Chapter 2 #4
Not certain why I do so, I dip those same fingers in the blood weeping from the wound at my neck. Then I smear that blood — my blood — across the same spot.
The Cataclysm might smell that fresh blood when he returns … but he might simply assume it’s from the wound — his weeping bite mark — not the wall.
He gave me that hint, as unintentional as it must have been.
The idea that the blood of the Conduit could fortify a blade.
I goaded him about the blade he used to kill his brother — a blade that was still coated in blood when I found it buried in a niche at the base of the mausoleum in the family plot on my aunt’s estate.
That blood appeared fresh, even more than thirty years later.
No. It’s my estate now.
My essence. My power.
And my responsibility for it all.
The barest hint of essence curls around my outstretched fingers.
I swipe those fingers at the wound at my neck — each touch painful — transferring smears of blood over and over to the partially compromised wards.
I do that until I’m too weak to lift my arm.
Had it been my aunt’s blood on the blade that was wielded by one soul-bound mate to kill another?
How would Oso have gotten that blood from her?
And did she know? When she held that knife, when she interred that blade with the ashes of her mate, did she know it was her own blood that was used to kill him?
There is a reason that Gages are all cremated. We’re too powerful for our remains to fall into the wrong hands. But the ashes of the previous Conduits aren’t tucked within the niches in the family plot because once truly dead, the Conduit’s vessel returns to the universe. In its entirety.
Doesn’t it?
Whose blood is etched across all the flat surfaces of my prison? Again, my mind circles the answer, but I don’t latch onto it. Maybe I’m not ready to know.
Jewels touches my shoulder lightly to rouse me from my nap, though I felt her presence moving around the room many minutes before. The shock of suddenly being able to sense even a trickle of the shifter’s essence keeps me frozen in hope for a moment.
Just long enough for me to try to open myself up to the universe and have nothing reach back.
Shoving my disappointment away — I already knew I was going to have to save myself, didn’t I? — I allow Jewels to silently tug me off the bed and guide me into the adjoining bathroom. Not quite meeting my eyes, she gestures me into the walk-in shower.
I climb in willingly, noting that not only does the water work — it’s usually turned off when I’m alone in the room — but it also comes out nice and warm.
I might consider the white marble walls and floor of the bathroom the height of luxury.
If they weren’t attached to my prison. And covered in blood runes.
Anxiety rolls off Jewels as she reaches in to turn off the water, then bundle me in towels. I don’t have to be able to read her on an essence level to note it. Something has shifted, or something is about to shift.
We continue like that. She silently changes the bandage on my neck, then drapes me in more silk — a floor-length deep-green dress belted around the waist. Not another nightgown. Jewels is careful to not touch me skin-to-skin.
All the while, I watch, waiting for any hint of what has changed or what is about to happen.
I’m aware that only a day or so has passed since I goaded the Cataclysm about being unable to kill Rath.
The severed antler hasn’t been removed from the room.
I quashed the odd impulse to drag it onto my bed, but couldn’t stop myself from touching it — reaching for the essence buried deep within the bone — a few times through the following day and night.
I suspect the Cataclysm is right in saying that the antler could make a powerful weapon. I just have no strength to wield it as is, and no tools or skills to hone it into a spear or blade.
I haven’t passed out again. I’ve grown faint, weak, and needed to lie down, but I haven’t succumbed to that deep slumber that should be healing me but isn’t.
I’m also not strong enough to open the door. I can’t even lift the main latch. The runes aren’t the only element of this plush prison designed to keep me confined.
Jewels leans around me at the bathroom mirror and wordlessly hands me a blow-dryer that was already within easy reach.
But before I can question her, she reaches just a little farther and writes Soon on the still-steamy mirror.
A split second later, she scrubs her hand across the entire mirror, as if her intent all along was simply to clear it so I could see my reflection to dry my hair.
I don’t acknowledge the message, though it confirms what I’m already picking up through her anxiety. Jewels is going to try to get me out of this prison in the next few hours. She’s taking a massive risk.
She slips soundlessly from the bathroom.
I’m not certain I can protect her without the universe backing me. And I have no idea if I can count on anything in the immediate now, even if … when … I get clear of the cage custom built for me, built for the Conduit. I might have to fully heal to wield my essence purposefully again.
Is Jewels her given name or her club name? Not that I need to know her at all to take whatever opportunity she’s hoping to provide me … or maybe she’s warning me that these next few moments are my last chance to make something happen for myself?
I already know that name is what the Cataclysm calls her. His jewel — his Jewels, plural. For carrying his child. Another girl destined to be an awry like her sisters, Presh and Bellamy?
I might not be fully connected to my essence, but I’ve spent my life learning to read situations so I can twist them with a bit of luck. Or a curse, if the situation calls for it.
Jewels is trusted to interact with me only because she is also valuable to the Cataclysm.
She’s also trapped, though the footprint of her cage is obviously wider than mine.
Does she have allies on the other side of the door?
A plan? Or are the glasses of water — as helpful as they’ve been — the only way she could think of helping me without jeopardizing herself and her unborn child?
I blow-dry my hair without looking too closely in the mirror, thoughts rattling around unconnected in my head.
The Cataclysm is waiting for me when I step out of the bathroom.
Oddly, he’s wearing light-brown slacks and a white dress shirt instead of his MC leathers and cut.
The slacks are linen or a linen blend. The cut of the shirt, even without a tie, is odd …
old-fashioned maybe, with cufflinks and a wide collar.
He’s got his hair slicked back from his face.
For a brief moment, I see how much he truly does resemble his firstborn, Reck.
Then I catch his red-edged gaze, and I can once again see only the creature, the monster, barely hidden within that deceptively pretty exterior.
The lights are low. A dark-oak dining table and a sideboard have appeared in the seating area. The table is set with bone china and fine crystal. The sideboard is set with steaming dishes of food. The scent of barely cooked red meat hits me hard, and I struggle to stifle my reaction.
Jewels is gone.
The antler has also been removed. Presumably, the Cataclysm noticed he’d left it after storming off after his last feeding.
“Sit, Zaya,” he says, nodding toward a seat at the other side of the table and waiting to sit until I do, feigning being a gentleman now.
I sit before him without bothering to protest, because my only other option in the now is crawling back into bed or swaying in place on my feet. Showering and blow-drying my hair took that much out of me. But both of those options would make me too vulnerable when facing this creature.
His chair creaking under his weight, the Cataclysm pours red wine. I sip the water, my arm shaking under the weight of the liquid paired with the heavy crystal.
He leans back in the chair opposite me, sneering at the thinly sliced seared tuna set on the smaller of the plates stacked before him. “I’m pleased you aren’t wallowing pitifully in bed, Zaya.”
I don’t answer. I wasn’t voluntarily doing anything of the sort, but I also know the creature before me has strange ideas about the nature of our relationship.
He huffs, plucking some of the fish off the plate with his fingers and leaning back to drop it in his mouth.
I use the provided fork, folding the piece into something more bite-sized before consuming it myself. My stomach churns, but I’m not stupid enough to not eat.
“What are you?” I ask neutrally.
He smirks, taking a sip of the wine. “Shall I offer up my true name? It might be amusing to watch you try to banish me.”
Trepidation verging on terror runs through me.
I struggle to relax into it rather than have it show on my face or body.
There are only a small number of beings that would require ‘banishment’ from this world.
Unless he’s exaggerating, of course. Or trying to suggest that he’s possessing the Cataclysm?
Subsuming the soul in order to control the vessel?
I’m not well versed in any of that sort of lore — other-dimensional beings or necromancy.
But I knew … I knew from the moment I saw him step through that portal that he was other.
Not a man, not a shifter. And it’s not his connection to my aunt, to the previous Conduit, that has somehow … corrupted him from within.
I can feel my own pulse in my neck, throbbing against the wound — his bite mark. Why is he feeding from me? Intentionally draining my essence along with my blood? Is that the only way he can access essence?