Chapter 7
That no one could hear Ariadne’s thundering heart may very well remain a mystery never to be solved.
She grew more and more grateful for the variety of ways to communicate through the vinculum with each passing second.
If she were required to hear words, Ariadne was quite certain they would not register as they should.
Instead, she held onto the image given to her by Emillie.
How her sister had managed to connect herself to the silent line used between bondhearts, she did not know, nor was it the time to ask.
Rather, she was grateful for the link to her sister’s mind so she could find the book most likely to fit the proper description.
“Ari!” Camilla called and held up a brown leather book.
Through the vinculum came a distinguished feeling of displeasure before Emillie’s distinctive tone crept through, “No.”
Ariadne shook her head, unable to utter the same, horrible syllable yet again. She yanked a book free before shoving it back where it belonged, the moment that same unease crept through her despite it not being her own. Then another. And another.
“What was the title again?” Camilla asked, stacking the books beside her on the floor rather than replacing them.
Ariadne sucked in a breath, then said for what felt like the dozenth time despite likely having never explained, “It’s apparently in a different language that Emillie could not decipher.”
“You have gotten lazy with your grammar,” Revelie chided from the door where she kept a lookout, though when she turned in their direction, a sly grin spread across her face. “The King would be very displeased to hear such contractions.”
Casting her an annoyed look, Ariadne said, “I would be very displeased to hear even another word from the King.”
“Then keep looking,” Camilla hissed, a stack of books tumbling to one side in a deafening clatter.
The three of them froze in shock, waiting and listening. Only when there were no sudden footsteps did they move all at once. Camilla kept her search, Revelie clicked the door shut and turned the lock, and Ariadne pulled down another tome, her hope waning.
“Ari,” Camilla said again. “Look at this.”
The book her friend held aloft fit the image-based description given by Emillie.
Ariadne descended the ladder to give the black runes on the cover a closer look.
Runes that she had, in fact, become accustomed to during her time looking through the old dhemon texts Azriel had collected for her makeshift library in Auhla.
She frowned, unable to decipher if it was, in fact, the book for which they searched.
Yet it was at that moment that an unfamiliar flutter of excitement poured through the connection with Madan and Emillie. She pulled the book from Camilla’s hand and clutched it tight as the feeling of certainty grew. Then, all at once, the feeling disappeared.
“Is this not it?” Camilla asked.
“Open it.” Madan’s command struck through the connection. “Edira couldn’t hold on any longer, and now it’s my turn to decide.”
As instructed, Ariadne opened the cover. She scanned the title page, then flipped through a few of the following pages.
“Slow down.”
But anxiety spiked through Ariadne, bright and bold from her own heart. “I cannot.”
“I need you to look at each page,” he said, voice distant yet excited, “so I can see what it says. Emillie is certain this is it.”
Hope pumped from the spring into the dark chasm that had cracked wide inside Ariadne all those months ago. If this was the book, then they were almost there. But…what if the ritual was not in here? What if Emillie had been mistaken?
“Stop.” Another curt command from her half-brother had Ariadne bristling.
Annoyance had her slapping the pages to turn them. “If you do not stop telling me what to do—”
“No,” Madan said, his tone softer now. “I mean stop as in…” A moment of silence from him had her pausing. “Go back three pages.”
Now Ariadne did as instructed. She stared at the page of unfamiliar language, very few notes scrawled in the margins in common.
Of them, she made note of two in particular.
The first had her questioning whether Madan was correct in assuming this was the passage they needed, as it mentioned not only Keon, but the God of the Irem Tundra and rain, Bastien.
The second, a single word, had her questioning if it was something she could even do: tattoo.
Dhemons were not unfamiliar with the concept of inking their skin. Kall had borne many on his shaved head and face and arm. Lhuka and Gavrhil also bore designs, as well as many of those she had met amongst the clans that gathered in Auhla.
Vampires, however, did not hold to such customs. Caersans in particular.
In fact, the only markings on their skin were the veins on their necks and the salted punctures on their wrists to mark them as very much married.
To mar one’s skin was looked down upon and the reason for her insecurities surrounding her scarred back.
“What does it say?” Camilla asked, tilting the book so she could also look at the notes.
“Hold it still,” Madan said, “I’m writing it down.”
Before Ariadne could respond to either of them, Revelie crossed the room and hissed, “Someone is coming. I heard steps and—”
The latch to the door shook. Ariadne shifted her gaze up to the door, much to the annoyance of her brother looking through her eyes to read the page. But whatever he said was lost as her thunderous heartbeat once again drowned out his orders to return to the book.
“Ariadne!” A knock at the door. Loren’s next words were spoken with quiet control: “Open the door, my pet.”
Camilla groaned at the name, but her eyes lit with the same fear that now struck through Ariadne.
“Maybe if we say nothing,” Revelie whispered, “he will think we are not in here.”
Another knock, more abrupt this time. “Unlock the door.”
“The page Ariadne!” Madan’s voice slammed into her again.
Ariadne jumped, then forced herself to focus back down at the book as her friends stood between her and the door. Her hands shook, and she silently prayed to Keon to keep them all safe.
She prayed the God of the Underworld had not abandoned them as she had been taught to believe.
Another shake of the door’s latch and then the distinct sound of the side of a fist hammering on wood rather than knuckles. She knew the change of tone well from the years of her father’s scornings. Dread turned her blood to ice, yet still Ariadne kept her eyes locked on the page.
“Almost done.” Madan’s tone remained calm and steady as though he could feel the terror spreading through her as surely as she felt his own apprehensions.
“Ariadne!” The juxtaposition in Loren’s fevered shout had her stifling a whimper. She had trained for this but had not wanted to use the skills drilled into her by Kall when she was so unprepared. So weaponless. So ill at ease.
“Madan…”
He pushed silent reassurance through the vinculum. It did not stifle the ever-rising fear.
She could not face off against a well-trained soldier in a wedding dress and with two friends he could very well use against her. And he would. He would do anything to them if they tried to get in his way.
“Open this fucking door,” Loren snarled, “or I will break it down!”
The rush that swept through Emillie at the thrill of silently communicating with her sister outmatched any other of a similar nature.
To quickly and easily relay information with a mere thought had her wondering just how often those with telepathic connections used it.
She would never speak aloud again, given the opportunity to wield such power.
Yet all too soon the connection vanished, and Emillie was left feeling entirely too alone in her own mind.
The absence of the other consciousnesses had her reeling back into reality with a gasp of alarm.
Bright firelight had her squeezing her eyes shut and holding up a hand to block it from her sight.
“Are you alright?” Luce asked, first to her and then again, directing the question elsewhere.
Emillie cracked open her eyes to find Edira sitting slowly on a log beside Phulan and her collection of ritual items. The high fae held her head as though nursing a headache, but nodded to answer the question.
“There were so many in one place,” Edira explained. “Trying to keep them all straight was difficult at best and quite draining.”
“So many?” Luce looked between them, brows furrowing.
Edira chuckled. “No less than six in our direct chain of communication, plus all the others who made themselves known.”
From the dark area where Azriel was still being restrained came what almost sounded like a deep, rumbling laugh.
Emilie startled, having forgotten the massive dragon’s presence in the shadows.
His eyes glittered through the darkness at her, and she shivered at the attention.
She had done well at adjusting to each introduction to a new facet of her world, but dragons remained difficult to grasp entirely.
Dragging her attention away from Razer, she refocused on those before her. “She found the book.”
Phulan nodded, and a strange energy shifted in the air as the mage summoned her magic in preparation. Without looking at anyone in particular, she said, “We will need to move fast. There is likely very little time for Ariadne.”
Stilling, Emillie stared at the mage. “What do you mean?”
Those piercing amethyst eyes struck her. “You know Loren Gard probably better than any of us. Do you believe he’ll allow your sister to avoid him all day?”
Day. Emillie looked skyward where the midnight hues dripped away to pale blues and a golden horizon. She should be in the tent, not out here where she could become sunsick. Aegrisolis was not something she ever planned to catch.
“On my life,” Phulan said, bringing her attention back from the sky, “that stone around your neck will protect you. Madan is out here too, you see.”
Oh, she saw alright, and she hated it. As much as she desired to regain her days, Emillie did not appreciate leaving her safety up to a mere rock, no matter how much magic it possessed.
Emillie chose to ignore it as best she could and instead consider Phulan’s inquiry. No, Loren would not take kindly to Ariadne staying away from him, particularly on their wedding day. He had plans, she was certain of it, and those would not be ignored by anyone.
Without warning, Madan snatched the piece of paper and inked pen that sat next to Phulan.
He began scribbling in the common tongue, the penmanship messy and slanted as his eyes focused and unfocused on that which was right before them and…
what Ariadne must be seeing on the far end.
Except rather than runes, Madan translated and scrawled the instructions from the book in real time.
His brows furrowed and relaxed and furrowed again.
“A tattoo?” Emillie read over his shoulder. “That cannot be right.”
Zeke, however, appeared interested. He and Luce shifted to also look at the forming ritual on the page. After a moment, the elder lycan nodded and said, “This makes sense. There needs to be something that anchors them.”
“In L’Oden,” Luce clarified, “we use scarification.”
That had been one piece of information Emillie had not been privy to. She looked between them and the spice merchants, horrified at the prospect. “You said your ritual is done to infants.”
“It is,” Haen acknowledged.
“That is barbaric!”
Pol’s eyebrows shot skyward. “And forcing women into loveless and abusive marriages all for the sake of blood preservation isn’t?”
He had a point, but that did not mean Emillie had to like it. She looked to Luce again. “Where are the babies scarred?”
Silently, she turned her head and tilted her chin down. There, just below her hairline, was a pale, knotted scar in the shape of a leaf. Then the other fae moved their own hair to reveal the scars she had never seen before, all some flora variation.
After a long moment of working her mind around the tradition of harming an innocent infant, Emillie turned back to the page. “There is nothing about the tattoo’s contents. Would that not be why the tomb was needed?”
“It would be,” Luce agreed. “For fae, we use a specific salt gifted to Myridia by Silve to create the scarring, but it is usually paired with different plants from L’Oden as well.”
Emillie started to respond with Pol’s favorite—yet another question—when Madan went deathly still. His eyes widened, and he slowly lifted his head, turning in search of Whelan. In an instant, his partner was beside him, murmuring low to ask if he was alright. If Ariadne was alright.
“Take the collar off him.” Madan’s voice was quiet but strong.
At first, Whelan did not move. In fact, a dark shadow seemed to pass behind his eyes, and the dhemon glanced over his shoulder at Razer, who was already moving, giving Azriel space. The Dhemon King stood, turning his attention to them, his eyes burning like twin coals.
Speaking low, Whelan glared back at his friend. “What if he—”
“If you don’t let him go now,” Madan said, eyeing the key dangling from Whelan’s neck, “then Ariadne…”
The words did not need to be spoken. Dread dripped like ice into the pit of Emillie’s gut, and she had half a mind to take the key herself to free her brother-in-law from the magical band of metal that imprisoned him.
Still, it took too long for Whelan to stand, a long, sheathed sword in one hand.
His face turned stony with distrust, but he closed the distance between him and Azriel nonetheless.
The thin chain holding the key glinted as he lifted it from around his neck, navigating it dexterously around his horns.
When he reached Azriel, whispered words were exchanged just out of range of Emillie’s sharp vampiric hearing.
Whatever was said seemed to have the desired effect. The next moment, Azriel snatched the sheathed sword from Whelan’s grip and launched himself onto Razer’s back. In a great gust of wind, the pair disappeared into the lightening sky.