Chapter 17

Honey beams of sunshine nudge me awake, their warm buttery rays shining in through the now uncovered windows. For a brief moment, when I open my eyes and stretch out against the lumpy mattress, it is just another day.

And then the memories of the past couple of months snap back into place, and the brief comfort I felt in those seconds vanishes completely. I pull on a pair of light-colored trousers and a faded purple tunic with white floral embroidery and follow the smell of smoking herbs and citrus beckoning me from outside.

Four sets of eyes snap to mine the second I step through the door. Everyone, excluding Sin and Eldridge, sits in a circle around the fire crackling and spitting in the center. Galen jumps up and sprints to crush me in another rib shattering hug, and his mother smiles warmly at me from behind him. Zorina's hazel eyes look brighter than they did last night, shadowed by her thick golden hair, locks that Galen surely inherited from her.

Theon rises from the sideways log he shares with his mother and opens his arms towards me. Theon is Morrinne's only biological child, but if our appearances didn't give it away, no one would suspect the rest of us weren't related by blood. I don't hesitate pulling him in tight, wrapping my arms around his lean body and inhaling the smell of moss and wood from his worn clothing. He pulls out of the hug to hold me at arm's distance, assessing me from head to toe.

"Gods, I've missed you, Wren. You okay?" he asks.

I shrug my shoulders. "I'm alive," I offer. "I'll be better once we find Cosmina."

He nods in agreement, his short wavy black hair bouncing with the movement.

"Eldridge?" I ask, noting his absence. Sleep found me quickly last night, but not before Eldridge slipped into Cosmina's bed next to mine.

"He took off this morning after most of us were awake and could keep an eye on you. He was rather… grumpy today," Zorina answers.

I don't blame him. If our positions were reversed, I would think he was a damn fool to return to Scarwood, to the Black Art that openly discriminates against both our kinds. I would think he was a coward for not holding his ground, to go back without a fight, and I would do everything I could to convince Eldridge to let us help him. I don't expect him to understand that I will not—I cannot—agree to fight for my life if it means jeopardizing theirs.

"Has anyone seen Roarke?" I ask, not comfortable with the thought of both Eldridge and Sin out in the woods alone where they may cross paths. Although if that had happened, I'm sure we would have heard the altercation.

As if he was watching and heard me, Sin steps out of the shadowed woods and saunters towards me, his eyes on mine and mine alone, seemingly unaware of the others now staring at him. The top few buttons of his shirt are unfastened, exposing the smooth, deeply tanned planes of his chest, and his black trousers hang low on his waist. His hair is tousled like he tried sleeping somewhere last night, but the tinge of purple under his eyes indicates he was unsuccessful.

Without a word, I abandon the plate of food Morrinne had handed me and rise to my feet. I motion with my head for Sin to follow and head back into the cabin, neither of us addressing the other until he closes the front door behind him. When the door clicks into place, I look over my shoulder at him.

"You need to eat. I can bring you a plate, but every crumb you spill in my bed is a clump of that pretty hair I'm yanking out of your head," I say, pointing to his inky locks with my chin.

"I don't require food."

I turn to face him, a hand finding my hip. "I guess it's different inside your fancy castle, but here, when someone offers you something to eat, you say thank you. We don't offer a meal out of obligation, we do it out of kindness."

He stares at me blankly, and I blow out a breath. Explaining kindness to the Black Art is like trying to start a fire with rain-soaked wood and no magic to conjure one. The stairs creak under my bare feet as I lead him to the second story and slap my hand on my bed, still unmade from last night's sleep. "I sleep here. You're welcome to use it—the others don't come up here during the day."

Sin reaches for the few remaining buttons on his shirt and begins undoing them, shrugging out of the clothing when the last one pops free. I divert my eyes, suddenly finding fascination in the dark blue sheets of my sister's bed.

"Get some rest, Blackheart. I'll make sure no one disembowels you while you sleep."

I leave him, only to return a few minutes later with a dinner plate I loaded with eggs, potatoes, and orange slices. Even though I directed him to use it, the sight of the Black Art in my bed unnerves me. He faces away from me, the creamy tan sheets tucked under his arm, his long, tangled hair splayed out around him on the pillow. His light snoring tells me he isn't pretending to be down, so I leave the plate on my bedside table for when he wakes and tiptoe back down the stairs.

* * *

"There's something off about your friend," Zorina says to me as I shovel breakfast into my mouth.

"He's not my friend. I'm being held captive, remember?" I say with forced lightness in my tone.

She shakes her head, her straw-colored hair bouncing with the movement. "I don't like the way he looks at you."

"Me either," Theon chimes in. "He watches you like… like he's waiting for something."

Waiting for me to try to flee, perhaps. Or maybe he took my threat to slit him ear-to-ear more seriously than I thought. Good. He should.

"I can handle him," I grumble.

"But can Eldridge?" Morrinne asks. "I can already see one more remark from that fair-haired friend of yours and your brother's temper is going to go flaring." She tsks quietly to herself. Fair-haired. Glad to see the tonics are working as planned.

"You can hardly blame him, Mama, with the Rut around the corner," Zorina defends.

The Rut.Has that much time really passed? Each spring, transcendents across Aegidale gather for an annual outdoor celebration to honor their heritage. It's common belief amongst shifters that they all relate to Slaine, the first transcendent and the god of hunt and rebirth, in one way or another, believing it is he who chooses who to bestow the gift of transcendence upon. Legend claims the Rut marks the first day Slaine shifted, and the effect it has on transcendents is similar to that of deer in rutting season. They become agitated, irritable, and eager to hunt or fuck anything with a pulse.

"The Rut affects me too, child, and you don't see me storming off into the woods muttering about ripping people's heads off and pissing down their necks."

Lovely. I don't hate that I was asleep when Eldridge took off this morning, and apparently in quite a mood, it seems.

"That's not fair, Mama, and you know it."

Zorina is right. The Rut is known to affect males much stronger than their female companions. No wonder Eldridge's temper almost got the best of him being around a foreign male, let alone one exuding a sickening amount of arrogance and self-esteem. It isn't uncommon for Eldridge and Theon to bump heads around this time, and they've known each other longer than I've known either of them. Galen is too young to be affected, but once he matures, the Rut will come for him too.

Shoving the final bits of egg into my mouth, I share a pointed glance with Zorina and scramble to my feet. I head back inside and find the small woven basket Morrinne had made for me near the racks of dried herbs waiting to be pestled and made into seasonings, salves, and jellies. Reaching into the basket, tucked along the side where I had left it, is the cold, steel hilt of my athame.

I pull the sacrificial dagger from the basket and balance it in my palm. My magic stirs inside me, curling and weaving through every muscle and tendon until my very bones rattle with excitement. The ornate swirling pattern etched into the steel makes it look almost fragile—graceful even, but the sheer weight of it in my hand is nothing short of solid craftsmanship. I lift it to the window and turn it over in the beam of sunlight—one way then the other—marveling at the sparkling clarity of the sweeping crossguard, the designs there intricate enough to match the elaborate detailing of the hilt. Crafted into the handle is a nude, voluptuous woman with her arms raised above her head, dancing in tune with a silent melody.

Elysande. The goddess of war, vengeance, and femininity. The first bloodwitch.

Most mages worship the goddess of the arcane since it is Adelphia who strengthens the Black Art's power to protect the nation from those that would upset its balance. Cosmina had this athame forged for me specifically and gifted it to me a few months after we found each other. Elysande is often thought of as vengeful with an appetite equally as merciless, but her followers know legends have altered the truth.

The goddess feasts on men that harm women and devours mothers that bring pain to their children. Stories claim she went from house to house, ripping babes from their beds and fueling her power with their life forces, but her devoted know Elysande was the most nurturing of all the gods. She did go house to house, but it wasn't the younglings she sought—it was their wicked mothers and fathers that laid hands on innocent flesh. Elysande tore them to shreds, absorbed their lives to strengthen her power, and delivered the children to deserving women that would care for them.

I pledged my piety to Elysande the day my sister gifted me this athame, and while I can't be sure she is looking out for me, I survived being captured by Legion twice, and Sin hasn't slit my throat yet. Even though I've given him a neatly stacked pile of reasonable cause by now, starting with attacking him mere seconds after saving his life.

I pull one more thing from my basket—a hand drawn map on parchment that details the major cities and woods of Aegidale—and head back to Zorina.

We sit cross-legged on the perimeter of the property, and taking Cosmina's necklace from my trouser pocket, I offer my opened palm to Zorina, closing my fingers around her dainty hand when she places it in mine. I take a few steadying breaths, focusing on that sensitive spot behind my eye, and dislodge my collective from its home. I will it away from me, attaching onto Zorina's collective almost immediately, and I grip her hand tighter, coaxing her magic to flow through her, down her arms and into her delicate hands. And just as I feel its slippery smooth finish tingling in my palm, I latch onto it like a ravenous viper. My chin lifts upward, exposing the underside of my neck as an offering of vulnerability to Elysande, and I squeeze my left hand around the blade.

That buried part of me—that raw, primal hunger—delights at the sticky warmth that pools into my hand. I conjure mental images of my sister—turning them over and over in my mind, studying the lines of her face, the soft curvature of her pale blue eyes, the cascade of her onyx hair rippling over her shoulders. I hold my bleeding palm over the parchment and utter words of intention, coaxing the blood to show me her location. Zorina's magic mingles with my own, our powers feeding into one another to birth a stronger, more potent blend that encourages the blood on the map to travel faster. I keep my eyes closed, rocking with the magical warmth crescendoing through my body, growing hotter and hotter until it's a white tipped flame in my wrists, my chest, my forehead.

I go blind with fury.

The burn becomes nearly tangible—tugging my body one way then the next—and I rock in its blazing storm as the rage coats all of me in its silken finish. My back arches and my shoulders shake as if caught in an uncontrollable wind, and I feel her. Cosmina.

Wounded. Angry.

Alive.

I fight to hold on to our connection, to cling to the scorching hate erupting from her, to see something. Anything. But no images flash behind my eyelids—no clues, no hints—and as quickly as the blistering heat surged through me, it vanishes.

Zorina calls my name. I turn to look at her, worry set deep in her green-brown eyes. "Wren, I don't think it worked."

I snap my attention to the map laid flat on the ground in front of us, and my blood clots in my veins. No. No, no, no! The blood I dribbled onto the parchment was meant to travel across the map and stop at Cosmina's location, but drawn on the map before me is not a path at all. Enveloping the entirety of the map are crimson branches climbing to each corner of the parchment, taunting, and revealing nothing.

"No, it worked," I croak. "It's a cloaking spell. Someone has her. Zorina, someone has Cosmina and is masking her location with magic. Someone that knew I would try to find her."

"Legion," she breathes, hooking her fingers over her mouth. "It must be them."

I shake my head, not wanting to believe it, but knowing she's right. Cosmina likely tracked Cathal for days, maybe weeks. But by the time she caught up with them, I would have already been inside Castle Scarwood. And when she didn't spot me with Legion, she would have looked closer. Close enough to get caught.

"They're masking her location which means they didn't take her to use as bait. If Legion wanted to bait me in, they'd be counting on me locating her with a spell and coming to find her, falling right into some trap they would have surely set. But hiding her location… this is different. They don't need me to come to them when they already know where I'm at."

"That sounds way more complicated."

"And way more deadly," I add. "They must be planning something. Something big. Legion knows I'm at Scarwood, so if they plan on bringing her to the castle, it's to force me to turn on Singard. To turn on all of them and bring the kingdom down in exchange for her life."

"But what do they expect to do with you afterwards? After…" she trails off.

"I become a bloodthirsty maniac," I fill in for her, and she smiles without warmth, a silent apology that I dismiss. She is right. "I don't know. They're either overestimating themselves or grossly underestimating me."

"What should we do?"

"I think I have to tell Singard," I say, not liking the sound of that at all.

"To hell with that. If he fears you, Wren, he won't let you anywhere near Legion when they come for you. He'll lock you away to rot with Cathal, or—and more likely—just kill you."

"I know."

"Then whatever you do, don't tell him!"

I debate my options silently. If I tell Sin that I suspect Legion intends to use my sister as a means to force my hand into turning on the kingdom, he might very well end my existence before I finish my sentence. But if I don't tell him and my suspicions prove true and Legion does march on the kingdom with Cosmina in their grasp, that leaves me in a precarious predicament. My first blow against the castle—soldier, guard, or the Black Art himself—will be met with immediate orders to put me down. To protect Cosmina, I would have to unleash myself on the kingdom, risking unleashing a blight far worse than the wrath of Sin and Cathal combined. End my soul for the salvation of hers, and I know if my sister was here, she would roar for me to do anything but that. To not ruin myself, my humanity, but in her heart, she would know her begging wouldn't change a thing.

I look back to Zorina, knowing there is only one option.

"I don't think I have a choice."