Page 88 of The Witch's Heart
My power lashes out, and I pour everything I can into it.
A loud pop leaves my ears ringing and flames erupt.
An explosion.
I shut my eyes, turning away from the searing heat as the room becomes completely engulfed in fire.
My mouth opens in a scream.
I have failed.
And now we’ll all burn for my mistake.
But the flames never reach me.
Voices are drowned out by a wind that pulls on my hair. The restraints fall away and Logan’s hand tightens in mine, pulling me to my feet.
“You did it, Celeste.” His voice is full of wonder. And relief. “You—”
Logan’s hand releases mine and the sound of his voice suddenly fades to silence.
I stumble, rocked sideways by some great force.
And then there is darkness.
* * *
I jerk awake,startled by the sound of a door slamming.
For a moment, I don’t know where I am. I look around, puzzled by this out of body feeling, like I’m forgetting something—or someone—very important.
A great sadness clouds my mind, and I shake my head, wiping a trace of drool from my lips.
I’m sitting at my desk facing a large window overlooking the ocean. My head had been resting on an open copy ofItalian Painters: Critical Studies of their Worksby G. Morelli. I rub away the tension in my neck and frown, my gaze snagging on the jeans I’m wearing. The knees are stylishly ripped. My shirt features a poop emoji on it with the word “happens” written below. Shit happens, indeed. I must have fallen asleep studying and had quite the dream. I still feel like I’m tripping.
I glance at my cell phone and notice several missed calls. “Merde,” I say to myself, then raise my eyebrows in surprise. I haven’t casually spoken in French since my semester abroad a few years ago. How odd.
“There you are,” a voice from behind me says.
I turn and smile at the man who just entered my office. He stands in the frame of the French doors wearing a tailored tuxedo, his sandy blonde hair tussled in that casual sexy way that only works for certain men.
I still feel stuck… elsewhere, but I try to clear my head and focus on the present as I stand. “Hey. Sorry. I took an unexpected nap and didn’t hear my phone.”
I walk into his open arms, and he hugs me briefly, then holds me at arms distance. “You’re not ready,” he says, shaking his head, though there’s a hint of a grin on his lips. “And why do you still have that shirt? You know I can’t stand it. It’s crass and unbecoming of my future bride.”
I shrug, pulling away. “It’s my good luck charm for studying. And you’re right, I lost track of time, but it won’t take me long to dress.”
We have a gala to attend tonight, one I’m actually excited for. It’s at The Getty Center—a place I spend a lot of time for my grad work in Art Restoration.
Even as I think these thoughts, I feel a kind of conflict I can’t explain. Like I’m in the wrong place, with the wrong person. Like I’m not safe.
I shiver despite the warmth of the room as my fiancé’s attention is pulled to the desk where I’d just been sitting. I follow his gaze, first noticing the picture of the two of us hanging on the wall. We look happy. In love.
But then crimson blood begins dripping down the portrait, and I cover my mouth before I scream. I blink and the blood disappears.
What the hell?
I rub my eyes, confused by what just happened. My pulse quickens, and I look for something to distract myself, my gaze landing on the thick stack of cream parchment on the corner of my desk. I rush over, picking one up. “Our wedding invitations came,” I say, trying to keep the anxiety out of my voice. “What do you think?”
