Chapter Eleven

Hawthorne

The soft feeling of fingers threading through my hair rouses me from my sleep, and I'm startled to find myself in a different room than the one I've been sleeping in. Photos on the wall of this room depict various imps, demons and other beings I assume are Goetia. There are orange flowers in a vase upon a rich mahogany circular table, and the room is untidy with blankets on the floor and parchment scattered everywhere.

The bed I'm lying in is plush, piled with a multitude of silk pillows, and the topmost cover is a thick white fur. What strikes me the most is the heavy weight of an arm draped across my middle and the soft feel of leg fur against my toes. My mind flashes briefly to hours before, and the pain of my backside floods immediately to the forefront. Every synapse burns and throbs like a blaring hot poker. I recall the pain vividly, but I also recall the precum that coated the inside of Aamon's thigh.

"You're awake?" his sleep-laden voice rumbles against the curve of my neck.

A wave of hesitancy churns in my stomach. Part of me wants to stay silent, as if avoiding the truth can shield me from more pain.

"I am," I croak. My throat is raw from screaming and still dry from sleep.

Aamon pulls me closer. The roughness of his grip sends jolts of pain through my body. I groan, squeezing my eyes closed. "Please be careful."

It shocks me as Aamon threads his claws gently through my hair, whispering sweet, comforting words against my forehead, "Thorne, forgive me." He pauses to plant a soft kiss against my head. "I forgot how weak mortals can be."

Surely he must be jesting? I am aware of my frailty and lack of magic constantly. The tenderness of his voice and touch feels foreign to me, as if he is an entirely new person. "Aamon, can you not heal me?"

I know, if I had access to plants, soil and sun, I could heal myself in no time at all with a salve and spell. One of the Ars Goetia must know how to heal a broken body.

"I can't." He lets his hands fall limply from my body and rolls to his side. The bed dips, and he stands to his feet. Turning my head just enough to see him, I watch as he pads to the circular table in the center of the room.

"Thorne, do you recall what I told you before you lost consciousness?"

My mind reels, until pieces of his words begin to assemble in fragments. I bolt upright, momentarily ignoring the coursing pain spearing through me. "You lied to me!"

Aamon holds a single hand up to make me pause, though the look in his eyes is so solemn and filled with regret that my heart stammers.

"I did, but it was for your own good." He leans against the table, crossing his legs. "Thorne, you must break our bond and return to the mortal realm."

Has Aamon lost his mind? What have I been given since coming to the underworld but new bruises? I desire what I was promised, what I deserve after summoning him to me in my greenhouse.

"No, I refuse." As I clutch the fur cover, the scowl grows upon my face until I feel the rage simmering. "I was promised my grandmother's soul returned."

Aamon crosses his arms over his chest, though the way he appears now is diminutive and far more temperate than I've ever seen him. "Thorne, your grandmother's body has become worm food. There is nothing left for her soul to return to." His eyes turn somber. "I am sorry. I brought you here under false pretenses."

"Then why accept my summoning at all?" I am screaming now, my knuckles turning white from the vise grip I have on the fur. "Why?"

The heavy exhale Aamon heaves as his shoulders slump inward gives me no solace. I find myself more furious at his remorse. Still, I allow him time to reply even against my better judgment.

"I knew your grandmother quite well. She and I forged a bond prior to your adoption, but once you were in her life, she called upon me less and less. Eventually, all she required of me was to keep you safe." Aamon slowly paces around the table a few spins before crossing back toward me in the bed. He stands stock-still, hovering just close enough that I can smell his scent.

"Thorne, you never summoned me. I came to you regardless of your power, and quite honestly, it was a pitiful attempt, even with the surge of magic you sourced from the plants. Though I am bound to you regardless."

His clawed hand reaches out to touch mine, and I yank it back. "Must you constantly talk about how pitiful I am? It is horrible enough to realize that every day of my life in the mortal world. I do not need you to rub salt in the wounds."

Tears threaten to sting my eyes, but I bite the inside of my cheek. Shuffling across the bed until I am just on the other side of it, I force myself to stand on my trembling, aching feet. The rage swirls in my head, my guts churn, and I sense it—the pull of the flowers in the vase to my right. Their life force is thrumming beneath my skin, calling me to use them.

"I don't mean to make you feel so weak, but the truth is, Thorne, you are not strong enough, and there are more things here in Hell than just myself that mean to harm you," Aamon says sincerely.

The sound of his voice feels so far away, as if it's in a tunnel miles in the opposite direction. The sensation of life encircles me in warmth. "Use me," it calls out, begging me to turn the anger I feel into something useful.

Giving in to the urge is simple; it is like breathing. In a flash, I turn my body to the side, facing Aamon as a flare of magic comes from my fingertips. The words I speak are foreign and unknown to me, though they feel so familiar that I scarcely recognize the sound of my voice is tinged with something ominous.

"Captio et ligatio cum vite!"