She gave no answer.
“Annabella, it’s me, Custo.” He grasped her shoulders, gave a little shake. There was no time. She had to work her magic and get them back. The wolf could return any moment.
“Annabella, I know you’re in there,” he said. “Come on out, love. Fight. I need you.”
She didn’t seem to hear a word, lost in some fragile, internal dream world.
His hands went to her face, thumbs stroking her cheeks, so cold. He brought her to him, kissed her passive lips with everything he had. Poured his hope, love, and guts into her. No response.
“Bella, I love you. I need you here. Please.” He was tempted to slap her, but something told him she might break, rather than come to her senses.
“Sweetheart, remember Jack’s place? Chinese food? I told you that you are mine.”
Her eyes twitched slightly.
“That’s right. Come back to me, honey,” he said, voice gritty. A universe of feeling filled his chest to near bursting. “Come back and make an honest man of me.”
Just that faraway look again. So much for professing undying love. Damn it.
Okay, think. He brought their foreheads together and exhaled roughly.
—he’scoming, he’scoming, he’scoming—
Custo’s voice turned stern. He shook her, harder. “Wake up, Annabella. You can control this. It’s your gift. Your talent to draw from Shadow. Use it to get us home. Get us home, Annabella. Fight for life. Don’t you want to dance?”
At that her head turned softly.
“That’s right, dance,” Custo said.
“I danced with Albrecht, but he broke my heart, and I died.”
Custo recognized the story of Giselle. Now he understood: she was lost in the ballet, a refuge and a trap. His mind raced to recall the details. Giselle rose from the grave as a wili, a spirit. When Albrecht came to mourn her, the queen of the wilis commanded that he dance until he died. Giselle chose to dance with him, to see him through the night to the dawn of day.
Oh, that cunning wolf.
—he’scoming, he’scoming, he’scoming—
The Shadowlands were perpetual night, perpetual darkness. A night that lasts forever. And Annabella was trapped in it.
Very clever.
But Custo could do the wolf one better: he knew the difference between Giselle, the character in a ballet, and Annabella, the storyteller, the magic-maker.
“You’ve already danced with Albrecht, Annabella,” Custo said. “What happens next?”
No wonder the fae woman was so keen on getting rid of her. Annabella’s power was beyond formidable. It was frightening.
“What happens next, Annabella? Tell the story.”
—he’scoming, he’scoming, he’scoming—
Annabella lifted her head, listening as morning bells jangled loudly through the forever night-darkened trees.
—he’scoming, he’scoming, he’scoming—
Custo didn’t bother to look over his shoulder, his body electric with hope, even as he heard the wolf’s rapid footfalls pounding across the clearing.
“That’s right, honey,” he said, eyes tearing with fierce pride. “Bella, tell the story: raise the sun.”
Chapter Twenty
THE ground rumbled beneath Annabella’s feet, bells clanging loudly in her mind. She held on to the sound with everything she was, lashed her heart to the story, and heaved, lifting the blazing orb of the sun to the horizon line.
Tell the story. Raise the sun.
Pink washed the sky, drowning out the diamond glow of the stars. A sudden, monstrous gale blew through the Shadow forest, denuding the trees of their leaves, the trunks rising like skeletons from the trembling ground in the wan glow of dawn. A keening wail lifted all around, the dark inhabitants quailing under the revelation of light.
Annabella clung to Custo’s solid shoulders to borrow his strength, sought his eyes for courage, and coaxed the hot sphere higher. Morning in the Shadowlands. Salvation.
Like a blotch marring the burgeoning blue, the wolf leaped behind Custo. The wolf’s rage crackled in the air and raised the fine hairs on Annabella’s skin.
The ground lurched, lost its solidity, churning under their feet. The Shadowlands, expelling them.
—doesn’t belong, doesn’t belong, doesn’t belong—
The three fell back to Earth, to Segue, and the confines of the open storage room in an airborne brawl, Custo gripping the wolf’s jaws.
The concrete was brutal, crushing, but Annabella rolled immediately to her feet—she could handle a little pain—and threw herself on the huge bristle of black grappling with Custo.
She wrapped an arm around the beast’s neck and used all her muscle to force the jaws away from Custo’s throat. Riding the wolf’s hump, she grabbed a fistful of coarse hair and yanked it back. The wolf smelled like a dog, dark and beasty and a little bit foul.
“Run, Annabella,” Custo ground out, red-faced, shaking with effort to restrain the crazed wolf.