Page 62 of The Light Within

He’d accidentally grabbed on to it, because now Julien was grinning at him.

“Mince pie crumbs,” mumbled Cinn, patting it down.

Julien pulled Cinn’s legs onto his lap, his hands drifting at once to the three stitches installed just under Cinn’s knee, gliding his fingers over them gently.

Cinn shot him a glare; he looked like he was about to repeat the same bullshit he’d spewed last night, after he’d kissed each of his wounds in turn. Julien had a similar number of stitches himself, but he wouldn’t shut up about how awful he felt, and how next time Cinn wasn’t going within ten miles of the danger. Cinn told him to shut the fuck up, considering Cinn had been way more useful on the bridge than Julien, anyway.

Julien grabbed his face, turning it into the light. “Just checking your eyes are still normal. They were so black. You looked terrifying. Like a demon.”

“Ithink it was a one-time thing,” Cinn muttered. His thoughts churned as he replayed the events at Westminster for the umpteenth time.

When he’d lost control of his own body, it had been horrific in a surreal, distant way. Like being trapped in a dream, aware but powerless to change anything, as his own limbs moved without him.

Then, Béatrice had climbed inside his shadow—or whatever had happened—and he’d felt an unsettling mix of exhilaration and unease. The sensation of wielding the shadow like an extra limb felt like a searing current running through his veins, both electrifying and unnervingly invasive. Even once it had vanished, a disquieting sense remained—that this…shadowwas now a part of him in ways he couldn’t yet grasp. It felt like a heavy, intrusive guest in his mind, its dark tendrils still clinging to his consciousness.

Something whacked him on the nose—a bauble from the overdressed Christmas tree. “Why are you so glum?” asked Elliot. “Are you still upset they wouldn’t even let you cook the potatoes?”

“It’s just a bit weird today,” said Cinn. “Like yesterday didn’t happen. Like those people didn’t die. The world has just gone on.”

The world would go on. Until it didn’t, according to the umbraphage.

Darcy came over to wrap her arms around Cinn. He tensed for a fraction of a moment, then relaxed into her.

“You’re allowed to forget about that today. It’ll still all be there tomorrow. Presents?” Darcy said brightly, then scampered over to the tree like an excited puppy, sorting gifts into piles. “Come on then,” she said, patting the floor.

Cinn fetched his gifts from the bedroom. He’d spent a fair bit of time yesterday patching up the paper after Béatrice’s handiwork had destroyed the perfectly adequate wrapping he’d been proud of. When he returned, the others were sitting around the tree, and Darcy had arranged gifts in a pile for him.

It wasn’t like Cinn hadn’t ever got a Christmas present before. He had a treasured refillable silver lighter from Tyler somewhere in the bottom of his rucksack, his initials engraved on it. And Bradley usually bought him his favourite chocolate, a Cadbury’s Spira.

But this pile of gifts, small in size, was monumental in significance. He fought with a lump in his throat, mumbling his thanks, eyes downcast.

For some reason, the protocol seemed to be watching each other open the gifts in a round robin, rather than being normal and everyone quickly opening them all at once.

Darcy suppressed a laugh when she held up her present from Cinn, a lopsidedly wrapped gift adorned with mismatched tape and crooked folds. She unwrapped it in milliseconds, revealing a squashed, battered box.

“Tea!”

She was at least pretending to be enthusiastic, which was kind. As usual, Cinn had been on a very limited budget.

“Vanilla Rooibos. The guy said it was kinda similar to chai.”

She beamed at him, and Cinn shuffled on the floor, averting his gaze. He wasn’t sure he could stand all this for long. Perhaps he could escape to the kitchen and outright insist he did the potatoes. It would only be polite.

Thankfully, Elliot disembowelled his presents at the speed of light, turning the floor into a sea of shiny foil.

Out of the corner of his eye, Cinn’s gaze caught on something in the dark shadow of the Christmas tree. A slinky, sinewy tail, flicking around the crimson tree stand. Was this all entertaining Béatrice? She could come out and apologise for Cinn’s wrapping, if she liked.

“Your turn!”

Three pairs of expectant eyes turned to Cinn.

Inwardly sighing, he began.

Darcy’s parcel contained two tiny jars—one containing the delicate pyramid-shaped crystals of Maldon sea salt, and one containing saffron threads. She informed him he also had some kitchen knives waiting back at home that wouldn’t have made it through the airport security.

Elliot gave him a guilty smirk as Cinn unwrapped his rectangular present to findDecadent Delights: The Ultimate Dessert Collection for the Pro-Baker, of which he’d gone through and sticky tabbed his favourites.So kind.

Cinn groaned, pressing the book to his forehead. “For the last time, I’m a chef, not a baker.” Then he flashed a warm smile at Elliot to show his appreciation.

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