Chapter 18 #3
My pulse slams against my ribs. Every instinct screams at me to get backup, to bring Artisem, not to go down there alone.
But there’s no time. Whatever Theodore is hiding, whatever this is, I need to know now.
I pull the handle.
Stone steps descend into darkness. Deep, oppressive darkness that even my wolf sight struggles to penetrate. The air rising up reeks of blood and rot and dark magic so thick I can taste it on my tongue.
I start to go down.
The stairs continue impossibly far. Deeper than any basement should reach. The temperature drops with each step until my breath mists in the air, until the cold sinks into my bones.
Finally, the staircase ends in a narrow corridor. Torches line the walls, their flames weak and guttering. The smell is worse here. Blood and waste and fear so old, it has soaked into the stone itself.
I follow the corridor to a heavy, wooden door. It is not locked. Why would it be? No one should be able to get this far.
I push it open.
The dungeon is small. Ten feet across at most. Symbols I don’t recognize are carved into the walls, dark magic pulsing from them in nauseating waves.
Two bodies slump against the far end, chained at their wrists and ankles. Young men, maybe twenty, their heads hanging forward. They are alive, but they have ragged wounds up and down their bare arms, almost as if blood has been drained from them.
And in the center of the room, chained to the floor, is a woman.
She is almost unrecognizable as human. Skeletal, her bones pressing against skin so pale, it’s nearly translucent. Her hair is long and matted, more gray than any other color now. Her clothes are nothing but rags. Her face is hollow, sunken, aged beyond measure.
She senses my presence the moment I enter. “Help,” she rasps, the word cracking. Wild. Delirious. On the edge of sanity.
I can tell she’s a witch. The magic clinging to her is unmistakable. But there’s something else. Something wrong.
Blood. Fresh blood. I can smell it on her. I glance at her mouth. Dried blood crusts her lips, stains her teeth.
What is happening here?
She moans, a sound incoherent and raw, and I shake off my confusion as well as my concealment. Questions later. Help first.
I kneel beside the woman, already reaching for my magic. I pour stabilizing energy into her, and I feel her body trying desperately to absorb it, clinging to anything that might keep her alive.
“Who are you?” I ask, keeping my tone gentle despite the horror crawling under my skin.
She focuses on me with effort. There’s something there. Recognition, maybe. But I don’t know her. I’ve never seen this woman before in my life.
“Cassandra,” she whispers.
The name means nothing to me. I shake my head. “I don’t know you. How long have you been here? Who did this?”
Tears spill down her hollow cheeks. Each word is labored, punctuated by shallow inhales. “Everyone forgot me. Nobody came. Nobody looked.”
“I’m sorry.” And I am. Whatever happened to her, however long she’s been down here, no one deserves this. “But I don’t know who you are. I’ve never met you.”
“Elara,” she breathes.
The world stops.
My chest constricts. “What did you say?”
“My Elara.” Her chest heaves with the effort of speaking. “They killed her. Because of me. Because of what I saw.”
I grip her shoulders, searching her face for any hint of familiarity. “You knew Elara? How? When?”
“I was just a girl.” Each word comes in gasps. “She found me. In the village. Took me in. Taught me magic. Taught me kindness.” She pauses, struggling. “She was like a sister to me. My big sister who made everything better.”
My mind reels. Then a hazy, distant memory. After Elara and I became mates, she mentioned a young local witch she was teaching. A girl from the village who showed promise. Who made Elara smile with her enthusiasm and joy.
“Gods,” I breathe. “You were just a child. Elara talked about you. She said you reminded her of sunshine.”
“She loved me.” More tears stream down Cassandra’s face. “Protected me. And I destroyed her. I destroyed everything.”
“What happened?” I ask, still trying to reconcile this broken thing with the image of a young, happy witch. “What do you mean, you destroyed her?”
“I saw it.” Her words barely exceed a whisper. “In a vision. The prophecy. You and Elara would have a child. A son. And that son would reclaim the throne. Would bring back the first royal bloodline.”
My blood runs cold. A prophecy. About a child Elara and I would have.
“I was so excited.” Cassandra is crying now, each word punctuated by sobs. “I thought it was wonderful. Beautiful. I told someone. A witch I trusted. An older witch who I thought would help.”
“What did she do?” But I already know. Already feel the dread building.
“She betrayed me. She went to the royal family. Told them about the prophecy. About your child who would take back the throne they had stolen.”
My wolf snarls. “And they came for you.”
“They took me. Tortured me. Starved me. Forced the full prophecy from me. Every detail. Every word. I tried to hold back. I tried. But they broke me. Made me see more. Made me tell them everything.”
I feel sick. This girl, barely more than a child, tortured for a vision she couldn’t control.
“They were going to kill Elara,” Cassandra continues. “To prevent the child from being born. But the witch who betrayed me told them it wouldn’t work. Destiny would just force Elara back. She’d be reborn. Reincarnated. The prophecy would find a way.”
Ice floods my veins. “So, what did they do?”
“They made her cast a curse instead. A curse on Elara’s soul. If she ever met you again. In any life. In any form. If she got pregnant with your child, she would die. In the fourth month. Always the fourth month. Before the child could be born.”
My heart stops.
“And they used me as the conduit,” Cassandra whispers. “Bound me to the curse. Made me the anchor. As long as I live, the curse remains active.”
“The witch who cast it,” I say hollowly. “Where is she?”
“Dead.” The word is final. “They killed her the moment the curse was complete. To cement it. To make it permanent.”
“And you’ve been here ever since,” I say, my hands clenching into fists.
“Centuries. I don’t even know how long anymore. Time stopped meaning anything. They feed me shifter blood to keep me alive. To keep the curse strong.”
I stare at her, horror and rage warring inside me. Centuries. This woman has been chained in darkness for hundreds of years. Kept alive to maintain a curse. Against her will.
“Who?” I snarl. “Who is keeping you here? Who feeds you?”
“They come regularly. Check on me. Feed me the blood. Make sure I can’t die. Make sure the curse holds.”
“Theodore?” I demand.
She shakes her head weakly. “No. The princess.”
The princess?
“Who?” I grip her shoulders. “Which princess? Who is she? Where is she?”
“She was worried recently. Something changed. She could feel it. The prophecy moving again, despite the curse. She’s been forcing me to see more. To tell her what’s happening.”
My pulse pounds. “What did you see?”
“Your mate. The curse won’t hold. Elara is stronger this time. And she is already carrying your child.”
“And they know,” I breathe, elation being pushed aside by horror and fear.
“She left this morning. Said she was going to finish it. That she’d made a mistake letting it get this far.”
“Who?” I shake her, desperation clawing at me. “Cassandra, who went after my mate? Give me a name!”
Her breathing is shallow now, her consciousness slipping. But she forces out one more sentence.
“She has…” Her gaze flickers, trying to focus. Her lips move slowly. “Blonde…hair…”
Then, she goes limp.
Blonde hair.
My mind reels. Theodore doesn’t have blonde hair. His hair is dark, graying. But there is one person in Theodore’s family with blonde hair.
Celeste.
Dread settles like a stone in my chest.
Celeste has blonde hair.