Free Flamebound by Tessa Adams Page B

figure out how I know it—how I know her—but nothing comes. It’s like everything before this moment is a totally blank slate.
    I know I should be concerned by that, but for some reason I’m not.
It’s nice to meet you, Shelby,
I say after a few moments of trying to get a handle on what’s going on.
    It’s nice to meet you, too
. She sniffles some more, but at least she’s not crying anymore.
    Can you tell me what’s wrong? Maybe I can help.
    I want my mommy.
    Of course you do, sweetheart. Can you tell me where she is? I can get her for you?
    She’s at home.
    Where’s home?
    Two-four-seven-one Sycamore Street.
Her singsongy words are the musical recitation of a small child who has just memorized her address for the first time.
    And where are you? Are you near Sycamore Street?
    Fear.
    Confusion.
    Tears.
    She’s crying in earnest now, harsh, heartbreaking sounds that rip at me with each shaky inhalation she takes. I feel terrible, don’t want to push her, but I need any help she can give me.
    I don’t know. I don’t know where I am. It’s dark. I’m scared. Please get my mommy. Please, Xandra.
    Her confusion becomes mine, her fear tearing at me like the sharpest claws.
    Oh no!
    What’s wrong?
I snap out, responding to the increased urgency in her voice.
    He’s coming back.
    Who’s coming back?
    She doesn’t answer.
Shelby! Shelby! Are you okay? Who’s coming back?
    No, no, no!
She’s wild now, hysterical. Pain drips from every syllable.
    Shelby!
I try to reach for her, but there’s a wall between us, one I can’t get through no matter how hard I batter at it.
Shelby!
I call again, but there’s still no answer. Terror swamps me, threatens to pull me under. I fight it, but it’s nearly impossible—especially when the pain starts. Deep, agonizing, a razor-sharp blade raking across my upper thigh.
    Blood wells. Gushes from the cut—thick, red, viscous.
    More screams. More pleading.
    Rough hands on my back, rolling me over. Rolling
her
over. I struggle to remain apart, not to get sucked into Shelby’s tiny body. I can’t help her then. But it’s hard, impossible. Because I can feel him touching her, touching me. His hands positioning me on my side on the edge of the bed.
    A whole new horror swamps me, but he doesn’t touch her again, except to pull her leg forward and over. There’s a drip, drip, drip sound as the blood hits something metal. The bed frame. No. A container. A chalice.
    Oh goddess. Oh goddess. Oh goddess. No. No. No!
It’s me screaming now, not Shelby. She just feels the pain. She doesn’t know what this is, doesn’t know how much worse it’s going to get. But I do. I do.
    Shelby!
I scream her name
. Answer me! Shelby, are you there?
    There’s no answer. Just a low, ceremonial chant that registers only on the edges of my consciousness. I strain to hear the words, but they’re soft and muffled, nearly indistinguishable. I know the rhythm, though. Have heard it before, though I don’t know where or when or why. This kind of magic is far blacker than anything I have ever experienced.
    Xandra! Xandra, help me!
    But I can’t help her, can’t do anything but lie here as—
    Burning agony explodes through my face, through the whole left side of my head. My ear rings and my eye feels like it’s going to pop right out of the socket. I try to hang on to Shelby, to the connection between us, but everything is mixed up. Chaotic. Like I’m three steps behind where I should be and can’t quite figure out how to catch up.
    Xandra! Xandra! Xan—
    And then there’s nothing.

Seven
    I wake with a start. Alone. Confused. Shivering. Terrified without knowing why. Reaching out an arm, I search for Declan’s warmth. But his side of the bed is cold, empty. He’s gone.
    Not just gone-to-the-bathroom gone or in-the-kitchen-making-coffee gone.