Chapter 22
The moon was gone. It was dark, the kind of dark that feels like a physical weight pressing down on you from all sides, the kind of dark that could leave you claustrophobic while standing in an open field.
My heart fluttered with fear, even as I reminded myself that I was only an observer, that there was no danger obscured by that darkness that could hurt me.
No matter how many times I told myself, my nervous system was not convinced.
My blood pounded in my ears as I tried to use my other senses to figure out where I was.
It was humid—the air was heavy, which I supposed contributed to the claustrophobic feeling.
It was the kind of air that clung to you and felt thick in your lungs, and I knew it well.
We were by the ocean. Even as I thought it, my ears began to pick up the sounds—the distant crashing of waves, the wind whistling through rocks—but it sounded wrong.
Muffled and echoing, like I was hearing it all through a tunnel.
Oh.
My last vision had ended with Abaddon revealing the location of the Source, and Ambrose determined to find it. So, unless I was very much mistaken—and my instincts were telling me I was not—I was somewhere inside the caves that led to the Geatgrima.
As though to confirm my revelation, I heard a low, muttered curse nearby, then the striking of stone against stone.
A spark fizzled and died in my peripheral vision, and I turned my head just in time to see a tiny flame catch and flare.
I had to squint against it as it grew into a ball of fire, illuminating first the palm beneath it, and then the face above it.
Ambrose stood before me, his hands full of fire.
This shouldn’t have startled me as much as it did.
I knew he practiced magic, knew this might be a skill he possessed, but it still shocked me to see it.
He was powerful—clearly, his injured soul did not affect his ability to work spells.
I had never seen a witch conjure fire from thin air, even a fire worker.
But though the fire startled me, it was Ambrose’s face that made me gasp.
His eyes, with tiny flames dancing in them, were so empty, so devoid of humanity that it felt wrong to see them staring out of a human face.
Something rippled beneath his skin periodically, like tiny waves or undulations in his flesh.
His expression was one of wild excitement—a feral energy entirely out of place on human features, so that it twisted and marred them into something else altogether.
I took an involuntary step back from him, fighting the instinct to run, with the terrible feeling that those eyes would lock onto me at any moment, and then it would be too late…
But of course, he could not see me, because I wasn’t really there.
His eyes passed over me, through me, to the cavern that stretched out behind me.
I could now make out the jagged rocks thrusting up through the wet sand, the gently rounded walls of the cavern itself, worn smooth by the relentless intrusions of the tide.
If we had come six hours earlier, this cave would have been nearly submerged, the waves swirling and thrusting into the furthest reaches and crevices of the space.
But for now, we were safe, the tide pulled far enough out to allow us to traverse far up into the cave, to the only place that could ignite such a look of animal desire on Ambrose’s face.
When he turned and ventured deeper into the cavern, I followed.
The cave slanted upward. At one point, we had to edge along a rock ledge that rose above the sandy floor and deposited us in a higher second chamber, this one rougher and more treacherous to navigate.
I was grateful I did not have to experience the physical strain of the journey, floating along like a shadow behind my quarry.
So this had been the way to reach the Geatgrima, before the playhouse provided a safer, more convenient entrance from above.
It was no wonder that the witches of Sedgwick Cove were unaware for centuries of the exact location of the Source—it was nearly impossible to find it, the route so dangerous and unpredictable that I could think of no earthly reason why anyone would attempt it.
Unless, of course, a demon had already told them what waited at the other end.
At last, the steep slant of the path began to flatten, the space around it to widen, until we ducked beneath a low shelf of rock into a wide, round space I recognized at once. Together, Ambrose and I stood and looked in awe at the Geatgrima on its plinth in the center of the high-ceilinged cave.
My gasp echoed his, for I had never seen the Geatgrima intact before.
When I had first come upon it, all that remained was a pile of rubble and dust, forgotten and unremarkable.
Now a majestic archway towered before us, raised upon its carved plinth like a monarch on a throne.
The stones were intricately carved, and I could make out runes and words in a language I didn’t know.
I also saw a symbol that was carved right into the very center, a symbol that consisted of three spirals connected at the center.
But more breathtaking than the sight of the archway itself was the familiar aura that emanated from it, that nearly irresistible pull on the spirit that both invited you in, and also served as a warning.
This place was not meant for us yet, but it still called to our souls.
I looked at Ambrose. Did he feel it? Or was his soul too badly damaged to hear that call and long to answer it?
He was gazing up at it with undisguised greed on his face, but the expression did not match the longing and awe that welled up inside me.
On the contrary, he looked at the Geatgrima like an opponent he longed to square off with, an enemy to be conquered.
That adversarial air pervaded the space, raising goosebumps on my arms and the hairs on the back of my neck. Anticipation bloomed inside me.
Ambrose stepped forward and began to circle the Geatgrima, extending his hand outward, and using the light of the fire cradled in his palm to examine the runes and the writing carved on it.
His eyes raked over the symbols and unfamiliar words hungrily.
I could tell he was searching for meaning, and the gradual darkening of his expression told me he could divine nothing from what he saw.
He began muttering under his breath, extending his fire-free hand toward the carvings, twisting and curling his fingers as though he could force the runes themselves into shapes that made sense.
A spell of transmutation—I knew it even without hearing the incantation.
The intention of the spell was as clear as if he’d been shouting it out loud.
His frustration grew as the runes stayed stubbornly immutable.
I didn’t know a lot about Durupinen magic, but I could tell that these runes—indeed, the whole Geatgrima itself—were likely to be powerfully protected.
His concentration became so intense that he lost control of the fire in his right hand, and it flared suddenly before going out as quickly and completely as if it had been plunged into water.
Growling with frustration, Ambrose rekindled the fire and this time suspended it in the air, so that it hung over us like a tiny, angry sun.
He circled the Geatgrima again, prowling, like a predator trying to decide how and where to strike.
I realized I was holding my breath, and let it out all in one startled huff as he dropped to his knees, and began pulling things out of a leather pouch slung around his hips.
It was only then that I realized how much the rest of his appearance had changed.
The first two times I had seen him, Ambrose had been dressed as I might expect a man of several centuries ago to dress—a white, blousy shirt, brown wool trousers, well-worn leather boots, and a belt.
He couldn’t have been called clean by modern standards, but now he was positively filthy.
His hands were blackened, his nails jagged and bloodied around the edges, like he’d been digging with his bare hands in the earth.
His shirt, once white, was little more than a tattered rag tossed over his head, shredded and stained.
His trousers had been torn and dirtied as well, and his feet were now bare but for a strip of mud-caked fabric tied around his left foot, like a makeshift bandage.
His face was overgrown with the beginnings of a beard, and the hair on his head was matted and filthy, caked with dirt and forest debris.
The Ambrose of two visions ago had been civilized.
The Ambrose that crouched before me now was more creature than man.
How much time had elapsed between the last vision and this one? How long had it taken for such an extreme change to be wrought? Days? Weeks? Months? There was no real way to know. All I knew was that the difference was startling.