Celaena threw more logs onto the fire, quickly changed into her nightgown, and slid into bed, clutching her makeshift knife. The amulet lay where she had left it. It will protect you . . .
Celaena glanced at the door again. No screams, no howls—nothing to indicate what had just happened. Still . . .
Celaena cursed herself for it, but hastily attached the chain around her neck. It was light and warm. Pulling the covers up to her chin, she squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for sleep to come, or for a clawed hand to snatch at her, to decapitate her. If it hadn’t been a dream—if it hadn’t just been some hallucination . . .
Celaena clutched the necklace. Become the King’s Champion—she could do that. She was going to do that, anyway. But what were Elena’s motives? Erilea needed the King’s Champ
