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I stomped at the vine, attempting to break off the offending portion of the plant, but the vine was impervious. Resorting to the use of magic, I attempted to send a blast of energy toward the vine, but nothing happened. I summoned my powers, only to come up empty—no telltale tingling in my palms or buzzing in my veins. I had no magic. While my attention was distracted by my loss of power, a set of vines whipped out and seized each of my wrists faster than any typical plant should move, even in Faery. I yanked viciously as I cursed, but instead of the vine shredding to pieces, it snaked itself around my arms and legs. Once it secured its grip, it began to pull me in all four directions with astounding force. I screamed out in blinding agony. Without any leverage to fight back, I couldn’t do anything to counter the vine’s attack. My joints protested with unimaginable pain as they were pulled farther and farther apart. Even my skin grew taut with tension as the tissues inside me began to snap and tear. Panic warred with pain to control my mind. My body was being ripped apart, and there was nothing I could do. I had no magic, no one with me to help me, and no ability to defend myself. I was helpless, and I was going to die. All I could do was watch in horror as my left arm tore free from my body. With a scream of desperation, I shot awake. I was in the guest bed in Morgan’s house, drenched in sweat and panting as if I’d been running for my life. I didn’t think I had actually screamed, which was a relief. I had no interest in explaining myself to Morgan. Taking a series of slow, deep breaths, I attempted to settle my racing heart. I lay back on the damp sheets to absorb the nighttime serenity like a soothing balm. That was not the first time I’d had the dream. There were only a few other instances over my long life, but the scene was too haunting not to stick with me. The dream was clearly meaningful, but I fumbled to grasp its significance. It was so profoundly disturbing and realistic that it had to be rooted in some memory of mine, but I couldn’t access that part of my mind. The impotence of being a prisoner of my own brain was maddening. Had the dream been spurred on by my visit to Merlin and our discussion of my lost history? If so, what should I take from the dream? Was there something so dark and terrible in my past that it would be best left hidden? Or was the dream a reminder that my need to uncover my memories would haunt me forever if I didn’t learn the truth? Were the red flowers just symbolic of the Red Caps and the vine a metaphoric representation of the torture that had broken me over the years? Or had it drawn from something else entirely? I tried never to think about the monstrous Unseelie Red Caps. When I did, hatred permeated my being, causing rational thought to escape me. As much as I wanted to leave that part of my past behind me, it seemed hopeless when so many questions remained unanswered. Would it be worse to chase after an impossible dream—such as finding the cauldron—or to live in the shadows of my prior life? In the early years, I had tried every natural method available to recover my memories. I couldn’t imagine that anything going forward was likely to do the trick if nothing in centuries had managed to trigger my memories. Merlin had said the cauldron was the only possible source of magic that could force my mind to unveil its secrets. Chances of getting my hands on it were slim to none. But a slim chance was still a chance. It frustrated me to no end that I couldn’t let it be, but I couldn’t. I needed to know, and the uncertainty would eat at me for the rest of my life, which could be a very long f*****g time. OceanofPDF.com Chapter Six OceanofPDF.com MORGAN AFTER ARGUING WITH KNIGHT, I locked myself in the bedroom and didn’t speak with him for the rest of the day. My one sighting of him had been from a distance. I caught a glimpse of his retreating form heading into the woods not long after I had stormed off. The front door had opened, and I peeked out the window to see what was going on, not lingering any longer than necessary. I didn’t ogle the triangular shape of his torso where his broad shoulders tapered down to his narrow waist as he walked away. And I certainly didn’t stay up well into the night, waiting to hear the door click open upon his return. That would have been absurd. Why did I care what the mongrel did? I wasn’t his babysitter. I never heard him come back to the house, but Knight was sprawled out in the bed when I walked by the second bedroom the following morning. He had left the door open. Otherwise, I never would have noticed him. The only reason I ventured down the hallway was because I’d heard a strange noise. A girl can never be too careful. He lay on his stomach, arms encircling a pillow held to his chest beneath him, the sheet draped to cover everything below his waist. I lingered a moment to check for weapons or any possible threats. Once I was sure he didn’t have a knife strapped to his bicep, or a gun secured to his bulging lats, I wiped the drool from my cheek and hurried to the kitchen. Wanting to be as hospitable as possible, I decided to whip up a healthy breakfast. It was the most important meal of the day, and I hated to start the morning on an empty stomach. In my vigor to provide a healthy meal, I might have accidentally slammed a drawer or two and clanged a few pots together. Not long after I got started, Knight prowled into the kitchen. He had pulled his long hair back with what appeared to be one of my hair ties and wore a loose pair of pajama bottoms slung low on his hips. I glanced his way in acknowledgment but otherwise ignored his presence as he came to stand next to where I worked at the stove. “How thoughtful of you to make me breakfast,” he rumbled in a voice so gravelly I could feel each syllable deep in my belly.
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