"Whatever!" I yelled, though the word felt like it was instantly snatched out of my mouth by a sudden, violent vacuum.
The warmth of the bakery, the smell of Tybalt's fresh cinnamon rolls, and the soft fur of Buck leaning against my leg vanished in a heartbeat. The Saturday morning light turned into a blinding, clinical white that scorched the back of my retinas. For a second, I felt that familiar, sickening sensation of falling, like my stomach was trying to exit through my throat, and then—nothing. Just silence. Absolute, heavy silence.
I hit a floor. It wasn't wood. It wasn't the marble of the palace or the silver sand of the void. It felt like cold, smooth plastic.
I groaned, rolling onto my side and squinting against the glare. "Tybalt? Red? Kaelen?"
