blood, their expressions mirror images of defeat.
“Mark my words.” Atlas shoved up from the ground, vengeance coursing through his blood, scalding him from the inside out with rage. “I will find her. And then I will kill him.”
Veros cocked his head to one side, ignoring the trail of scarlet seeping down his chin. “Him?”
Atlas flashed a merciless grin. “Jarek.”
Forty-Two
Everinne didn’t want to wake up.
Nightmares or not, she knew that if she opened her eyes, she would be trapped within the Mystic Obscura. The faint chords of music and the dissonance applause of a crowd were just loud enough to be heard over the erratic beating of her heart. But nor could she stay in the dream world, because it was only a matter of time before images of the wicked Marzena and the throng of demons flooded her mind. Before she was reminded, over and over again, of how she was torn from Atlas’s arms, then gagged with a cloth that left her mind fuzzy and caused her vision to swim.
She shook away the awful memory.
Better to be locked inside the Mystic Obscura than lost within the wicked wood.
Her eyes fluttered open, slowly adjusting to the low glow of light pulsing from a crystal lamp. She glanced down and gasped—she knew she’d been bound to a chair, the rough cords of rope rubbing her ankles and wrists were quite unforgiving, but what she hadn’t expected was to have been changed into a costume. Because that meant someone had removed her clothing, had touched her and dressed her, while she’d been unconscious.
Something sick and twisted caused tiny beads of cold sweat to pebble along the back of her neck.
Her damp palms gripped the arm of the chair as her gaze raked over her newest performance costume. She’d been made to look like a ballerina. The bodice was a blush pink and lined with silk magenta ribbons. It was strapless and entirely too snug, shoving her breasts up to almost her face. A tutu of the same soft pink jutted outward from her waist, where tiny iridescent beads studded and traced her curves. Her feet had been fitted into pointe shoes, just like the dancers at the ballet, with one terrifying difference.
The toes of her shoes were attached to a pair of jeweled daggers, the pink satin resting on top of the flat edge of the weapon, right by the embellished hilt. If she was going to dance, she would have to do so on the tips of two sharp blades.
Trepidation took hold of her lungs and squeezed.
There was a click of a tongue and Everinne’s head snapped up.
