Oh, this would not end well.
Etched among swirling tattoos of flowers and vines was a symbol she’d come to know all too well. A dagger stabbed a crescent moon, taking up a place of prominence on the rebel’s neck.
Fuck.
The curse seemed to be the only thing Brynleigh could think of. Her brain wasn’t functioning. She could barely breathe, let alone find words.
The Black Night was here early, and they’d gone off script. This was wrong. They were supposed to attack the Reunion, not take the men. No one was supposed to get hurt. Hostages had never been part of the plan.
Had they ever intended to attack tonight as Brynleigh had suggested?
She hadknownsomething was wrong when she saw the moon. Why hadn’t she done something earlier? Instead of calling Ryker, she’d been busy fighting with Valentina.
Brynleigh couldn’t help but feel that she’d brought this upon everyone here by suggesting that the rebels attack at the Reunion.
Was this her fault?
She didn’t scream or cry because what good would tears do in a situation like this?
Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods.
Bile rose in her throat. Her vision swam, and a tremor ran through her.
Her stomach hollowed, and her attention returned to the TV.
The room behind the masked man was dark, but she could makeout flickers of movements. Her vampiric hearing picked up muffled cries and grunts.
Each sound caused the emptiness within her to grow until it felt like she was falling into a pit of nothingness.
Internally, she screamed Ryker’s name. She wished they had a bond, a link, or even those gods-damned earrings that let him hear her. Anything would be better than this empty, silent, not-knowing state where she found herself.
That empty pit threatened to swallow Brynleigh whole. She needed to act, to move, but all her strength and bravado were so far away.
Someone cleared out the audience until only a few people remained.
Soldiers surrounded the women, herding them like sheep into a circle.
Nikhail made it on stage. He stood several feet from the others, furiously typing into his phone.
Sending for help, Brynleigh hoped.
“There now,” the man on the screen said after a few minutes had passed. “It seems like I have your attention. Very good. Now that you’re listening, I have some demands.”
“Demands?” One of the soldiers standing near the screen scoffed. “You don’t get to make demands. How do we know this isn’t a hoax? You could just be playing a game with us.”
Brynleigh didn’t think interrupting the rebel was wise, but she wasn’t a trained soldier.
“I get it. You want proof. That’s fair.” The rebel’s eyes gleamed. He raised a gloved hand and motioned to a person off-camera. “Hit the lights.”
A bulb flickered above the masked man, casting faint yellow rays over the space. It wasn’t bright, but it was enough.
Isvana help them all, but it was fucking enough.
Screams rose once again. Esme, who had seemed so fierce the first night of the Choosing, fainted.
Even Valentina cried out in alarm.
Brynleigh’s heart caught in her throat. Black spots filled her vision. Tighter, tighter, tighter, her lungs squeezed. Her fangs ached, and shadows slipped from her hands.