REAPING INNOCENCE ◦ STILINSKI [3]

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xv. A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME

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THE TRANSITION INTO her subconscious was so smooth and gradual that she scarcely noticed it. But she knew, somehow, that she was seeing something that wasn't actually happening.  It was as if a little part of her was standing aside and watching the events unfold like a play.

She was sitting in a long hallway, which was covered with mirrors on one side and windows on the other. She was waiting for something. Then she saw a flicker of movement, and Malakai was standing outside the window. His face was pale and his eyes were hurt and angry. She went over to the window, but she couldn't hear what he was saying because of the glass. In one hand, he was holding a tattered bow, and he kept gesturing to it and asking her something. Then he dropped the bow and turned away.

"Malakai, don't go! Don't leave me!" she cried. Her fingers flattened whitely on the glass. Then she noticed that there was a latch on one side of the window and she opened it, calling to him. But he had disappeared and outside she saw only swirling white mist.

Disconsolately, she turned away from the window and began walking down the hall. Her own image glimmered in mirror after mirror as she went by them. Then something about one of the reflections caught her eyes. The eyes were her eyes, but there was a new look to them, a predatory, sly look. Raeven's eyes had looked that way whenever she would feed. And there was something disturbing and hungry about them.

As she watched, standing still, the image suddenly whirled around and around, as if dancing. Horror swept over Carter. She began to run down the hall, but now all the reflections had a life of their own, dancing, beckoning to her, laughing at her. Just when she thought her heart and lungs would burst with terror, she reached the end of the corridor and flung open a door.

She was standing in a large room. At the far end of the room, two huge doors swung inward. A figure appeared between them. It walked toward her, and she saw that it was a young man.

Stiles! She started toward him eagerly, feeling the weight of her dress swing from the waist. But when she got closer she stopped, drawing in a sharp breath. It was Scott.

He kept on walking toward her, confident, casual. He was smiling, a smile of challenge. Reaching her, he put one hand over his heart and bowed. Then he held out the hand to her as if daring her to take it. But instead of taking his hand, she turned away, the silk of her dress turning after her. She moved lightly toward one of the statues along the wall, not glancing back to see if he was following her. She knew he would. She pretended to be interested in the statue, moving away again just as he reached her, biting her lip to hold in the laughter. She felt wonderful right now, so alive, so beautiful. Dangerous? Of course, this game was dangerous. But she had always enjoyed danger.

The next time he drew near her, she glanced at him teasingly and turned. He reached out, but caught only the jeweled chain at her waist. He let go quickly, and, looking back, she saw that the pronged setting on one of the gems had cut him.

The drop of blood on his finger was just the color of her dress. His eyes flashed at her sideways, and his lips curved. At the sight of the liquid her throat tightened—something deep in the pit of her stomach was tugging at her insides. She wanted the blood to touch her lips, consume her tastebuds. Boldly, she took his hand and held it a moment. And just before it reached her lips, his smile faded. His dark eyes were not amused any longer, but fierce and heated. She looked up at him soberly, unafraid. And then for the first time she felt as if she were dreaming; she felt slightly dizzy and very languid and weak.