“Shit.”
As she got off the chair, she thought maybe she was just losing her mind, all fried on desperation and the terror that came with knowing your murderer wasn’t going to stay away forever. And as she stared at the door again, the wave of emotion that came over her was totally not helpful: No longer scared for her life and focused on getting free, she was beyond sad. Near to the point of tears.
Mae breathed in deep—
At first, the scent did not make sense. And then she was convinced she’d imagined it because more than anything, it had been what she had prayed for.
“Sahvage!” she yelled. “I’m here! Sahvage!”
Through the connection of her having fed him, she could sense him clear as if he were standing in front of her. He was here. He somehow had found her.
Throwing the bag to the floor, she bolted across the space, shoving racks aside. Curling up fists, she pounded on the door.
“I’m here! I’m here! Help!”
As she struck the steel panel over and over again, something in the back of her mind registered—and it took some further yelling to figure out what it was. Abruptly, she stopped striking the steel, stopped hollering. Calming herself down, Mae knocked lightly.
Knocked more loudly.
Pounded again.
There was no sound.
As she made contact with the door, there was no reverberation back to her, nothing entering her ears . . . nothing that would register to anybody else, either.
Trying not to panic, she knocked on the white-painted Sheetrock by the jamb.
Nothing, either.
And even though there was smoke curling around the racks of clothes, and a stench in her nostrils, she feared, for no reason that made any logic, that no one else could smell any of it.
That Sahvage couldn’t scent it.
Mae put her hands to her mouth and wheeled around to the racks and displays. This was an illusion, she realized. This whole . . . all of the clothes and the accessories, the furniture and the kitchen, that tub over there . . . it all didn’t exist in the normal sense.
Which meant she didn’t exist in the normal sense.
“Sahvage,” she whispered. “Help me . . .”
How the hell was she going to breach the divide that separated wherever she was from where everyone else existed . . .
. . . before the demon returned?
Oh, dearest Virgin Scribe, if the brunette came back, Sahvage was now in danger, too.
Full-blown panic jammed up her brain, and she paced back and forth. Then an idea came to her.
Mae broke into a scramble, and as she skidded into the kitchen area, she started ripping open cabinets.
White vinegar. Thank God. Salt—yes. Lemons . . . lemons . . .
Mae tried the refrigerator. “Come on, there has to be—”
No lemons, but there was a honey-lemon vinaigrette. Turning the bottle around, she shook her head. The third ingredient was lemon. It was going to have to do.
“Candles . . .”
She opened drawers. Found pink, yellow, and blue birthday candles in one.
“Sterling silver. I need . . .”
Over on the display table, where the purses were, she nailed that one by pouring out a shiny dish that held a dozen pairs of earrings.
“Knife.”
She dumped the growing pile by the door. Went back to a wooden block full of Henckels sitting on the counter by the stove. Snagged the flaming purse on the way back to her supplies.
Sitting down cross-legged, she tried to remember what Tallah had told her. What the measurements were, how much of the one and the other of ingredients. Oh, and as for the lemon-delivery system of that salad dressing? Who knew how to weigh that.
Your intention matters.
As she heard Tallah’s voice in her head, she inspected what she’d put into the silver basin—as if she was going to know what was right or wrong? Then she popped the top on the birthday candles and took out a blue one. ’Cuz true blue, and all that.
What the hell was she doing? It wasn’t like this had worked with the Book.
“Stop it,” she commanded. “Intentions . . .”
Bracing herself, she bit her lip—and cut her palm, right over the lifeline. The blood came out fast, dropping all over the place as she picked up the candle and tilted it to the still-burning purse.
The flame caught quick.
Even though Mae’s heart was racing and she didn’t really think this was going to work, she put her dripping wound and the burning candle over the dish. Then she closed her eyes and tried to calm her mind. Picturing Sahvage walking through the door, she—
No. If this was some kind of fucked-up, other existential plane, she didn’t want to get them both trapped here.
She pictured Sahvage straddling the two planes. One foot in the realness, one foot in wherever she was.
With total concentration, Mae recalled every single thing about the fighter. She pictured his cropped hair. His beautiful, harsh face. His obsidian eyes. His lips . . .