CHAPTER ELEVEN #3
I blinked slowly, screaming inside to stop. That it was enough. It was fucking enough. But the more scared she was, the more hopeless she felt, the more I fed, the stronger the Azete’s control became.
Her lips quivered, looking back and forth between the Hermit and me.
I pressed the palm of my hand to her cheek.
The final burst of energy exploded from her: terror, grief, hopelessness. I sucked it down. I sucked it all down. Slowly, hungrily, like it was my last meal on earth.
Watching her face closely, I studied its shadows and colors. Every angle, every curve. The way she held her mouth, the way she breathed, and turned her head just so, even the way she cried, her lips trembling, her nose scrunching up. I stayed until I had memorized every last detail.
Then I closed my eyes, trying desperately not to hear her sobs, to not feel the guilt rising inside of me as the Azete—now fed—began to relax and step back.
Olivay fainted, her eyes rolling back, her head falling forward, her body slack against the chains which shook under her weight.
My hands clenched into fists as my stomach churned with nausea. “Is it done?” I growled, my voice now fully my own.
The Hermit opened his bag again, and this time, he pulled out a small hand mirror. He moved to Olivay’s side, his back pressed against the stone wall as he reached for the back of her neck, forcing her head upright. “Come,” he said to me. “Get closer and see for yourself.”
Biting back a snarl, I did, moving to her other side, pressing my face as close to hers as I dared. Then I looked into the mirror.
We could have been twins. Identical down to every last strand of hair. Only I was clean, and she was covered in dirt.
But it was done. I had become Olivay. I was the Princess of Spartva.
I took a few steps away from her sleeping form and fell to all fours. I didn’t feel like a princess. I felt like a monster. A demonos.
My stomach roiled and burned until I threw up, my guts heaving.
The full force of what I’d become, what I’d had to do, washed over me. I hadn’t fed like this in years. Hadn’t reached the point where the Azete could so fully take the reins.
“Get her the fuck out of these chains,” I shouted, holding onto my stomach as I crouched over my sick. “It doesn’t matter who her parents are, or what contract they signed. She’s innocent in this. And you fucking know it.”
The Hermit folded his arms across his chest, tapping his fingers along his arm. “The curse of doing what one must when they see the doom of their people lying in wait.”
“Enough.” My voice shook. I coughed and spat, my stomach in agony. Then I threw up again, relieving myself of every ounce of breakfast.
The Hermit shook his head and clicked his tongue. “I worked hard on that summer cake.”
“Fuck you.” I wiped at my mouth and sat back, and though my skin was a new shade of peach and the wound of my oath was now invisible, I pressed my fingers over it—knowing the Hermit was aware of the exact inch of skin he’d sliced through.
The exact place where the magic had bound me.
I pushed down, feeling fresh pain cut through me as I met his eyes.
“I don’t care what I swore,” I said. “If any further harm comes to her, any mistreatment at all, my oath ends. I’ll damn Azeal. I’ll forsake them the way they forsook me. I won’t have another innocent girl harmed on my behalf.”
The Hermit’s eyes narrowed, his head snaking side to side. “Innocent girls and boys are harmed all the time, and for far more evil reasons.”
“I said her suffering ends now. And I hope you’re listening, too,” I shouted, making sure my voice carried to the female witch outside. “She is not to be harmed or made to be more afraid than she already is. I know you can’t free her, or send her home, but you will make her comfortable.”
The Hermit clicked his tongue again. “Princess Shamhira, you’ve always had such a soft heart for such a fate as yours.
” His eyes fell on me. “You have my word. Olivay will not be harmed or made to feel afraid. At worst, she’ll be incredibly bored.
But she will remain here. I cannot promise more than that. Not until your mission ends.”
“I will hold you to that.”
The Hermit removed the scabbard from his belt, the one which held his stave, and placed it inside his bag before he replaced it with the scabbard of a sword.
Then he buttoned up the front of his shirt, concealing his torso, and smoothed back his long dark hair, carefully tossing the purple velvet cloak over his shoulder.
Then he extended his hand to me. Like a gentleman would.
Or, Lord Brandon.
“Shall we, Princess?” he asked, his accent suddenly posh and affected.
He was even standing differently, his chest puffed out in the way some men posed when they were trying to appear more important than they were.
“We have a tournament to attend in Eskalon. A great joust to see. And your betrothed is waiting for you.”
Jaron.
Dizziness washed over me again. But I took the Hermit, Lord Brandon’s, hand.
He grinned, offering me a smile more fake than any I’d ever seen. “Come now, Olivay. Let’s reunite you with your prince.”