Chapter 9

Twenty-one. My cell door has twenty-one bars. I don't know how many times I've counted them, only that it is a lot. I eat. I sleep. I count. River has not come to see me again, and a guard has been bringing me meals twice a day instead. Based on my food intervals, it is the third day I've been locked down here.

The fever set in yesterday. My skin gleams with perspiration despite the chill nipping my bones like hungry sparrows. If Sin doesn't come down here and kill me, the infection will.

We'll take real good care of them.

Cathal's threat on my family hasn't left my mind since it left his ugly mouth. They need protection. The mother who accepted me as her own… Cosmina who showed me compassion when no one else did… my brothers and sisters who welcomed me into their home, even when I wasn't one of them.

I should have never gone hunting alone. It was a rule we didn't break—no one ventured off by themselves. Morrinne and I had the watch the afternoon I was captured, while the others were away at the jobs they kept in the nearby city. Our food supply was dwindling, and Morrinne had been so preoccupied with knitting a scarf for my other chosen sister, Zorina, I didn't want to disturb her. Winters are harsh in Autumnhelm, and Zorina never sat still for long. She was a wanderer, always taking to the woods and venturing the outskirts of Innodell. Morrinne always pestered her about keeping warm. It didn't matter that transcendents naturally keep warmer body temps—Morrinne wanted her to have a scarf to keep the chill off her neck, and she insisted Zorina would wear it despite her efforts to convince Morrinne she would simply shift when she caught cold.

Legion had been quiet for a while and naively, I forgot the deadliest predators are often the stealthiest. It wasn't until they looped the iron chain over my head and across my chest that I even knew they were there. My family would return to learn from our panicked mother that I was missing—and the worst part—Morrinne would blame herself, even though it was my mistake, and mine alone.

* * *

The slow, rhythmic clacking of leather shoes against the ground announces his arrival. I scramble to sit up straighter before he reaches my cell, not wanting him to see how weak the infection and iron has already made me.

Sin stares down at me through the bars, scanning my face—first one eye then the other, before dragging his gaze over my cheeks, the curvature of my mouth, the slump of my shoulders. What he is looking for, I don't know, nor do I have the energy to care at this point. He leans back slightly while studying me, his hands shoved deep into his black trouser pockets. Keeping my expression fixed, I poke mental fingertips into his mind. My core clenches as a tempest of wrath and pride and shame spirals into my gut like a fisted punch. I press against it harder, forcing his collective to flatten against mine so I can read him easier.

"Stop," he snaps.

Startled, I drop my hold, and my collective springs back into place.

"I can feel you in there—in my head. I thought I was going mad before."

"You could feel me in there?"

"Barely, but yes. If I'm focused, I can feel… everything." A perk of Adelphia's blessing I'm sure, though his disgruntled tone suggests he does not appreciate it. "I never felt anything like it before. I brushed it off as nothing, but when Cathal told me what you were, it made sense. How does it work?" His stare flattens me against the wall, demanding, cold.

"I can read feelings, intentions. I don't know your thoughts—don't waste the energy trying to block them."

"Isn't that exactly what you would say if you could read them?"

"Does it even matter?"

Sin stares at me a few seconds longer before moving to lean against the cell, slipping his hands in to loosely hold the bars. "Answer a few questions for me. Honestly," he adds in warning.

I wave my hand for him to continue.

"You're a bloodwitch."

Not a question, but I nod anyway. "Mhmm."

"Tell me who you really are and how you ended up here."

A cold wind sweeps across my neck, maybe from the thought of revealing anything about myself that could later be used against me, or maybe from the fever that now bedevils my body. I wait a few breaths before answering him, musing over how much detail I want to spill to my enemy. The answer is none, but I can't spin another lie and risk getting caught in it.

Pausing to make sure my breath is steady, I answer him. "I have been hiding from Cathal for a long time. Years. Legion is under the impression if they have a bloodwitch fighting on their side, they can bring the entire kingdom down. They captured me several years ago when Cathal tried seizing Scarwood during Ephraim's reign. He threatened my family—detailing the despicable things he would do to them if I didn't use my power to aid them. Cos—my sister—she found me before we made it to Blackreach. I didn't think they would come for me again without the element of surprise, and they didn't for a long time. But as soon as I let my guard down, for a split second, they struck like the dirty snakes they are, and I found myself their prisoner once more. That was a month ago—I think." Time has blurred with recent events—maybe a month passed, maybe six of them.

"And what did they plan on doing with you afterwards? Surely they anticipated you turning on them as soon as you saw to our destruction."

"They overestimate their ability. And underestimate mine."

"How did Cathal find out what you are?"

"I told him," I answer sheepishly. "We were… we were together… for a short time."

"He betrayed you," he states knowingly.

I nod. "I thought I could trust him. He and his men came for me that same night and took me to their camp. That's where I met Ileana, which brings me to a question of my own: what the hell is she doing here?"

"Ileana is my Black Hand."

I choke on a laugh, one entirely void of humor. "She's serving the kingdom? You must be joking." Ileana hates Legion more than anyone I know, and after the torture they put her through, I'm sure that loathing is as much a part of her as her blood and bones. But working for the kingdom? That is as much Ileana's style as outerwear is on Zorina. "How did she even get here? She was still in that camp the last I saw her." When I left and didn't go back for her.

"She's here now, and you will respect her as the Hand to the throne. The how and why isn't of your concern."

Curiosity pecks into my brain like a chickadee gobbling up seeds, but I push it aside. I need to speak to Ileana herself if I want the real truth anyway—her truth.

"When you ran from me the other day, where were you heading?"

"Home." I look at him cautiously before continuing. "I have a family."

"Is your family also—?" he trails off as if bloodwitches was too dirty a word for his mouth.

"No. My parents disowned me when I was young, when they discovered what I am. They didn't have the guts to kill me themselves, so they thought they'd let starvation or illness do it for them. I was very lucky. Someone found me and took me in. I live remotely with her and a few others, away from unnecessary risks."

"What kind of risks?"

I study him closely when I answer. "They are transcendents."

He arches a dark eyebrow. "You were raised by shifters?"

"Yes. Ephraim and your father's reign made it too dangerous to live in the cities, so they kept to themselves. Me being what I am, I also preferred to sleep away from prying eyes. Our arrangement worked."

"Apart from where Cathal found you?" he asks with a glimmer of sarcasm.

"I made an egregious error," I grumble through clenched teeth.

Sin folds his arms across his chest and begins to pace in front of the cell. "Why haven't you escaped? Legend says when a bloodwitch makes their first kill, the power they gain makes them crazy, consumed with bloodlust and power and sex. You could have killed all of us by now."

I will my cheeks not to flush at the mention of the caster's high. Magic is an aphrodisiac for most mages—the more power they expel, the stronger the urge. When a bloodwitch kills and consumes that kind of power, it's rumored to unleash a desire that trumps all other feelings, except maybe the need to keep killing. Since I've never taken a life, I haven't experienced it, but I have felt twinges of a… heat… when I would spar with Eldridge or find myself occupied with violent thoughts. Judging from the flutters of warmth I've felt when merely flexing my magic, I don't doubt the rumors are riddled in truth.

I feign a yawn as if his questions are boring me. "Because if I had killed you or anyone else, Blackheart, I don't know what the magic would do to me. I would prefer I didn't turn into a murdering lunatic."

He stops pacing and peers down at me, his eyes widening slightly. "I was seconds away from ending your life and that was before I knew what you were. You slit your own throat by not escaping."

I lean my head against the wall behind me. "I'm aware."

"How did your parents learn what you are?"

I keep my gaze fixed on the opposite wall when I answer. "The smell of blood… it appeals to me. But I've never killed anyone, and I've only ever hurt those that hurt me first."

The image of my mother's face when she learned what I was flashes in my mind. When I scratched her arm deep enough to draw blood, the disgust and disbelief that twisted her mouth as she saw the want on mine.

He loops his arms through the bars again and leans forward. "There is a gala being held here tomorrow. There will be some families in attendance whose support I count on very much. I would like you to attend and listen in on them."

"Listen in on them?"

"I need to know who I can trust and who I cannot. I have reason to believe an ally is aiding Legion—smuggling resources to them. They should have collapsed in on themselves by now, and yet, they continue to come back time and time again, throwing bodies at my keep. Tell me, Wren, how does a rebellion that's hated by half the isle continue to show up healed from injury and wielding new weapons? Attend my gala and mingle, get a read on people. Tell me if I need to divert my attentions to certain individuals."

"You want me to spy for you?"

His eyes sweep over me, taking in my disheveled appearance, and I wonder if it is obvious how weak the infection has made me. "It would be a mutually beneficial agreement."

"Enlighten me." I smile with feigned interest.

"You heard Cathal, same as I. This family of yours, he sounded rather determined to take his resentment towards you out on them. One in particular—something about a dark-haired sister with… qualities I won't repeat." He shakes his head, as if even he didn't appreciate Cathal's vulgarity when describing Cosmina. "Legion can't hurt your family if they're dead in the sea. We eliminate their supplier, we eliminate Legion. No Legion, no Cathal running around making predatory comments."

"Did you kill him?"

Sin shakes his head. "I want him alive."

He doesn't elaborate, and I don't ask. "If I help you, what's in it for me?"

"I'll consider not killing you," he answers, not a sliver of amusement on his face.

"I want my freedom. If I help you, I go free."

"You help me, and your family remains free."

I push my collective against his again and shred at it with phantom fingernails, searching for any trace of deception. Hatred burns through me instead—his hatred for Legion, I presume.

"Think about it, Wren. Every minute Legion remains alive is a minute you risk them hurting your family. Help me cut off their supply chain, and the rebellion is one less threat in their lives."

"Your entire kingdom threatens their lives," I spit. He must think even lower of me now knowing I was brought up by transcendents. Bloodwitch by birth, transcendent sympathizer by choice. I wonder if it rivals how low I think of him.

"It's your choice. How's that shoulder healing up on you?" the Black Art smirks, his eyes honing in on the rotting flesh now oozing a sickly yellow pus.

I glare up at him and scoff at the green irises now beaming with wicked amusement. "You're willing to heal me and remove the iron so I may dance with some strangers at a ball?" My tone implies the severity of the risk he would be taking.

"You've already shown me you aren't willing to do what it takes to escape."

His words punch me in the gut. I want to hate him for his remark, but the anger now surging through my core is reserved for me. He is right. I don't know if I'm making it out of Scarwood alive, but if helping the Black Art ensures my family's safety, I owe them that.

I blow out a breath. "Alright, Your Grace. I agree to do your bidding and pry the secrets from your enemies' minds since you and your council have failed to do so."

"Careful, witch."

I extend my arms in front of me, the chains dangling from my wrists like metal serpents. He throws open the cell with magic and breaks my iron bindings in the same cast. Storming into the dank cage, he reaches for my wounded arm.

His predatory grin widens as I scream with the stretching of tissue.