8. Chapter 8
Chapter 8
B lood covered every wall in the room. It stained the old sofa and the tattered chair, dripping down the windowpanes. Imani’s bloodied dress lay crumpled on the floor. Blood was the last thing she remembered before she had convulsed and fainted.
Magic rocked Imani’s body to its core, like lightning bolts jolting her repeatedly. She vaguely remembered someone checking her pulse then leaving. Her eyes fluttered open.
They closed again. Meira seemed to be nearby, but Imani couldn’t check on her condition.
They lay in this strange in-between existence for what seemed like hours, experiencing what she hoped was Meira’s magic permanently searing itself into her body.
After an eternity, the garish peeling paint of the walls at the inn came back into focus.
Imani’s whispering darkness pulsed in the corners of the room. It flickered and flipped around. Her grandmother said magic was given by the Fabric but made by the caster. Brands had their different quirks. Was the divination causing this odd behavior?
The shadows were agitated and clearly linked to Imani’s moods.
Imani stared at the cracks in the ceiling and held her sister’s hand for a minute. Then, with shaking arms, she pushed herself to her knees and brushed strands of wet, messy hair off her face. Whether sweat or blood soaked her head, she couldn’t be sure.
She swayed when she stood but took a deep breath and called the darkness back before Meira awoke. The walls moved, and the ceiling swirled like an impending storm—hallucinations. She fumbled again against the wall, using it to walk to the window. Imani’s eyes took in the street below—it was dark still.
Good.
Grabbing her clothes, Imani padded to the sofa. The floor was soggy, black, and sticky. Asim must have left hours ago, not even bothering to see if they had lived. Not that she had expected much from such a bastard.
He’d practically salivated when Imani had told him she would give up their whole territory in exchange for two powerful flesh magic spells—an alteration and an illusion—and modest compensation.
She gingerly sat down to examine the long, deep cuts marring her naked body. The gash across her collarbone needed stitching. Enchanting a needle and thread from her dress pocket, she sewed herself up while trying to remember what had happened and determine if the magic had taken.
Two fingers on her left hand and two toes had to be severed. But the magic from the sacrifice had exploded in the room, and Asim had expertly latched onto it. While she’d been silently screaming in pain, an invisible veil had tightened around her chest and limbs. Indeed, she could feel it now, vibrating under her skin.
Her brands had changed. The blue leaf Norn sigil was back, all the red brands were gone, and Imani’s blue alteration and alchemy marks appeared invisible. The only magic her sister didn’t have was now essentially gone, and Meira’s divination symbol shone on her arm like a black and blue bruise. Whether or not it worked was another question, but there wasn’t time to test or worry about it. They had been awake nearly all night but still had work to do.
Imani didn’t know the spell Ara used to glamour and restrict her magic; she only knew how to mask the brands. She would need to be careful when using the hidden magic and exercise complete control. Any slipup revealing she wasn’t truly Meira could be deadly.
Good thing all Ara had done was teach Imani to control her impulses and temper.
He was only a four-mark, but she might’ve been impressed if Asim weren’t such a smarmy piece of shit.
Getting dressed was a pathetic affair of shaking limbs, clenched teeth, and hisses of pain.
Imani ambled over to her sister. “Meira, wake up.”
“Did it work?” Meira croaked, rubbing her eyes as she let Imani help her stand.
Once upright, Imani displayed her forearm.
Meira sighed in relief as she squeezed Imani’s hand.
Panic flooded Imani, and an image burst into her mind.
Jewels dripped from around her neck, the folds of a rich dress swimming around Meira’s feet. Her sister collapsed to the floor. Blood dripped from her nose and mouth and from around the crown of her head. Her face—wiser-looking but not aged—was slack and pale, eyes big and lifeless, and covered in more blood. A chalice tipped on its side as it fell from her hand.
The premonition disappeared as fast as it had come. Imani didn’t recognize the images, but a hollowness opened in her chest all the same. Her heart ached as the slice of the future hit her—her sister’s death, to be exact.
Meira’s divination magic worked inside her, after all.
Dawn came, but the sun didn’t rise. A sinister quiet had settled over Kishion overnight.
Throwing open the curtains at home, a foreboding fog greeted Imani. Nothing permeated it except a mournful mist, lightning flashes, and the arid stench of smoke blowing into the Riverlands.
Fear spread—fear their skies would darken permanently. It hadn’t yet cleared, so the shaken villagers sequestered themselves in their homes. While some carried lanterns as they made their way to work, many storefronts remained empty and dark, with oil lamps as the only light. People peeked out their doors. They shivered as the night charged at them like a wild beast and hugged them in cold, chilling discomfort before slamming them shut again.
Imani squinted her eyes to the south. Night had spread like a disease across the horizon there and never left. Everyone agreed—except the branded and people familiar with magic—that it was a problem of the other kingdom—repercussions they’d received from the deity breeds of the Upper realm for their lawlessness and brutal culture.
Indeed, before today, most people in the Essenheim Kingdom shook their heads, refusing to look, even as smoke blew into their lands, carrying the smell of magic and death.
As if sensing her thoughts, booms of wicked thunder rumbled far in the distance over the Niflheim Mountains. A mesmerizing orchestra of lightning lit up the enormous dark cloud, flashing in random sequences for a minute.
After years spent watching this same Fabric storm over Niflheim, Imani found it difficult to believe such destruction wouldn’t eventually spread here. Abused and chained into submission for far too long by witches, the Fabric always took something in exchange for magic, and no one escaped payment. Even here in the sunlight, Imani knew dozens of those who’d already paid.
She’d been one of them with the Fabric event her parents had died in, and the price was almost too great to comprehend. Some days, with Ara, she’d also wished she’d gone to the Under with them.
A warm hand fell on Imani’s shoulder, making her turn her head.
“I wanted to talk to you about something before you leave,” Meira said quietly.
“How’s Dak? Still angry with me? I gave him his voice back an hour ago, but he hasn’t said a word.”
“He’ll get over it, like always,” Meira assured her.
Imani nodded. “You should be resting. I’ll say goodbye when they get here.”
“I can’t rest. I can’t stop thinking about it …” Meira trailed off, rubbing Imani’s fake blue leaf sigil. “I’m worried about how you’re going to feed there. You could revert and lose control … another accident could happen.”
Defensiveness stiffened Imani. They never talked about what had brought them to the Riverlands in the first place—the reason Ara had hated her so much.
“I haven’t had an issue in years,” Imani muttered. She would never mention what happened in the pub earlier with Fen, or the fact she’d let herself feed from Ara’s and Malis’s souls.
The invisible chasm between them got bigger. Meira hugged herself. “You’re right. You haven’t had any issues in years. I know you’re wary of getting too close to people because of what happened with grandfather, but maybe you should try to make friends in Stralas.”
Make friends? Imani dreamed about it sometimes since Riona had died. Like being unglamoured with her family in the Draswood, she imagined having a real friend who wasn’t a customer or a family member.
But Ara’s voice sounded in her head.
“Please, as Riona’s friend—” Imani had begged, in tears as she hugged the hob’s urn against her chest.
“You think you can have friends?” Ara had cut her off, looking at the window. “Don’t make me laugh. You can’t trust anyone enough—including yourself—to let them get too close.”
“I’m not like that anymore.”
“You are, though—a murderer,” Ara had stated matter-of-factly. “And once people learn more about your inclinations and base needs, they will want to use you for them—or they will be terrified.”
Meira pointed to Imani’s wrist. A flare of jealousy sparked in her sister’s bright blue eyes. “What about him ? Your heartmate is real and could help you, and us. Feeding from him wouldn’t be dangerous at all. You can’t kill each other. How did he not feel the brand burning? Do you have any idea who he is?”
A twinge of horrible happiness sparked inside Imani. For once, she had something her sister wanted—something powerful. Yet Imani hated herself for the emotion and shoved it down.
“The block on my magic must have stopped the burning. I have no idea who he is, and I don’t want to. We’d both be killed if anyone found out the truth about us, anyway—two red and blue sigils—an illegal mixed pair. I’m a Norn, and he’s something else. I’d say it’s a good enough reason for him to stay away,” Imani stated flatly.
She had no idea if illegal mixed pairs even existed—she and Malis certainly weren’t a mixed pair with both their red sigils—but the lies kept coming out. Since she hadn’t told her sister that she wasn’t a Norn elf, and Asim had glamoured over her red brand, it would be the same as Meira’s sigil. As far as Meira knew, they were a mixed pair.
Meira gave her a look that said, Don’t be so wretched , and then smoothed Imani’s braid. “How could he not want you, ahavah ? There must be a good explanation for keeping you apart … You’ll be more like yourself there. Even slightly glamoured, you’re still going to be the most beautiful person in every room. Like always.”
Imani almost laughed. Yes, she’d hide her scars and mutilated fingers as well as mute her soul draw, but the situation was so much more complicated than Meira could comprehend. Could she trust herself to let someone close enough for her to feed like heartmates would? Imani only did it with her sister after years of practice. Could she find someone similar in Stralas? Hope bloomed in her chest at the thought.
But Aralana’s words came back to her again. “ That man will hate you. You’re a humiliating weakness for him, and he’ll try to kill you for it. ”
Indeed, he tried to kill Imani as Ara had predicted.
Her heartmate had been a sadistic monster who deserved to die, which Imani had been more than delighted to help him do.
Heartmates fit perfectly together—their souls made from the same piece of the Fabric—and as a result, Norn heartmates fed from each other perfectly. She didn’t know if she’d find anyone else who could come close to replacing him.
However, she’d try.
“I’ll find someone else. Forget about him, Meira.”
“I can’t. Think of all the other elves who never find their heartmates and struggle to have children. Don’t be so selfish,” she snapped. A hint of nastiness imbibed Meira’s voice.
Imani stared, open-mouthed, as Meira wiped her eyes.
“I’m sorry. I hate myself for being envious of you. You deserve happiness and children as much as me.”
Without returning to the Draswood, the chance of either sister having their own children was nearly impossible, and the Aowyns couldn’t live there because of the murder Imani had committed.
Meira could never learn Imani had killed Malis, too. Imani’s heart was already cracking in two, knowing how much Meira wanted children of her own, and if anyone deserved to be a mother, it was Meira. The truth about Malis would destroy what little they had left of their small family.
“If I could give up mine to ensure you get yours, I would.” Especially since Imani wasn’t keen to share her magic as she knew heartmates did with each other.
“I know you would,” Meira said, wrapping her arm around Imani. “No one has ever been able to tell you what to do, and I certainly have never been as clever or brave. I know you’ll prioritize our family while I take on the responsibilities here. I’m scared, but I trust you. We can do this together.”
Something had changed in Meira since yesterday—a maturity that hadn’t been there before. Her sweet sister was still there, but Meira’s eyes no longer held the usual innocence.
Imani squeezed their clasped hands in a silent promise.
Meira nodded before packing Ara’s old trunk with Imani’s belongings, and Imani let her. Her sister needed to fuss, and there was nothing else to say about heartmates.
Meira pulled out a few books and blew the dust off them. “Did you want to take anything from inside the trunk, or should I clean it all out?”
Snatching the books from Meira’s grasp, Imani studied them momentarily. None were A History of Royal Bloodlines , but Imani thought they could still be significant. “I want all of it. Leave nothing behind.”
Meira tilted her head but put the books back in the trunk without a word.
Curiosity burned through Imani seeing the wandlore book again. She cleared her throat. “Meira, did Ara ever mention a wand called a Drasil? Maybe when she trained you in wandlore magic?”
Face scrunched in confusion, Meira folded a dress and tucked it into the trunk. “I don’t remember any wand with such a name. Is it a type of Draswood?”
“No.” Imani picked up one of the ratty old maps. “I think it’s a wand from a different tree altogether. From Niflheim, maybe.”
Meira narrowed her eyes at the map. “You should drop it, Imani. I know your obsession with learning everything about magic, but you need to focus on finding someone to feed from in Stralas and passing the assessments. Being tangled up in this same mess is what got Ara killed.”
“I never said I was going to get tangled up in it,” Imani bit out.
Guilt gnawed at Imani with the lie she’d told her sister. How could she stop finding the most powerful wand in the world?
Even if she couldn’t go to Niflheim, there would be answers in Stralas about the Drasil. Something about the wand waited for Imani there, and she was going to find it.
They came for her at what would have been sundown. Carriages holding potential master witches and two dozen soldiers on horses rolled into the village like a storm.
A hard pounding on their door made everyone but Imani jump. Soldiers clad in stiff uniforms greeted her. They were out of place in the dismal, rundown hallway.
“We have records of a potential master residing here named Meira Aowyn. Is she here?”
Imani nodded. “I’m Meira.”
“By decree from Her Radiant Majesty, Queen Dialora, and the First Witch of the Royal Order of Magic, you are ordered to come with us. As a potential master witch, the Order officially employs you. Follow me.”
The real Meira helped Imani don her new cloak, but the sisters and Dak said nothing. She hugged them both, relieved when her brother squeezed her back.
Outside, a foreboding winter wind whipped by, rustling the vibrant leaves on the uneven cobblestones. The same townspeople who had attended the execution now stood at their windows. More soldiers surrounded the building, and their horses whinnied and shuffled nervously. It was overkill, but potential master witches, even small ones, could be dangerous.
Flanked by the soldiers, they led Imani toward a carriage at the front of the line. Each step made her missing toes throb, but she held her cloaked head high.
They stopped in front of the most oversized, ornate carriage. A soldier opened the door, and a male witch stepped out.
Impeccably dressed and young, the master witch symbol shone brightly on the golden skin atop his hand. His dark blond hair was tied back, and his beard was freshly trimmed, framing a solid, masculine jaw. Imani couldn’t determine his breed. He could’ve been a pixie, a nymph, or a shifter; all she knew for certain was that he wasn’t an elf.
Desire emanated from him while hunger curled in her belly.
Towering over her, he cocked his head in evident surprise. “It’s not often you see a High-Norn elf outside the Draswood,” he murmured. “Especially an unmated female.”
“Yet, here I am,” she said demurely.
The man’s eyes sparkled at her like she was something to possess. He referenced a piece of parchment, one that presumably stated every known potential master witch in Essenheim. Meira’s name was on there, near the top.
“You can call me Master Grey, Lady Aowyn. Now, let’s see your arms, please. I’ll be confirming your brands and checking for deceptive magic.”
She wrenched up her sleeves, and he reached for her wrist.
An image slammed into her. Another vision of death. It only lasted seconds.
“You are a fucking traitor,” someone said with a wand against his throat.
Grey’s face was wrought with fear. Invisible magic strangled him until his eyes turned glassy.
He steadied her with his arm. “Lady Aowyn? Are you all right?”
“Y-y-yes … yes, I’m fine,” she stammered.
“I sense a light glamour on you,” Grey whispered.
“Female elves tend to attract unwanted attention.” Imani momentarily lifted her cloak off her head and loosed part of the illusion.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a female of your kind,” he whispered. “But why are you still glamouring yourself so much?”
“My illusion isn’t only for my elven magic. I have”—she trailed off and glanced around—“disfigurements that make people uncomfortable.”
After she had warned him, she let the rest of the glamour fall.
Lingering on her face for longer than polite, it was as if he saw through her to her bones. Did he sense the flesh magic hiding her brands? Could he feel the strangeness in the divination magic? Imani gritted her teeth, heart hammering.
An arrogant, skeptical gaze stared down at her. For one long second, Imani’s chest constricted.
“You have unique brands. I think you’re still hiding something, and I intend to figure it out, Meira.” A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips.
Was he teasing her? Complimenting her? She couldn’t be sure.
With a swish of his cloak, he turned back to his carriage, but before disappearing inside, the master witch looked over his shoulder. “I suggest you drop the illusion spell permanently. Unwanted questions are far worse than unwanted looks at court.”
Drop the illusion entirely ? Her soul draw would drive unmated males insane with the compulsion to feed from her. Not one female High-Norn left the Draswood without some form of an illusion.
She stared at the closed door, unsure if he was ignorant about her kind or if he didn’t care.
Imani’s hands trembled slightly, but there was no going back now. She had to pull this off.
Pointedly ignoring his suggestion, she restored her glamour and tucked herself into an open coach door before craning her neck to peer at their flat, to see her siblings one last time.
The window remained empty.
Imani let her head fall back against the seat, ignoring the sharp pang of hurt as they set off into the night to Stralas.