Page 47 of The Witch's Heart
His words echo Dr. Livingstone’s, but the two men feel nothing alike, even if they are both vampires.
I have a million questions about the history and the art here, along with how in the hell he managed to get a hold of what should be a historical site or national monument to use as a prison. Or why, out of all the people in the world, he chose me as his newest thing to possess. But my questions are silenced when I catch sight of what lies in the center of the room.
Or, whom.
Everything else is forgotten, and I rush forward with a strangled cry that echoes harshly.
Part of me wonders if this is some awful trick. A grand finale to the mind games and hallucinations that have plagued me since the moment I entered this terrible prison. But when I reach her, she is solid. Physical, though her body is hooked to various machines that beep in steady rhythm that I realize with a sob is her heartbeat. I grab her face in my hands, shaking her, but her eyes remain closed. Unresponsive. Disbelief gives way to panic as I try to wake her to no avail. Whatever this is, she is not a spirit sent to torture me. Not a trick of the light or a hallucination.
She is my sister.
Estelle.
And she is alive.
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“What have you done to her?” I demand, choking on my words as a sob lodges in my throat.
“She is ill,” Cutter says. It’s not an answer, but I’m too lost in my own emotional storm to argue.
Estelle’s skin is cold. Colder than even my own in this drafty, dank place.
With a silent pleading prayer, I call to whatever entity aided me before. Inside me, something awakens. Silvery threads glow underneath my skin and I will them to flow through me and into my sister. To heal her.
The glowing energy—magic, if it can all be believed—slides underneath my skin, heating me from the inside. I hold my breath, praying it’s enough. That, just like with Declan, it will bring her back to herself. But her body remains motionless.
On her other side, a figure appears.
I look up.
“Estelle,” I breathe and the silvery strands surge stronger than ever.
But Estelle’s form is as ethereal as ever, and I fight off panic. The machines continue to beep a steady rhythm. Her heartbeat, I remind myself. Still alive. Still here.
“How do I help you?” I ask her.
Her face contorts with pain and she grips at her cheeks, her fingers clawing the skin there until red welts appear.
“Celeste! Please stop,” her ghostly form begs, and I realize whatever I’m doing is hurting her.
“I have magic. It can heal you,” I say, but she screams, drowning out my words, doubling over and clutching her face in agony.
I yank my hands away, breathing heavy as her ghostly form vanishes. I look down at her physical body. Eyes closed. Skin pale. She looks deceivingly serene.
Straightening, I turn to Cutter, rage boiling in my veins.
“She is immune to a witch’s healing touch.”
“You knew this would hurt her?” I demand.
“I’d hoped your attempts would be different.”
“All this time . . . she’s been your prisoner.” I take a step closer, my rage heating me from the inside. “You won’t get away with this,” I hiss.
“You misunderstand, Celeste. Your sister is unwell. I—”
“You did this to her,” I accuse.
