The warm amber glow of the sitting-room stretched long fingers across the carpet, turning every silk thread into molten copper.
Steam from Mikhailis's bath still drifted round his shoulders as he raked a towel through his damp hair—and then the light ripped open.
Vines burst from thin air. Green whips corkscrewed together, bark and blossom twining until an archway big enough for a carriage throbbed in the middle of the floor. Sweet sap and damp earth rushed in like a forest exhaling. Out stepped Serelith—silver-ink robes swirling, midnight hair fanning behind her, pale lips curved in a cat-caught-the-canary smirk.
"Yikes! Zombies!" She flopped onto the couch, legs folding beneath her as though the furniture were her personal throne. "Rodion, change the channel. I crave something with knives and messed-up psychology."
