“Three, two…” I heard Mike call.

“Ah! No more.” I dropped to my knees, the electricity ceasing, leaving my fingertips icy cool.

“You okay?” Mike said. My eyes stayed shut, but I felt him nearby, felt him kick the cage softly, mockingly.

“It’s really bad this time, Mike.” I winced, pushing my hands firmly against both sides of my head.

“You’ll be right.”

“Doesn't feel like it.”

The cage door came open and Falcon lifted me to my feet. “You okay?”

I nodded, stumbling a little.

My butt found the bench at the side of the room, and Falcon squatted down in front of me, his hand just between his legs, a smile on his face. “You lasted ten minutes.”

I nodded. “I know. It felt like forty.”

He gently pulled my hand away from my head and studied my brow, running a fingertip over where it pulsed the worst. “You might need blood. Your vein is showing.”

“Erg!” I pressed it back into my head. “It feels like it’s going to split open.”

“Hey, good job, Ar.” Mike tapped my toe with his heavy boot. “You’re getting stronger.”

I looked up, my face all pinched. “I know. But it’s hurting more than it did before.”

He just smiled, writing something down on his iPad. “Welcome to getting fit. Remember I could hardly walk for days after seeing my personal trainer?”

“Yeah, but—” I drew a tight breath through my teeth. “This is different.”

“No, it’s not, baby. You just need to grow up.”

Falcon frowned, his eyes thoughtful. “I dunno, Chief,” he said, half turning to look at Mike. “I think she might need to lay down for a bit.”

“Nope. She needs to keep exercising it.” He put his iPad down and reached a hand out for mine. “Come on. One more, then we’ll call it quits for the day.”

I looked at his hand, then Falcon, and covered my face, breaking to tears. “I can't, Mike. Please. Please don't make me do it.”

“Be strong, Ara,” he said with flat sympathy. “Just one more. Come on, then I’ll take you up and run you a nice warm bath.”

My hands tightened against my forehead. I felt red, like my whole face would be blazing, coloured with my agony, as if the electricity was still lashing my fingers, sending violent surges into my brain; I held my breath, moaning in the back of my throat as the pain intensified, travelling down my neck, into my spine.

“Ara?” Mike squatted beside me. “Baby? Why are you making that noise?”

“It hurts!” I screamed, slipping off the bench. “Make it stop, Mike. Make it stop!”

A hand came upon my ribs as I curled into a ball, tucking my knees as close to my chin as they’d go. “What happened?” Arthur said.

“I don't know.” Mike knelt beside me, cupping a warm, strong hand over the two I had fused to my skull. “She just fell to the floor.”

Arthur lifted my chin and looked into my eye, forcing it open with his thumb. “Dear God, look at her pupils.”

Mike leaned in and his eyes went wide, but I didn't care what they looked like. The white shock of pain locked me down, trapping me in a world where absolutely nothing mattered.

“What are you doing?” Mike grabbed Arthur’s arm as he slipped them under me.

“I have some herbs that will help.”

“Help? How? Tell me what it is before I let you touch her.”

“Passion Flower.” Arthur rolled back on his heels, leaving me on the ground. “It’s used in humans for conditions of anxiety and tension. In vampires, it can help bridge the communications between electrodes in the brain.”

“I don't like it. No!” Mike shook his head, scooping my arm over his neck. “I’ll just—”

“Ah!” A jolt of heat shot from my head, through my arm and stabbed my shoulder. “Arthur! Please? Don't listen to him—just help me.”

Arthur looked at Mike, and Mike stepped away with a sigh. “Fine. Just do it.”

“It’s all right, princess.” He bundled me in his arms, warm and safe, and kissed my head. “I’ll see you well in no time.”

“Wait.” Mike blocked our path. “Anything happens to her, I’ll have you drawn and quartered.”

Arthur bowed his head and pushed past.

“And have her back before the Council meeting at four.”

Arthur stopped again, his whole body tensing, kind of trembling. “To hell with your Council meeting, Michael. The girl needs rest.”

I closed my eyes and snuggled into Arthur’s neck, seeing Mike drop his finger of caution before I buried my face.

As the fresh air of the countryside washed across my limbs, the screeching grate of claws in my head became knives—scratching, pulsing. White spots filled my eyes as they rolled back in my head.

“Amara? Stay with me,” Arthur said, panic lucid in his tone.

“I just want David, Arthur. I miss him so much.”

“I know, my dear. I know.”

The curtains were open, the sun brightening everything, but I was lost behind the pained circle of shadow shrouding my vision. “Arthur?” I gripped my head, rolling onto my side in his bed. “Why is it so much worse this time?”

“I don't know, my dear.” I heard the scratch of his curtains along the railing and felt the darkness close me in. “I’ll be back in a second. I'm just getting my kit.”

I didn’t even bother to answer, not even a nod. Arthur’s voice dissolved under the ringing in my ears, and I flinched when he landed beside me again, a few glass bottles clanking together.

He rolled me onto my back and laid my arms neatly by my sides, then lifted my head and wiped a wet, potent-smelling slime under my neck.

“What is that?” I asked.

“It’ll make you relax.”

“It stinks,” I said, but the deep breath I took made my heart slow, and a warm calm inched down my throat, my chest and along my arms—not reaching my curled toes. “Will it make me sleepy?”

“No,” he said from right above my face, his eyes concentrating on my forehead, his thumb smoothing dots of a cinnamon-scented powder across my hairline.

“My head feels tight now,” I noted, watching him sit back and crush something in his stone bowl.

“Tight is good.” He smiled and kept mashing. “Tight is better than sore.”

I nodded and closed my eyes, opening them again to his fingers unbuttoning my shirt. “What are you doing?”

“My darling girl.” He pushed my hands back down. “I'm not going to touch you. I just need to put this across the top of your chest.”

“What is it?” I looked at the black slime on his fingertip.

“It’s a Ginkgo extract; you breathe the vapour—it helps oxygen flow through your blood.”

“Why do I need more oxygen?”

“So you don't pass out.” He opened my shirt, stretching the collar apart enough to reveal my red bra, and smoothed a firm, cold hand over my sternum and collarbones—nowhere near my breasts. Thank God. “There. See?” He closed my shirt. “All done.”

“Arthur?” I whispered, feeling a loose, spinning sensation in my head.

“Shh. Rest now, my dear.” He ran his fingertips over my eyes, making them close.

“I can't take much more,” I said sleepily.

“Of what, my dear?”

“Of life,” I whispered as my mind started to drift. “I need him to come back. I can’t go on much longer without him.”

He shifted my body and laid under me, his widespread fingers closing over the side of my face as he held me tight, his chest dropping as he exhaled. “Please don't say that, Amara. It hurts me deeply to think you would rather live for someone else, or be dead—”

“It’s not that simple,” I murmured, my words flaking away.

“It is, my sweet, young girl. It is.” He stroked my head. “And it’s very sad.”

I shut my eyes, opening them again to the morning light in my own bedroom—the headache gone, Arthur gone, my shirt buttoned back into place and the blankets pulled all the way up to my chin. Nowhere, in any of my thoughts, could I find the memory of how I got here.

I laid back and smiled, thinking, Thanks, Arthur.

“Ara.” Mike stopped me by the library door.

“Hey, what’re you doing in this wing of the manor,” I said playfully.

“Just wanted to let you know that we moved yesterday’s council meeting to tomorrow—so you can be there.”

“Oh, joy—er, I mean, thanks.” I flashed a fake smile.

“No worries,” he said, then ran off in the direction he’d come from. And that was that. Quick flashes of my old BFF were all I seemed to get these days.

Brushing off that pitiful gut wrench of loneliness, I pushed the heavy library door open; it made a fuss about being moved, and when I stepped into the nook of the little third floor balcony and turned around, I saw why. It was no door at all, but a passage concealed in a bookcase. As it closed, the exit disappeared, and I stood staring at it for a second, wondering how I’d get back out again.

“Open sesame.” I waved my hands around; the door stayed hidden. “Abracadabra?” My lips twisted, moving from side to side. I tried knocking, even tugging on the shelf, but it didn't open. “Looks like a one-way access.”

I turned on my heel then and leaned over the railing of the balcony, spotting another door down on the second floor underneath me, and smiled with relief. Hopefully that one opened without any mumbo-jumbo.

The whole room had a lonely kind of feel to it, as if the books on the shelves, covering the entire room, had not been opened and read in centuries. I felt lonely here, and I think even the books felt lonely. I took a quiet moment then to really appreciate the sheer height and magnificence of floor to roof books, divided by snaking platforms with winding staircases leading up. In my personal little nook, the landing fattened out a little, making room for a cosy armchair, a round rug and a small table to rest a coffee cup on. Perfect. This was my new favourite room.

All the books on the shelves in this dark little nook looked like old non-fiction reads, half of them behind locked glass screens. But since Morgaine said this was my own personal reading space, I’d have them all replaced with paranormal romance and classics.

I propped my hands on my hips, looking up then down, and all around; somewhere in these shelves there had to be a book on the Markings I inherited from my oath. Morgaine promised they’d all fade, but each time I checked my body in the mirror, one line kept staring back out at me. It hadn't bothered me until I woke this morning to realise it wasn't planning on going anywhere.

I fingered the spines along the shelves, reading the titles aloud to myself, and came upon an opening in the rail, the ground dropping for a windy staircase. It was sturdy, made of solid wood rather than metal, taking my weight easily as I headed down; I half expected it to rattle and tremble.

Downstairs, the room opened out to the massive windows overlooking the south side of the manor, and between them, a round rug sat guard in front of a huge fireplace, flanked by another armchair—a place I could envision Arthur sitting, with two eager-eyed boys looking up at him while he read stories, maybe even with Arietta beside him.

I smiled and wandered forward, touching the large oak tables, chairs and lamps as I passed, familiarising myself with every surface in the room. But it would take a lifetime to be that familiar with all these books. There was no way I’d ever find the time to read them all. And as I gazed over the locked cabinets and thick spines of century-old hardbacks, I realised there’d be no way to find a book about a topic I wasn’t sure anyone had even written about.

I scratched my ribcage, where the Mark remained, then headed out the second floor door. There was only one person I could think of who’d know where to find a book about my Markings.

“Arthur?” I wandered into his room, uninvited.

“Amara, how are you feeling this morning?”

“I'm okay,” I said, and nodded at the bowl on the table in front of him. “What's that for?”

He looked down, considering the contents carefully. “It’s to relieve extreme night terrors.”

“Night terrors? What, like, bad dreams?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” I pulled out a chair and sat down opposite him. “Well, who’s having night terrors?”

“A friend.”

“Anyone I know?”

He looked up from the bowl. “Is there something I can help you with, Amara?”

“Um.” My shoulders sunk. “It’s just…can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Morgaine said all my Markings would fade after I finished my coronation, but one didn't.”

“Oh.” Arthur placed the stone utensil he was mixing with into the bowl. “Where is it? May I see?”

I stood up, gathered the base of my top and lifted it up over my belly then my ribs, and turned slightly so Arthur could see the two lines of scripture just below my breast, like a poem sneaking its way toward my spine.

His eyes traced my curves, stopping on the tattoo. “And this is a remaining Mark—it’s not new, is it? You found this immediately after the coronation?” he asked, wandering over to kneel in front of me.

“Yeah, it was there when I got undressed that night.” I giggled a bit when he smoothed his hands up my ribs to push my top completely out of the way.