Tornado of Nightmares (Book 2)

eight

☾ Ember ☾

I'M DYING TO KILL SOMETHING.

To put my foot through these stupid mirrors. Preferably the one in front of me. It's driving me crazy; I want to be gone. I want out of this hellhole.

More than anything.

I'm incredibly lonely. Gatsby and I are no longer on speaking terms. He hasn't reached out to me, and I haven't reached out to him. He's not stupid enough to talk first. He knows I need to initiate it. But gods know I can't do that. I don't "makeup" with people, especially people chilling in my head, who are put there by my so-called father.

Talking to people has never been my forte. That was Faune, if I was being a brat and too scared to apologize to someone—she'd go over and smile, tell them I wanted to say sorry for being a she-devil, and reconcile. They'd always come over, no one could ever deny Faune's bright smile and charms.

I miss her face.

I run an agitated hand through my curls.

I can't remember the last time I slept. I slept with Gatsby—so he could watch over me, just in case. But now that he's not here . . . I haven't closed my eyes in— days? Weeks? Hours? I don't know. A clock would be very handy right about now.

I know what I have to do, I know what Luan has told me.

Face the three obstacles.

What a load of bull-crap.

Three obstacles that force me to go back and face things I don't want to face. Things no one should ever have to face twice.

Each time I go into the angry mirror it shoots me through a gods-awful memory. Some of Kam, some of Lokas dying, Royal's face the day . . . a lot of memories from Brallen. Too fucking much from Brallen. And each one different and worse than the one before that. I'm trapped in my very own personal hell.

I bet the devil is pissing himself laughing at me right now.

Wouldn't blame him, to be honest. I'd be laughing too at the pathetic piece of crap I am and have become.

I used to pride myself in being the most well known and feared assassin. Minette Gaeth's protégée. But not anymore. Because the most ruthless and arrogant assassin can't even face some bad dreams. Can't seem to find the will to fight any longer.

I've gone up to the mirrors but they're no use. None will let me in—and I know why.

The bastards want me to face the worst one first, they want me to break under it's wrath, so I won't have any strength left in me to fight again.

Anger curls in my stomach.

I will not break. I won't allow it. I won't.

If they think some shitty memories can collapse me in half— they can go to hell.

Springing up from my feet I approach the angry mirror. The mirror of me screaming and pounding my fist against the glass.

I can do this I can do this.

Sucking in my fear, I place one foot in front of the other and push through the glass.

It swallows me whole.

Amazing!

♢♢♢

I plunged my dagger into the demon's throat. Black ichor splattered across my face and neck. I really tried my hardest not to gag or recoil from the possessed man. Why did it always have to smell so horrid? Surely there were . . . nice smelling demons? I didn't know, but I hated trudging back to HQ and handing my filthy-smelling clothing to Claire. Bless her soul.