THE SENSATION of falling was not a new one for her, but the sensation of landing was.
In the Third Circle, one did not land; one simply shifted from one state of shadows to another. But this? This was a violent, jarring collision with a reality that felt far too solid.
When Seryn's eyes finally flickered open, the sky was a bruised shade of violet-gray, and the air smelled of wet asphalt, stale tobacco, and something curdled. Her first conscious thought was of the parking lot—the silver sigils, Grayson's savage roar, and the witch's cold, black eyes.
The second thought was a sharp, localized throb in her ribs.
Thump.
Something blunt and heavy nudged her shoulder.
Thump.
"Oi. You dead, or just remarkably committed to that nap, love?"
The voice was grating, a gravelly rasp that sounded like it had been dragged through a bed of charcoal.
Seryn tried to summon a blade of shadow to sever the tongue of whoever dared speak to her, but her internal well of darkness was... empty.
