Lakesedge (World at the Lake's Edge #1)(38)

Do you want to watch it claim him? Take him apart, piece by piece, until there is nothing left? That’s what will happen.

Will you let me help you?

A desperate yes clings to my tongue. But the Lord Under’s help always comes at a cost; I know that all too well. I’ve bargained with him once and paid the price. I can’t do it again.

“No. I don’t want your help.” I flex my hands open and closed. My fingers are wet and numb, but beneath the chill I can feel the faint warmth of power. “I can do this without you.”

Do you think those scraps you have now will be enough? You know, Violeta, by rights that power belongs to me.

“You can’t unmake our bargain.” I tighten my grasp against the door. “You promised—”

He laughs, a sigh and a rush of waves all caught together. The water rises around me, until it’s at my waist, then my throat, then pouring into my mouth. The world becomes darkness, and I’m lost at the bottom of the lake.

I’m lost, I’m lost … But then a sound cuts through the vision. A staccato tap tap tap, like the branches of the apple tree as they hit the glass of the kitchen window back at the cottage. I’m still holding the door handle. I tighten my grasp and let the hard edges bite into my palm. I hear the strange new sound. I tear myself loose from the dark.

The shadows are gone. The water is gone. The Lord Under is gone.

I spin around and press myself against the door with my cheek flat to the wood. My breath steams hot against the carved panels. The handle won’t turn. I wrench it, hard, and it twists with a rusty scrape. I put my shoulder against the paneled wood and shove.

The door comes unstuck, falling open with a breathy whoosh.

I stumble inside, and I slam the door closed.





Chapter Twelve


The Lord Under has released me, but each word, each syllable, of what he said is lodged inside my chest. I can help you.

I wrap my arms around myself, shivering, and look around the room. It’s as bare as a cell. Nothing but an unlit fire and a carved, upholstered sofa pushed up against the wall, flanked by two enormous windows. The vague shapes of furniture in the corners: a dresser, a desk, a chest of drawers. The only light is the outline of late afternoon sun around the heavy curtains.

From behind those curtains, the sound comes again. The frantic tap tap tap that pulled me free of the mud and the water and the dark. I draw in a breath. The room is dim, but these shadows are just shadows. There are no whispers, no presence at the corner of my vision. Slowly, I peel myself away from the door and move toward the window. My heart beats loud, in time with the sound. Tap tap tap.

My hand shakes as I reach for the curtain and draw it back. The room floods with sudden brightness. A glittering cloud of motes fills the air.

A bird.

There’s a bird, trapped inside the room. It’s small and delicate; frightened. The sound I heard was its wings against the glass. Smears of black stain its pale feathers. Maybe it flew down the chimney.

I reach past it to open the window, and the bird is so afraid it doesn’t even move away. The more I watch it flutter, the calmer I feel. I was so helpless before, pressed back against the door as the black water rose around me. But here, I’m not.

I take hold of the window latch. It’s stuck fast. I grit my teeth and lean in hard with my shoulder to the glass.

“You’re safe, you’re safe.” I struggle against the window, the bird’s soot-streaked wings brushing over my cheeks in a blur. “Let me get this open—then you’ll be back outside.”

Finally, the sash cord gives a high-pitched screech, and the window comes open in a rush. The bird flutters past me with a little chirp. I watch it disappear into the clear, hot sky. I’m breathless from the effort, and I lean out into the windswept sunlight, taking grateful gasps of the warm air.

I see something stuck in the gap between window and sill. I slide my fingers down and work it loose. It’s a heavy key, as large as my hand, engraved with a pattern of twined leaves that reminds me of the carvings on the front door of the house.

I curl my fingers around it. I don’t know what this key might open, there are so many locked doors here. A long length of ribbon is threaded through the key bow. I knot it at one end to make a loop, then slip it over my head.

The door creaks open. I hurriedly tuck the key down beneath my nightdress so it’s hidden. Footsteps come heavily across the floor. A hand reaches through the tangled curtains and grabs my shoulder. “What are you doing?”

I jolt upward. Hit my head—hard—against the edge of the open window. “Ouch! Ash damn it!”

I guiltily whisk the curtains closed over the opened window and turn to face Rowan Sylvanan, his brows knotted into a scowl, his gloves gone, and his shirt half unfastened.

My eyes drift, unbidden, toward his bared skin. The scars around his throat go farther down than I thought, crossing over his collarbones and onto his chest. Blood rushes into my cheeks. I look quickly away.

“Violeta.” His scowl deepens, and he pulls awkwardly at his shirt, quickly tightening the laces. “Why are you in my bedroom?”

“Your bedroom?” I look around. The bare walls. The scant furniture. The sofa beneath the window. Now I realize there’s a quilt spread neatly across it, a pillow at one end. “But it’s so empty.”

“I prefer it this way.”