“She’s my sister.” Again, the sound of an open wound, a heart so ravaged that even if it managed to heal it would be deeply scarred forever.
“I had a sister once, I think.” Layla had her own heart scars.
“Did you lose her?”
Layla didn’t remember, but that didn’t seem right. She recalled a pressure on her hand and a stubborn refusal to let go, like a tether to life. “I think she lost me.”
Light drew Layla’s gaze up, glittered in the trees, moved closer. So bright it made her eyes prick and tear. Someone was coming.
The odd creatures around them rose to attention, then scattered into the trees, leaving only their voices behind, Coming, coming, coming.
Angels? They’d work, too. Custo could get them out of here. Send word to Shadowman.
Saved.
But from the dark emerged a man of incredible beauty, each step an artful placement. His hair was rich brown, his fae eyes black. He was clothed in gossamer threads, but might as well have been naked for all they did to cover his glorious body. And with the soft smile he threw her, Layla knew that the other creatures might have been part of Faery, but this man was fae.
“Oh, shit,” Zoe said.
A young woman joined him. She had magnificent golden hair, a pair of scissors at her waist, and a waterfall of a skirt spilling around her. Gorgeous.
And another female, naked and sleek. She spoke in a fluid language that came out in a kind of running-free verse song.
Scissor Lady answered, while the man settled his gaze on Zoe.
Layla had no idea what the language was, but she understood everything that was said. They were divvying up the spoils. Scissor Lady wanted her.
Shit was right.
Layla hated name-dropping, but what the hell. “Shadowman is our friend. He’ll be here any minute.”
“Friend?” Scissor Lady asked. “Aren’t you his lover?”
Layla pushed her shoulders back. If Scissor Lady knew so much, she should know enough to keep away. “Yeah, that, too.”
“He’d have to find you first.” The fae man slowly stroked the line of his collarbone. Then his pectoral muscle. He feathered his fingers down his belly. Looked like he’d have a good enough time all on his own.
The naked woman clapped, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “A game! A game!”
Layla was less enthusiastic. They needed time. Eventually Shadowman would come for her. He’d built a gate to Hell; he wouldn’t let her lose her mind in Twilight. Right? Right.
“Anytime soon would be good,” Zoe said.
But what if he was angry? He had reason to be. She’d demanded the worst, and then forced his hand by coming after Zoe.
No. He wouldn’t abandon her like this.
The fae moved forward, barefoot and splendid, gods in their own world. A hunger in their eyes.
Layla needed time.
“Run!” she said. Every second counted. Where is he?
She turned and grabbed hold of Abigail’s other arm. Zoe was just as quick and they lunged into the trees together. Branches scraped Layla’s arms and roots stubbed her feet, but she pushed forward. Running, running.
Which way? Didn’t matter.
Just deeper into the trees. One minute, five minutes, as if time had any meaning there.
When Layla looked back, she’d opened no distance from the pursuing fae, who walked at leisure through the trees as if on a stroll.
The forest grew more dense and dark as they ran, an endless growth of magic.
“Shadowman!” she screamed, but the air swallowed the sound.
Her foot caught and she fell, flat bellied, barely breaking her fall with a palm skid to her elbows. She flipped over, ready to fight. Only stupid girls in bad horror movies fell when chased by monsters. At her feet, she found a long staff was the culprit. The straight length of dark wood was so incongruous with the trees that even with the approach of the fae, she spared a glance to see what it was.
At the staff’s end was a severe curved blade, glinting in the twilight. It could only belong to one person: Shadowman.
Layla gripped the shaft with both hands and heaved the blade upward. The scythe was sized for the beast in him, huge, wide, the moon-shaped metal an unwieldy weight for her frame.
“You’ve found his weapon,” Scissor Lady said, “but you lack the power to use it.”
If he would just come, the scythe would be waiting. All the pieces were here, ready. Where was he?
Layla swung the scythe in a clumsy arc, but the blade passed right through the fae as if they weren’t even there.
“Tickled,” said the naked woman, giggling. “Do it again.”
“We’re screwed,” Zoe said. “He’s not coming. He’s not coming!”
Or not coming quickly enough.
Then it was down to fists and feet and teeth. There was power in mortality; Layla just had to find it.