Vanish (Firelight #2)(53)

I surge forward but a hard hand on my arm stops me. I try to meet Mom’s gaze. Communicate something, glean something from her. Where will she go? What will she do? How will I ever find her again?

Will I ever find her again?

“Bring forth the cutters.”

This command stirs those around me. More blurring movement, more murmuring voices. I crane my neck, but can’t see Mom anymore—can’t find her in the flurry of activity.

Both my arms are seized and I’m dragged toward a block I notice for the first time, positioned a few feet away on the dais. No one pays attention to my sister when she begs them to stop.

I’m forced to my knees atop the wooden surface.

Apparently they want no one to miss the spectacle. And that’s the way of the pride, I realize. At least as long as Severin is alpha. Rule through fear, through intimidation, through threats, both spoken and indirect. This is Severin’s way and will continue as long as he’s in charge.

I’m commanded to manifest.

I lift my chin, glare straight ahead. They can’t make me.

The command comes louder. Still, I don’t oblige them. Why make it easy?

Grim satisfaction swells inside me as Severin’s face grows splotchy red with anger. He drops heavily beside me, reminding me of his strength and power.

He speaks hard words into my ear, his large hand coming down on the back of my head. “I’m certain I can get your sister to manifest. She’s so untried. It would be an easy thing to inspire fear in her. So what’s it going to be? You? Or Tamra? Either way someone’s getting her wings clipped today.” I turn and stare into his face, hatred for him emanating from me in waves of heat.

I whisper hoarsely, “You wouldn’t—”

His fingers press deep against my skull. “She can still serve her purpose flightless.”

Staring into his black eyes, I don’t know whether he’s bluffing or not. But I’m not going to take the chance. I shake off his touch.

I say nothing. I won’t give him the gratification of hearing my agreement. I draw a deep breath and manifest.

My human flesh fades out so quickly I don’t have time to shed my shirt before my wings are pushing free, tearing the fabric with a terrible sound that mimics the rapid stretching and crackling of my bones.

My injured wing quakes, drooping low. It looks broken. Already clipped. A mirthless smile twists my lips. No one cares. It’s about to be crushed anyway.

Even so, it’s probably my fastest manifest. Rage and fear speed it along. I tremble from both. Rage at Severin’s power. Fear for what I’m about to endure. The acrid taste of it laces every sip of breath.

If I wasn’t grasped by both arms, I probably would have lost my balance and fallen off the block.

Terror arcs through me in waves of flashing heat. I can only feel this. Live this now. Endure . . .

Someone arrives bearing the cutters, and then this is all I can see. The glint of the blades inching toward me. They look like large hedge clippers. They look painful.

The crowd is a deafening roar now, a mix of cheering encouragement and sharp protest. At least I think I hear a few shouts of protest. I want to think not everyone agrees I deserve such a punishment. Not everyone hungers for my blood.

My sister’s screams and curses burn my ears, and I know she’s there, tormented at what’s happening.

What’s about to happen.

I can’t help it. I call for her even though I know she can’t help me.

No one can.

She screams my name again and again. Tears stream down my cheeks, hissing on my overheated flesh.

Then, in the mad frenzy, I see Cassian’s face, his deep eyes, stark and alive on me. He’s on the dais now, where he shouldn’t be, shoving his way through the elders to reach me.

I remember then. Hear his deep voice from weeks ago promising to protect me. Or at least try. Does he think he can now? It’s too late.

Only he doesn’t dive for me. He presses close to his father, seizing his arm through his voluminous robe and speaking furiously, his lips moving fast, the color high in his olive-hued cheeks as he motions wildly to me.

I can’t hear his words over the din, but I see that Severin is listening . . . and then he looks at me again, his gaze thoughtful, considering.

I cry out as I’m forced to turn around and present my back to the pride. My gaze darts wildly, seeing nothing but the front double doors of the meeting hall before me.

This is it.

Hands grasp my wings, stretch the wiry-thin membrane uncomfortably taut. I gasp at how much this hurts my injured wing.

I compress my lips and steam escapes my nostrils. Fingers poke and prod, searching for the best place to cut. Bile surges in my throat. I feel violated, ravaged, from the rough groping.

Instinctively, fire surges to the back of my throat, ready to defend, to protect myself. I bite my lip until the taste of blood flows over my teeth. Coppery sweet, it mingles with the flavor of char and ash.

A hard hand shoves my head down until my chin touches my chest. The pose forces my back into a high curve. My wings stretch tall above me, on display, the fiery gossamer sheets poised for the perfect cut.

I hiss, tremble violently as the first cold tip of steel touches one of the wiry tendons latticing my right wing.

The hands on my arms grip harder, squeeze until I can’t feel the blood in my biceps. . . .