Fear is coming. I can taste his presence, drawing nearer with each second.
On that dark day I’d only turned to Fear—he’d staggered back when my eyes met his—and told him to leave.
I wish I could long for the freedom of grief, the abandon of ecstasy, even the release of fury.
“What does your terror taste like, Elizabeth?” he asks breathlessly. “What would it feel like to see your eyes cloud over with my essence? To know you tremble at my will?”
Because a normal teenager would, I know.