Chapter 33

Thirty-Three

T he world swam in a daze of shadows and agony. All 206 bones in Quinn's body screamed and pulsated with pain, and her muscles swam in a sea of sorrow.

All she knew was the pain.

But at least it meant life. It meant hope.

Without sight, Quinn couldn't know the extent of the damage. She needed to open her eyes. But even that task felt impossible. It was far more comfortable to drift into the land of sleep.

No, get up, move. If you don't, you'll die.

Fight. Survive.

And the first step, although very small, was to open her eyes. But her eyelids drooped and were heavy-laden. It took every ounce of her energy to open them enough to see. But what she managed to see was obscured by her thick black eyelashes.

Come on, Quinn. You can do this. You need to move.

Trying again, she gathered all the energy she could muster, and she fully opened her eyes. Within seconds of examining her wounds, she was hit by a burst of dizziness.

Blood stained her tutu so much that only tiny spots of the white remained. Claw marks ran down the entire length of her chest and torso. She'd been attacked by . . . by . . . a . . . Her mind emptied.

Focus. On your wounds, Quinn .

Oh, yes, her wounds. With a medical and precise eye, Quinn examined the injuries. They weren't deep, but they were numerous and gushing, and if she didn't stop the bleeding soon, she'd die from blood loss.

Quinn pressed her arm against her chest, desperately trying to compress and stop the blood.

It wasn't enough.

There were too many lacerations. She needed something to stop the bleeding. But her clothing was filthy and covered with germs and using it risked infection. But if she didn't do something, she'd die.

Holy fucking hell . It was bad.

A beautiful mixture of curse words left her lips.

Petticoats.

But she didn't have enough fabric under her tutu. She really needed to stop being late to ballet.

Quinn desperately crawled to the dead body beside her.

Waffling through the skirts as respectfully as possible, she tried to reach the woolen underskirt. The lowest petticoat was her best bet for both the cleanest and most efficient material. After much effort, she reached the skirt that she needed. With all the strength she could muster, she ripped and ripped.

But it took too much effort to pull apart, and her eyes . . . were . . . drooping. Sleep wasn't so bad. A couple of minutes of rest wouldn't hurt . . .

Sandpaper tickled her toes. It was scratchy and rather unpleasant. Quinn jolted awake.

She would not die here.

Not like this.

Not now.

Finding her feet, she realized that two flickering cat shadows licked her toes and kept her awake—Hadleigh's cat shadows. The magical familiars.

"Stop it," Quinn groaned as she sat up and began to wrap her wounds—very poorly. But it worked well enough to stop most of the bleeding.

But now Quinn needed to figure out how to get out of the alley and find help . . . in the middle of the night, amongst abandoned streets.

Focus. You're a strong, athletic ballerina. You can do this.

Pushing herself to her feet, she managed to take three steps before crumbling back to the ground. But Quinn didn't quit. When you fall in ballet, you get back up. When you fall in life, you get back up.

And that was what she did. She kept getting back up until . . . she hit a brick wall and toppled over.

Her body was too weak to move, so she let her head fall to the street.

This was how she would die.

Just like her second fear in the Mirror of Terror.

A thud hit her chest. One of the spirit cats pounced on her, and the other ran down the street. Quinn's vision blurred, her body hardening to ice. She was so cold.

Death was at her doorstep, ready to accept her into his realm.

"Hadleigh, get to a rotary and call him." A distant voice rang through the air. The face of a brunette man hovered above her head, and someone's hands were trying to staunch the blood. "Hold on, your prince is coming, and he will fix this."

Quinn's eyes fluttered, and her vision evaporated once again. She was just so tired, and she needed to sleep . . .

Death's cold fingers snaked up her body and invited her home. Darkness welcomed her like an old friend returning from a long, gruesome war.

"Quinn?" His voice seemed so, so far away. "Oh, fucking mirrors, Quinnevere, you're dying."

"That seems pretty obvious, prince charming." Her words were soft and barely enunciated.

Emrys's chestnut eyes appeared above her head, and they looked so . . . so concerned, like two pools of brown-coated fear. Her chest warmed, and for maybe the first time in her life, she was happy to see the Playboy Prince.

"Has anyone ever told you that seeing your face makes them want to die?" Her words slurred together.

Emrys chuckled, but the fear never left his eyes. "I should have guessed dying wouldn't change your feelings or your terrible sense of humor."

A bit too drunk from the blood loss, Quinn breathed, "Did you know you're so, so pretty? You're like a painting . . . a pretty, pretty . . . painting."

Her head fell sideways, and her eyelids fluttered shut.

"Quinn." He slapped her cheek. "Stay with me, you brilliant nightmare."

Quinn's eyes opened, and the disorientation flooded back in. She was staring at Emrys Avalon. The Playboy Prince, and richest man in New Swansea. A vampire. Her nemesis. Or maybe not a nemesis anymore . . .

"Humph. No. I have no interest in staying with you," she slurred and tried to roll away from him.

"Oh, god, your touch is revolting." Emrys pinched his eyes shut as he put pressure on her wounds.

"Very charmi—" Quinn's head tilted. It was too heavy to hold up. She would have been insulted by his words, if she weren't dy—blackness erupted through her mind.

With another jolt to her face, Quinn regained consciousness. "You need to stay awake, Quinn." Emrys fumbled, trying to find a way to save her, but he had no idea what he was doing, or at least that was what it seemed like from his franti—

"Quinn, please, stay with me." He held her limp head up by the neck .

"I don't think I have—" Quinn breathed, her body growing cold.

"Do you want to live?" Emrys asked. He was desperation—a man with no options.

"No." She tried to say it sarcastically, but with her throat so sore from strain and utterly dry, it came out as a sad and pathetic statement. Not at all how she intended it. "Yes, of course, I want to live."

Words were torture.

"Are you willing to accept the consequences?" He squeezed her hand, his gaze cutting into her.

"What are—" she trailed off, gray flowing back into her vision. She blinked to correct it.

"An eternity of dealing with me." He hesitated, despair spilling over a nonchalant mask he was trying to hold. "And possibly eternal damnation."

"Those are fun consequ—"

"Be serious, Quinnevere. We don't have the time for our usual and oh-so-pleasurable banter right now. You're dying." He clasped her face in his hands. "Do you want me to save your life? To mark you?"

"Yes. I—" She couldn't quite get the word to spill from her lips, but it didn't matter.

Emrys cut open his wrist and shoved it into her mouth, forcing her to drink his blood. It tasted of iron and strawberries. Oh, she was going a bit mad. Blood did not taste like strawberries.

The world danced a pas de deux filled with endless pirouettes, promenades, and piques. A melody of sickness and frailty sang in her body.

While she drank, voices swirled around her.

"What did you do?" Emrys seethed, his voice an abyss of darkness and rage, but it wasn't directed at her. "She's dying, Francois."

"We were doing our job. You asked us to find the mirror— "

"I didn't ask you to hurt—"

"What? Your girl ?" There was a long pause between the words. "We had nothing to do with this."

"Then why were you here?"

"Because we had Hadleigh's familiars follow her."

Quinn was pretty sure Emrys growled at that, or maybe she hallucinated . . . The world flipped sideways as she couldn't hold her head up, and it slid down Emrys's arm. His steadying fingers gently held the nape of her neck and stabilized her, allowing her to see the hazy scene the right way up.

"Look on the bright side, she's incredibly talented. She managed to kill a vampire." A placating charm swirled from Francois's tongue.

Emrys grunted and shifted, but she was unable to see the message he conveyed with his expression. "That vampire is not dead. He's just incapacitated," Emrys said.

"Yes, well, I know—"

"You will need to bind him with silver and trap him. I want to have some words with him." The way Emrys said some words, it sounded like he would rip the vampire's throat out.

"Yes, we can do that."

The next thing Quinn heard was footsteps. Many, many footsteps.

"I'll also be having words with you, Francois."

"I would expect so."

Emrys made her drink for a long time. Possibly too long because by the end, Emrys had to clutch the wall for support. "This is weird, but I need to drink some of your blood. I can't get you to safety if I am too weakened. But I need your permission."

It was a weird request, but so was everything else that happened in the past week. "Yes, you can." It was all the words she managed to speak. Although she didn't think she would die, exhaustion tore at her and begged her to sleep.

"I should have listened to you," he said.

A small laugh escaped her lips. "Always."

"You're definitely not ginger. You taste like copper and cinnamon, Quinnevere."

She meant to respond, but instead, she rested her head on his shoulder. She felt him lift her and carry her half-conscious body. She nestled into his shoulder, drifting in and out of sleep. What had to be a door slamming jolted her awake. But she was still far too exhausted to open her eyes.

"I see you brought the ballerina from the papers," a woman said with a regal lilt that commanded respect. A voice frigid and unyielding.

Quinn managed to raise a heavy eyelid a crack. The queen stood at the palace entrance, oozing authority, and vampiric grace.

"Grandmother." Emrys used his arrogant, roguish voice. The one that either got him out of a lot of trouble or into a lot of trouble.

"Grandson." The queen smirked, her crimson hair streaked with grey, slightly bouncing with her movement. The interaction was tense and rang with falsities. "Why did you bring the barely conscious ballerina to Castle Hill?"

Quinn's eyelids drifted closed. She was far too tired to hold them open.

A silence followed before Emrys finally answered the question. "I found her covered in dirt and bleeding out in an alley with vampire wounds."

"How charming . . . just your type," the queen mocked. "And were you the vampire that attacked her?"

"I thought we agreed to stop antagonizing each other," Emrys said.

"Fine."

Emrys's tone softened, and he switched the topic. "Olivia, rogue vampires are killing people. Newly created vampires."

"That is problematic," the queen said. "So, we finally have the true motive for the mirror thefts?"

"I thought you would be happier to know why yo—" Emrys started and either trailed off or Quinn lost consciousness for a moment .

A deep, hollow silence split the air like lightning, immediately followed by thunder.

"What nefarious plans are you plotting, princeling?" the queen asked. "You must have something up your sleeve."

"Oh, Olivia, let the boy be." Another set of footsteps approached from behind. "You have far more important things to worry about than what Emrys is doing with his days." The voice was soft, feminine, and sparkling with kindness. The complete opposite of the queen's voice.

"And I would suggest that my more important duties are directly related to the plans stewing beneath his charming facade."

Oh, Quinn liked her.

Quinn lifted her eyes slightly. Emrys squared his shoulders and smiled at the princess. "Mother."

More footsteps clicked against marble, and a voice as wicked as the sea said, "Oh, blasted mirrors, why is that thing here?" The words belonged to Quinn's true nemesis, Countess Teagan Atwater. "Is it not enough that you force me to watch over her? Now, you must bring her into my home as well."

"I would watch your tone." Emrys's voice was liquid fire.

One of them sniffed the air.

"You marked her?" Countess Teagan's voice rippled with shock and a tinge of fear. "How? You're not dead."

"I don't know," he said defensively. "But she was going to die. I had to try something."

This time, the silence was thick and sticky like honey. But not nearly as sweet.

"Do you have feelings for the girl?" the countess asked, scorn soaking her tone.

Quinn slightly lifted an eye. She was far too curious about that question. Emrys flashed his claws and fangs, which caused her to shut her eyes tight, far too stimulated by the light and the weight of his anger.

Emrys's voice was coated with venom as he said, "Don't insinuate something so—"

"Woah, calm yourself, prince," the countess bit back. "I, of all people, know you could never care about anyone."

"I cannot have feelings for any woman. I have my duty." His voice was a midnight wildfire. "And if I did, it would not be—"

"Methinks, the Lord doth protest too much." Amusement lingered in the princess's words.

He bristled. Quinn felt his every muscle tense, but instead of denying it again, he changed the subject. "I think I've had enough of you three gawking, and I'll be on my way."

Quinn wasn't sure what happened next, but eventually, Emrys walked to a room. He gently placed her into bed before saying, "Leave us." Someone followed him.

"Should I be concerned about the lady's chastity?" the queen asked with a lilt in her accent.

Emrys growled again.

The door clicked, and the queen was gone.

"You can open your eyes now. I know you're awake," he said, stroking her forehead and feeling her temperature. Then he placed a hand on her neck as she opened her eyes. "Your heart rate is back up. But it's still low. Only forty-five beats per minute."

"That's normal for me." Quinn stared into his molten irises.

"Oh, good." He smiled, a finger lacing into her hair. "It will take two full days for you to heal. But in about twenty hours, your wounds will be gone. With no scars. Which I know will disappoint you since you believe beauty is in the imperfections."

She laughed, and it stung. The man didn't forget anything, did he?

"You're going to be fine." He poked her nose in a strangely cute and intimate way. Then his voice changed to a hypnotic and enchanting tone as he said, "Go to sleep now, pretty cinnamon."

Her mind emptied, and a wave of disorientation hit her. The last thing she heard was a man with a strangely familiar voice that she couldn't quite place say, "You will need to clean her up."

Then, a sleep filled with nightmares claimed her soul.