Page 72 of Malicent
Claws pierce into my skin. I scream, thrash, kick, and punch, and my lungs heave against its crushing strength.
Water seeps between its fingers, pouring into my mouth. I choke, and my breath vanishes. Fire ignites in my chest; it’s burning and screaming for air. My limbs grow heavy, and blackness creeps into the edges of my vision.
My flails are wild and desperate.
I cannot die here.
I jolt upright, lungs heaving. The darkness in my vision is replaced by moonlight trickling into my room. I clutch at my throat, relieved from the air filling my lungs, and my skin glistens with sweat so that the sheets cling to me.
My head whips around my room as I scramble back, pressing myself against the headboard, as it feels safest there.
I clutch my knees to my chest, trying to ground myself as I scan the space.
I’m in my room.
Was it a dream?
I rake trembling fingers through my hair, rocking slightly.
No. I’m losing it. The visions. The voice. They’re getting worse.
The rocking stops when I see the deep, sickly bruises blooming across my shoulders. In the center of each one is a clotted gash.
My hand flies to my throat and then my cheek. There are more wounds there.
This wasn’t a dream.
How did I get back here?
The thought shatters.
The slow creak of my door slices through the silence—a high-pitch whine that scrapes down my spine.
“Arcadia?” I whisper. “Nora?”
No answer.
The sconces that normally line the hallway outside are dead.
Only a void remains.
I try to steady my shaking hands, clasping them together but failing. My fingers turn to the ring on my thumb, spinning it over and over like a lifeline.
Focus.
I call on my magic, reaching inward. My eyes ignite in a faint, flickering blue. A soft glow spills into the room, enough to see but not enough to feel strong.
The familiar swell of power is gone. In its place, there is only a sputter. A fizzle.
Panic claws up my throat. I reach desperately for Ollie.
Nothing.
I tug harder on the bond but still find nothing. I’ve never failed to summon him—not once since I was five.
I’ve blocked him before, yes, to spare him my emotions when things got dark. But I haven’t blocked him now, and he’s not coming.
“Don’t worry,” it whispers. “I’ll take good care of your skin…until it tears.”
