by Donna Grant
Leoma’s heart missed a beat as Jarin’s words made her think of Braith.
“Though the history of the place has been forgotten, the feeling of death and despair around it keeps others away. I suspect that’s why the Blood Skull was most likely brought there.”
“An attempt to keep it hidden,” Leoma said.
Jarin glanced her way. “Unfortunately, it’s a place that draws witches like those in the Coven.”
“Is the skull displayed for all to see?”
“Legend tells that it was buried.”
She absently stroked the horse’s neck. “The Coven must have found it.”
“Possibly.”
“But you believe we’re going to the place where the Blood Skull is buried?”
Jarin inhaled deeply before releasing the breath. “It’s a guess, and right now, that’s all I have.”
“It’s more than I had. It doesn’t matter what the place is or why they want Braith. I’m going after him.”
“You must love him very much.”
Her mind went black as she thought over Jarin’s statement. She thought of Braith, of his beautiful eyes and strong arms. Her body grew warm just thinking about the passion that had erupted between them.
When she looked at Jarin, he gave her a half-smile. “Ah, I see you have yet to realize the depths of your feelings.”
“Why do you say I love him?”
Jarin shrugged and tilted his head. “I saw the way you fought by his side. I watched as you realized what the witch at the castle intended, and I saw your determination to reach Braith. You were ruthless in your endeavor to find him. Such passion and motivation develop deep within a person who already has a strong, solid connection to another.”
“I’m going to find him,” she stated.
“You’re going to do more than that, Hunter.”
Chapter 26
Cold. It surrounded Braith, battering him on all fronts. His limbs refused to obey no matter how hard he tried to move his arms and legs. And he knew why and who caused it.
Eleanor.
The witch hadn’t bothered to keep her name from him. In fact, she had been most forthcoming in telling him all about herself. As soon as she’d mentioned she was on the Coven’s council, Braith knew his foe was formidable.
No one questioned Eleanor. Not the witches at her command, and certainly not the overweight man doing his best to keep up with the rest of them.
While Braith fought against the icy fingers surrounding him, he let his mind drift back to analyze what he could remember in the hopes that he could break through whatever magic the Coven used on him this time.
He recalled how he’d been all too aware of how Eleanor quickened her pace. He was shocked that a woman of her age managed such swift speed. Then again, she was a witch.
For hours, he’d listened to her drone on about the greatness of the Coven. The less impressed he looked, the more she talked. He tried to ignore her, but she never took the hint. He walked ahead of her, but she quickly caught up. He even attempted to lag behind, but not even that worked.
Braith kept putting one foot in front of the other, all while taking note of the eight witches and cataloguing which ones seemed to fear Eleanor the most. He knew once he developed his plan that his very last target would be the man. It wasn’t as if Walter moved very fast.
When Leoma reached him—because Braith refused to even consider that she was gone—they would unleash Hell upon Eleanor and her witches.
Braith itched to feel the weight of his sword in his hand, to heave it at Eleanor’s neck and watch the blade slice through skin and bone.
Her persistent talk of the Coven and how wonderfully grand they were was driving Braith daft. Each of her words was like a knife being plunged into his body. He took it until he couldn’t listen anymore.
Since she made sure to remain near him, it was no great feat for him to maneuver beside her. As she spoke of how all witches would soon beg to be part of the Coven, the last of his control snapped.
He reached over and locked his hands around her throat and squeezed. He was bombarded with magic. It slammed into him from all sides, but he didn’t release his hold. He turned Eleanor and forced her onto her knees as she clawed at his hands.
Pain exploded through his body. But it was the look of fear in her gray eyes that gave him the most satisfaction. Even with his strength failing from the onslaught of magic, he tightened his fingers.
Suddenly, he was forcefully hit in the chest by something cold. His fingers slipped from Eleanor’s thin neck as he was propelled backward. Wind rushed around him, drowning out the bellows of the witches.
And then everything began to tilt so that he was looking up at the sky before he crashed into something. His breath left him in a whoosh, but an instant later, his head slammed against something hard.
Darkness dotted his vision as Eleanor stood over him. She said something as she held her hand over him. And that was the last thing he remembered.
Until now.
Until the cold.
“Can you hear me?”
He tried to pull away from Eleanor’s voice, but his body was still not his own.
“Ah,” she said with a laugh. “You can. That was a good attempt to kill me. A very good attempt.”
He wanted to see where they were. Everything sounded different. No longer did he hear the birds or the wind. Wherever they were, it was silent as a tomb, except for the distant drips of water.
He stood frozen and began to gain back his body. To his shock, his eyes opened. It took him a moment to adjust to the darkness around him. Was it night? No, it was too damp.
Eleanor’s laugh came at him as if from a great distance. He blinked several times to clear his vision and saw two small flames ahead of him, hanging on something. Torches. There were torches.
His legs abruptly gave out, causing him to crash onto his knees. Even as agony shot through him from landing on stone, he attempted to move his arms forward to catch himself. Just before his face hit the ground, his hands were there.
Braith squeezed his eyes shut and pushed himself onto his hands and knees. His body was thawing from the persistent cold, but he couldn’t hold back a shiver from the dampness that seemed to sink into his very bones.
He looked to each side but saw no sign of Eleanor or the witches. What he did glimpse was water, vast amounts of it. The dark liquid rippled slightly when drops from the walls hit the surface.
Braith straightened on his knees and let his eyes wander the massive cavern. He knelt on a smooth path about four feet wide that was laid out straight before him toward a large, dark shape situated between the two torches.
On either side of the track was water. He couldn’t tell how deep it was or even how far it extended. A glance over his shoulder showed a rocky platform, a doorway, and another path.
How had he gotten here? What kind of magic did Eleanor use that made him lose so much time? He pushed aside those questions because he would get no answers. Instead, he got to his feet, his attention drawn to the torches.
He knew Eleanor wanted him to walk to the lights, but he wouldn’t do it. Whatever the Coven sought, it couldn’t be good. And he wasn’t going to be part of it.
Braith took a step back. No sooner had he moved than he doubled over and grabbed his head as images poured into his mind as if a dam had broken. They barreled through his brain one after the other, showing blood and death. Hundreds of bodies torn and ripped to pieces.
The land laid to waste, blackened by fires and dripping with blood. The sky was a deep red with dark clouds rolling in ominously. He choked from the smell of burning flesh.
Then he was walking on bones. Hundreds of thousands of them. He heard screams. Then he heard his name.
He reached out as he recognized Leoma’s voice. But the image of her being burned alive made him recoil in horror. The sight of her remained in his mind even as he was shown more and more destruction.
Finally, he threw back his head and bel
lowed, his arms out at his sides as he dropped to his knees again.
“Braith.”
He bent over and slammed his fist against the rock in utter frustration and weariness.
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
The whispered voice was soft, seductive. He opened his eyes, and the images stopped.
“You have the power to break the pact. You, born in battle. You, who have lived amongst death, who was bathed in blood. Only you, Braith.”
He lifted his head and looked at the dark shape before him.
“The dead await you. They nip at your heels, eager to pull you down with them.”
Braith got to his feet. The words were coming from everywhere. And nowhere. They were all around him—and in his mind.
“Your death will come not by blade, but by the hands of witches. They seek to use you. But I know what’s before you. I’ve watched you since the moment you came into this world, screaming in fury.”
“Who are you?” he asked as he began to slowly walk forward.
“I am night. I am blood. I am death. I have walked beside you all these years.”
He felt the pull of whatever was ahead of him, but it wasn’t magic being used. It was something more primal, something he didn’t want to ignore.
As he drew nearer, the torches blazed brighter.
“You’re on a path you cannot walk away from. You were always meant to come here.”
“I don’t understand,” he said with a shake of his head.
“All will make sense soon. Trust my words.”
He glanced at the water to see it moving on either side of him as if something were gliding just beneath the surface. But he wasn’t afraid. The voice was right, he was meant to be here. He felt it.
The closer he got to the dark shape, the more he was able to make it out. A long, thick chunk of rock rested on a large, squat boulder. On either side of the slab were two massive columns that stretched high above him.
The light from the torches allowed him to see the carvings on the pillars and the altar. Each design told an ancient story whose meaning felt just out of reach.
He returned his attention to the altar and saw two handprints. He knew that’s where he needed to be, and the closer he walked to the slab, the more certain he was.
Braith lifted his hands and laid them on the rock. Immediately, a crimson glow seemed to ignite from within, shooting light from between his fingers and around the edge of his palms.
The red light flashed in his eyes before moving toward him. It made him feel as if he were flying through the air. All he perceived was the scarlet radiance and the rocks around him.
Then he saw it. The skull. It sat in a small chamber deep beneath him on a rock, blood continually flowing from the eyes, nose, and mouth.
Braith yanked his hands away, and the light faded. He looked at his palms to see that they were covered in blood. Even now, blood followed him.
He walked behind the altar to the column on the right and traced an etching of a spiral. Then he made his way to the other pillar and traced a trinity knot.
A dull red light began to shine from each of the markings he traced. The beams met before pointing at the wall behind him.
Braith followed the light to find nothing but a wall. Yet he knew what was below, he knew what awaited him. He closed his eyes and walked forward. When he opened them again, he was in a narrow passageway. The only illumination was that of the red light that had brought him this far.
But as he descended the steps, the crimson glow grew brighter. He reached the bottom of the stairwell and turned to the left where the illumination originated. There, he spotted the skull.
“You found me.”
“You still haven’t told me who you are.”
“Who I once was matters not. It’s what is coming that you need to be worried about.”
He moved toward the skull before circling it, watching the blood flow from its orifices to run down the pillar into a channel cut into the rocks that drained somewhere. He thought of the water he’d seen in the cavern and wondered if he put his hand in it if it would be blood.
“You doubt.”
“I swore not to help the Coven, and yet I’ve done just that.”
“I am but one of four pieces. One piece does not a war win.”
He frowned at her words. “You want me to bring you to the Coven?”
“It is the only way for you to live. And you are needed. Leoma needs you. I need you.”
“None of this makes sense,” he said and looked down at his bloodied hands.
“The Coven does not know I’m able to talk with you. Nor can they. If you want to defeat them, you must trust me.”
He squeezed his eyes closed a moment. “Just tell me what I need to know.”
“Trust my words.”
Braith stared at the skull, looking into the holes where the eyes used to be for a long time. A decision had to be made. Either he left without the skull, which meant his death—as foretold by the skull.
Or he gave it to the Coven.
Was he being duped by the witches even now? Was magic being used on him? He knew what the Coven’s magic felt like, and what hovered around him now was nothing like it.
He reached for the skull and put his hands on either side of it. Dozens of voices began to fill the area in a soft cascade of reverent singing, some tones higher than others, the sound beautiful and powerful. And terrifying.
“Trust me.”
Braith took a deep breath and lifted the skull.
Chapter 27
The dirt was cool against Leoma’s fingers as she kept close to the ground while creeping toward the rock formation. She saw nothing that would suggest it was more than a group of boulders, but she followed Jarin just the same.
The warlock’s lips flattened before he swiveled his gaze to her. She came up alongside him and looked over the rim of the hill. Her gaze locked on Eleanor and her company of witches.
“The man with them is Eleanor’s husband, Walter,” Jarin whispered. “He’s a duke, which gives her the clout she needs in London.”
No matter how hard she looked, Leoma couldn’t find the one person she searched for. “Where’s Braith?”
“Inside.”
She refused to believe that he would so easily do what the Coven wished of him. “Alone?”
“It looks that way?”
“Why?”
Jarin sighed as he looked at her. “I know no more than you.”
“I have to get down there.”
“There are eight witches, plus Eleanor. And just two of us.”
Leoma glanced at the wolf. “There are four of us if you include Andi and Valdr.”
Jarin’s smile was slow as it filled his face. “The witches will be expecting you, but not me.”
“We use that to our advantage, then. I’ll attack first. Let them believe they’ve overtaken me. Then you strike.”
He lifted a blond brow high on his forehead. “You trust me to have your back?”
If she wanted to find Braith, she would have to do just that. “Aye.”
“Whenever you’re ready, then.”
She crawled back down the hill until she could stand without being seen. Leoma put her hood up and withdrew her sword. When she turned around, she saw Jarin watching her with his pale blue eyes.
“I would ask something of you,” she said.
He gave her a nod. “Name it.”
“If I die, do I have your word you will continue to help Braith? Will you promise me to protect him until you can find another Hunter?”
Jarin closed the distance between them. “Braith is to become a Hunter?”
“It’s what he said he wants.”
“Then you have my word.”
Her head swung to the side when she saw something out of the corner of her eye. She stood still as the wolf came up beside her and sniffed her hand. His yellow eyes met hers briefly before he walked to Jarin.
“He likes you,�
� the warlock said.
Leoma studied the magnificent animal. “You’re lucky to have such a companion.”
“Aye.”
There was something in Jarin’s gaze that made her frown. A sadness she didn’t expect. As curious as she was about it, she didn’t have time to inquire.
“We’ll be ready,” Jarin assured her.
She turned and walked around the hill to come at the Coven from the side. Her heart was in her throat. Of all the times she had fought witches, none mattered more than this battle.
Not only because they were after the Blood Skull, but also because of Braith. He was decent and kind and...special. He was strong and imposing, resilient and fierce.
And he held her heart.
No matter how many witches or councilmembers she had to fight, Leoma would not leave him to face whatever was within the boulders alone.
She kept her gaze on Eleanor as she approached. The witches noticed her immediately, but it was Eleanor who smiled as if excited by the prospect of their encounter.
Leoma stopped and faced the eldest witch. Though fear slid icily through her veins, she refused to let it take her. Too much was at stake.
“You’re too late,” Eleanor said with a grin.
Leoma looked into the lined face of the councilmember, keeping her expression impassive. It was imperative that no emotions be revealed in her face, eyes, or tone. “For what? You’re still here.”
“Braith is ours,” a witch said.
Eleanor jerked her head to the side and hissed at the witch, her mouth forming a contemptuous sneer. After the witch lowered her head in deference, Eleanor’s gaze returned to Leoma.
That small display of reprimand showed Leoma just how controlling Eleanor—and most likely the rest of the council—was of the lesser witches. It was just as Edra had said it would be, but seeing it firsthand was eye-opening.
Eleanor lifted her chin to look down her nose at Leoma. “You have no magic, child. Why would you come after us?”
“Someone has to stop you from killing innocents and taking children.”
“The children are a necessity,” Eleanor said.
Calm. She had to remain calm. “Why?”
