by Sadie Moss
Why does it feel like this? Why does his touch ignite a craving in me that’s almost beyond reason and control?
I’ve never been with a man before, but I’ve been around plenty of them, and none of them have ever affected me like this.
I want… something. I can’t even articulate what it is my body is demanding, but it fills me with a sweet ache, making my lower half feel flushed and swollen. My toes curl against the smooth, cool floor as my body vibrates with the effort of remaining still. Of not pressing myself closer to him.
As if he can sense my need, Callum’s movements slow, becoming more purposeful and deliberate. His pupils are dilated, the green of his irises nearly eclipsed by the pure, deep black. He wraps the towel around me, and I clutch it desperately as he sinks into a crouch at my feet and moves his hands over my legs.
His bare skin against mine makes a flurry of sparks dance through me. He’s not holding the towel anymore—he’s not trying to dry me off. He’s just… touching me.
His large palm caresses my calf, spreading the droplets of water that cling to my skin. Calloused fingers trail upward, sliding up my thigh, leaving absolute devastation in their wake.
A small, involuntary noise falls from my lips as my core clenches, and the noise seems to shock Callum out of an almost trance-like state. He freezes, turning his gaze up to meet mine.
Then he surges to his feet, towering over me again as a fresh wave of emotions pour out of him. The anger is stronger this time, eclipsing the desire. And there’s something else now too.
Regret.
Without offering a single word, without a backward glance, he turns and leaves.
I stare after him, my breath still coming in hitched gasps. My fingers dig into the soft fabric of the towel, holding it tightly around myself as if it’s a shield that can protect me in this strange, confusing new existence I’ve been thrust into.
But I have a feeling it’s far too late for that.
9
I wait an agonizingly long minute before I pick up my discarded clothes and leave the washroom, as if by waiting I can put more time and space between me and Callum. My knees are wobbly when I finally enter my bedroom to find it empty.
Letting out a shaky breath, I stare around the cool, dim room, clutching my dust-stained dress to my chest. I didn’t think to ask if there were clothes here for me, and the thought of putting on my dirtied and worn dress makes me cringe.
I cross to the armoire and open it, wondering if there’s something inside that I can wear for now. Old clothing of theirs, perhaps. But there are no men’s breeches or shirts inside. Instead, the armoire is full to bursting with dresses. Fancy ones, much nicer than any I’ve ever owned or even seen in real life. Satins and silks in brilliant shades of blue, red, and gold. Every color of the rainbow, and a far cry from the drab grays and browns I’m used to wearing.
I pick a pale green gown with short, capped sleeves and a high waist, thrilled to find it fits me perfectly. As I step into a pair of leather shoes so new they creak when I move, it strikes me how strange it is that the men just happened to have a woman’s clothes and shoes in just my size.
Then again, it probably isn’t a coincidence or luck at all. I’m not in the earthly realm anymore. They could have used magic to stock my closet.
Nish, that could have been why Callum showed up at the washroom door. Maybe he was in my room delivering clothes.
Shoving aside that memory before my skin can catch fire from the heat inside me, I locate a brush in the washroom and smooth out the knots in my hair. Then I twist the entire straw-colored mass into a chignon and secure it with a pearlescent comb from the vanity.
I peer into the washroom mirror one final time, and I don’t even recognize myself. My skin looks fresh and dewy, and there’s a rosy tint to my cheeks that looks fetching with the green dress. I’m not sure whether to stay in my room and wait for one of the men to come back for me, or to venture out on my own at the risk of getting lost.
That thought is vaguely terrifying, but so is the idea of being cooped up like a prisoner. Staying put isn’t my preferred method of doing anything; I’m not some wilting flower who needs a man to show her around. They may own pieces of my soul now, but they don’t own me.
Outside my bedroom door, I pause to remember the path Callum took to bring me here before beginning to follow it backward. I gaze around, noting the wallpaper threaded with gold foil designs and the polished marble beneath my shoes. Fine art hangs on either side of the hallway, and I wonder if the men chose it themselves. They all act like warriors, but their home makes them seem more like noblemen, members of the elite upper class.
Maybe they’re both, depending on the needs of the time.
When I reach the first floor, I find Callum and Echo sitting in the living room, facing one another in opposite chairs. They’re both leaning forward, elbows on their knees and faces set in grim, hard lines. Callum stops speaking as I appear, and the two men look up at me.
Callum sits up straighter, but his face gives away nothing.
Echo, however, stands as I step into the room. A half-smile quirks his lips as his gaze moves down my body. “You clean up all right for a lost soul. Everything fits?”
I flush, not sure whether to feel flattered or annoyed by his compliment that isn’t quite a compliment. “Yes. Perfectly. Thank you.”
Callum stands, the movement sudden and almost violent just like it was when he surged to his feet before leaving me in the washroom. He doesn’t meet my gaze as he strides from the room. “Come. Dinner.”
I blink after his retreating form, my stomach clenching. Is it always going to be like this? I know none of the men are happy to have me here, but the massive warrior with the shoulder-length brown hair is the only one who seems to truly hate me.
He didn’t look like he hated you upstairs, a little voice whispers in my mind, but I crush the thought and shove it away, following Echo through the elegant archway that leads to the dining room.
Paris is leaning over the long wooden table, placing a dish onto the center of it. I assumed they have servants who cook for them, but I’m suddenly not so sure that’s true—a streak of flour is etched like war paint beneath his right eye. Maybe he cooked this meal.
He looks up when we enter and straightens slowly, his gaze catching on me as I hover just inside the doorway. His sky-blue eyes glint in the magical light that illuminates the room, and he steps closer to me, reaching out to trail a finger over the sleeve of my gown.
“You look lovely, Sage Thorne.”
I swallow. That most certainly is a compliment, and I find that I’m even less certain what to do with it than I was with Echo’s teasing comment.
“Thank you,” I murmur, my voice a little rough.
Callum nudges Paris aside none-too-lightly and yanks out a chair at the end of the table, motioning me over. “Sit.”
“Do you know, please is actually one of the most pleasant words in our language,” I remark, though I sit anyway. I’ve already tested my luck too many times today.
Echo snorts, choosing a chair to my right, and I think I see Paris smile as he heads off to what I think is the kitchen. Callum looks thunderous as he takes the chair at the head of the table, opposite my own.
Paris returns with a carafe of wine and another dish of food and begins pouring the drink into goblets arrayed around the table. There are four of them set out, which surprises me somewhat. I’m still half-expecting the men to tell me that lost souls have to eat from a trough in the barn.
“I hope you like roast,” the blond messenger comments as he picks up a carving knife and sets to work. The smells wafting up from the table make saliva pool in my mouth. I left my starving human body behind in the earthly plane, but apparently, my soul is still hungry.
“I’ve never had it,” I admit, eyeing the hunk of unidentifiable meat with curiosity. “My village survived mostly on forest animals. Bear, deer, squirrels, the occasional raccoon.”
Paris delivers the slice of meat elegantly to my plate between his knife and fork, surprising me once again with the grace and refinement these warriors possess. His brows pinch together as he cocks his head. “Raccoon?”
I grimace. “Yes, well, when you’re starving, you’ll eat anything.”
“I’m sorry you had to live like that,” Echo says, and he sounds like he means it.
Paris puts a large spoonful of potatoes and carrots on my plate beside the roast. “You’ll eat here, little soul. As much as you want.”
I look down at my plate, at the bright orange of the carrots and the little specks of rosemary dotting the potatoes. The savory scent of the roast makes my mouth water. “I’m surprised we even need to eat in the afterlife.”
Echo takes over serving himself, glancing at me as he does. “We do everything here that you would have done in your world.”
“You will sleep,” Paris adds, picking up his fork to join me in eating.
“And you can die.” Callum’s words cut the air, slicing through the moment of calm.
Echo and Paris glance at each other, then resume their activities without reacting to the man they call their brother. I doubt very much that they’re actually related by blood, if that’s even possible in this realm. But they certainly do seem as close as family.
“Is that what Kaius meant when he said he would extinguish me?” I ask, directing the question to Echo and pointedly ignoring Callum. The big man is watching me from across the table, his face an unreadable mask. He seems to be constantly at war with himself, tension pulsing from him in waves—I wonder if he’s always been like that, or if my presence is the cause of it.
Echo nods and places the carving knife back on the table to reach for the vegetables. “Yes, that is exactly what he meant. Don’t be concerned though. You’re safe here.”
“For now,” Paris says enigmatically, cutting his gaze toward Callum. His eyes soften as he turns back to me. “How’s your roast, little soul?”
He’s caught me with a mouth full of it, and I swallow quickly to say, “Delicious, thank you.” I wash the meat down with a sip of strong, sweet red wine. “Will I be required to cook for you?”
It is, after all, a woman’s prerogative. If I’m to be stuck here with them for the next several hundred years, I’d like to know my place. What’s expected of me.
“You’d have to pry that responsibility away from Paris’s cold dead fingers,” Echo says.
“It’s true. I love to cook. You won’t be required to do any of that.” Paris considers for a second, then adds, “But you can help if you like.”
His smooth, lazy voice has an almost hypnotic effect on me, and I’m tempted to take him up on his offer, even though it won’t be one of my official duties.
But that still leaves the question of what exactly those duties are.
“If not cooking, what will I be expected to do here?” I ask, spearing another small potato with my fork.
Callum slams his fist on the table, and all movement in the room ceases. “We don’t farsing know. We didn’t expect to pick up a damn wandering soul today. Just stay out from underfoot.”
Then he shoves his chair away from the table and stalks off.
Echo and Paris are sitting opposite one another, and the two men watch Callum leave before sharing a look I can’t interpret. We fall into silence after that, and the once-delicious meal tastes like ash on my tongue.
Humiliation prickles its way hotly up my neck as I force myself to swallow. How can this possibly be my afterlife?
10
It takes me hours to fall asleep that night, and when I do, I dream of home.
I’m walking down the main road through the village, but no one is around. The village is quiet and empty. The carcass of the bear we killed dangles from the rack outside the butcher’s shop, stripped down to its skin and bones. Blood puddles on the dirt beneath the mangled skin, still glistening wet, and the eyeball I sliced into with my dagger stares blankly at me, wrecked and ruined.
A figure appears in a nearby doorway—the Tulle household. It’s Kate, and her skin is sallow, dark circles carved beneath her eyes. A thin rivulet of blood runs from her nose as she throws a blood-soaked blanket out the door.
I try to call her name, but although my mouth opens, nothing comes out.
I’m a ghost here. I don’t belong to this world anymore.
The village seems to hold its breath as I pass through, and when I reach my mother’s door, I shove open the thin, flimsy wood. The fire in the hearth has gone out, and my mother’s cauldron is bone dry. It’s so cold inside, colder than we ever allow it to become, even in winter months.
Blood trails through the front room, and I follow it into the bedroom. Mother is kneeling beside Nolan’s bed, her fingers shaking as she cleans his legs.
No—cleans his stumps.
Both of his legs are gone.
My stomach clenches with horror, and I yell his name. But again, my voice is silenced.
I back away, blinking back tears at the sight before me. Then I turn and burst through the front door again, racing back down the dusty streets. Jacob and several of the hunting team are returning empty-handed from the forest, their faces drawn. Another body is lying in state outside the elder council meeting house. I rip back the black veil, hoping it’s me, but it’s not. It’s not even one body, as I first thought. It’s three. There are three children beneath, faces slack in death, their small frames nothing but bone.
Suddenly, I’m back at the sacrificial altar, floating above the clearing. Far below, the altar is soaked in blood and a figure lies crumpled atop it. I drift closer until I recognize the face, the blonde hair, the emaciated body. My dagger still juts from my rib cage.
My mother is there with several village elders. She’s wearing different clothing than when I saw her in the cottage, as if this is a different day, a different moment in time. Tears streak down her face as she rips the dagger from my torso. A flash of pain burns through my chest, and my corpse jolts.
I jerk awake in an infinitely dark room.
A gasp tears from my throat as I sit straight up in bed, flailing around as if I’m searching for something to anchor me to the present. That dream felt so real. Too horribly real. I could feel the knife being torn from my body. I can still feel it like a phantom hole in my torso.
My hand hits the bedside table, and something crashes to the floor. I think I knocked an object off the table by accident, but then something else flies past my face, so close I can feel the breeze, and smashes into the wall.
In my half-awake state and still half-trapped in the nightmare, I scream. More objects crash around me, and I leap from the bed, panic overtaking me. My legs tangle in the covers, sending me straight to the floor as something crashes beside me. I stand and whirl, my arms gesturing wildly in the air as I try to bat away whatever it is attacking me.
The overhead light flares to life. Callum, Echo, and Paris crowd into my bedroom doorway, postures tense and daggers in hand.
And I finally see what’s been attacking me.
Everything loose and mobile in my room now flies through the air in a vortex around me. All the dresses and shoes from my armoire; all the toiletries from the washroom. If it isn’t a piece of furniture or attached to the wall, it’s shooting through the air as if puppeted on strings.
I throw my hands over my head and shriek, even more terrified by seeing what’s happening.
Paris is the first to leap into action. Instead of going after the flying objects, however, he sheaths his blade and comes after me.
He slides an arm around my waist and lifts me easily, carrying me to the bed and tossing me gently atop the covers. He climbs on top of me, holding both of my arms down, and I scream even louder, because I have no idea what he’s doing to me.
“Sage!” he says, his voice loud and clear. “Calm down. You’re using magic.”
My shout dies in my throat, and I zero in on his face. The panic chok
ing me lessens—but only slightly. His words make no sense.
“Listen to me,” he says, releasing one hand to cup my face. His fingers splay over my chin and jaw, tilting my head to make me meet his gaze. “You’re safe. No one will hurt you here. It was only a nightmare. But you have to calm down to make this stop.”
I focus on his vivid blue eyes. They’re the color of the sky after a cleansing rain storm, and they only serve to make his perfect face even more devastatingly handsome. His gaze never leaves mine, and I can feel calming energy pouring out of him, infusing me through the bond we share. We stay connected like this for what seems like forever until all tension leaves my body.
I’m worn out from the dream and the terrifying awakening, and I go limp beneath his long, lithe form. He’s straddling me, bearing most of his weight on his legs so he doesn’t crush me beneath him, but I’m still acutely aware of every place our bodies touch.
He releases his grip on my chin and smiles. “That’s my girl. Lie still now.”
As Paris carefully peels himself away from me, Echo’s voice drifts through the now silent, still room. “Was she… using the weave?”
“I think so,” Callum says.
I’m still lying on the bed, terrified to move. I can’t comprehend anything they’re saying, except Paris’s warning to keep still.
I was the one making objects fly around the room? How?
Paris crosses out of my line of sight as he speaks, voicing a similar thought to my own. “How does she have access to the weave?”
Callum grunts. “I have no farsing clue. That shouldn’t even be possible.”
I sit up slowly and carefully, moving as if the air around me is filled with mousetraps. The three men are standing in a huddle just inside the room, staring at me as if I’m a sideshow.
“What’s the weave?” I ask, my voice little more than a whisper.
Echo’s arms are crossed, one thumb pressed to his lips as if he’s in deep thought. He takes in a breath, glancing at his brothers before he says, “The weave is the material of existence—all the threads of energy that bind everything together. Manipulation of the weave is how magic is performed. Plucking at the right threads produces whatever the desired result is.”
