Chapter8
1087 Words
Selene's POV
I’m tired.
I just want it all over.
Whatever they can do to break the moon oath I didn't make, they should do.
I just want to go home, soak myself in one of Alyssa’s medicines that smells like rotten fish but soothes the skin, let the world fade, and pretend tonight didn’t happen.
My back hurts. My whole body hurts. I feel cold and mortified standing in just my underwear. Although the mortification seems to be the least of my worries.
Witch symbols are the top of my priority right now.
Growing up in a hybrid house with witches, I learned early that the more complex and intricate a witch symbol is, the farther you should stay from the ritual scene. And if it’s a multiple-symbol ritual, it’s best to run.
Multiple symbols are safe fails. They mean the ritual can go wrong, and will most likely go wrong.
I hear Alyssa’s mum in my head "Go to your room, Selene. And don’t come out until either me or Alyssa comes to get you." I see Alyssa smiling at me, eager to learn the new spell. I smile back now, mimicking the number of times I've smiled for her.
A tear drops.
I want to go home.
“Graaa-vehth Morr-kaeee Vooor-a-then…”
Old tongue. Slurred speech. The witches’ trademark.
I hate the old tongue. It’s used mostly by witches, especially for rituals as ancient as the moon. It has a thousand little intricacies, witches say it one way, lycans another, even the vamps bend it differently.
A witch with fire at her fingertip pries me from Vey’s steady hands and I almost fall. She pushes me once to steady me, then leads me to the largest symbol on the floor.
I stare at the moonstones and find comfort in the way trapped moonlight swirls in them. It’s beautiful.
A group of young witches guides me to lie on the symbol. I don’t bother resisting, my whole concentration and energy is being spent on bearing the pain from the whip as I lie down.
The gentleness of the witch handling my head catches my attention. She’s unlike the others, who drag me as if I’d stolen their moonshine. I look up and my jaw falls open.
It’s Alyssa.
She shakes her head slightly at me, movement practiced, then joins the new chant without missing a beat, matching the others’ tempo.
Laid like an eagle ready to be slaughtered, I keep my eyes on Alyssa while six witches, her included, stand around me. They keep chanting.
They bring out a pouch…from…air? Then pour its contents into their hands.
Silver ash.
Wolves Nemesis.
My eyes widen. I yank my frantic gaze from the pouch back to Alyssa. She closes her eyes and opens them once , a signal to close mine.
I obey.
The chants swell around me.
I feel the ash prickle. It pierces my skin but it doesn’t really burn. The sensation is weirdly dissonant. I feel myself drowning within myself, like I’m swallowing my all of my edges.
I try to hold on to the surface but I can't. I sink and sink until there’s nothing left.
Then.....
I wake up.
Hard.
Like surfacing after drowning for hours. I throw my head over the bed to throw up and i end up on the floor.
I scream.
My back aches. My whole body aches. Everywhere aches.
A rude reminder that the whip wasn’t a dream.
I take a deep breath, trying to sit up through the pain, and pause. I sniff.
The air smells strange. Cold. Damp. It fills my lungs with worry. I raise my eyes to the wood above me, low and splintered, the ceiling pressing down. A narrow beam of sunlight slices across my face, blinding me for a heartbeat.
I try to stand quickly and my body screams, every whip mark answering as if the ritual is still happening. My breath comes ragged, angry.
Panic claws at me.
I don’t know where I am. There’s no faint sniff of ShadowCrest. What happened last night? I try to think but all I remember is the ritual, Alyssa asking me to close my eyes and the eerie feeling of drowning.
I close my eyes and try to remember, but I feel empty. Half empty. Hollow. Sad.
I try to rationalize it to the trauma of last night and....
“Damien.” I whisper. I wonder what happened to him, to Ashur. I reach for the link to my wolf, thinking of Damien’s deep sea blue eyes and the last thing he said at his house. He couldn’t wait to see....
No.....
There’s nothing there. No trace.
No link.
Nothing.
It's gone. Like it wasn't there.
Panic claws my throat. I scramble back against the wall, straw and dust scratching my skin.
The door creaks.
I freeze.
It opens slowly, like whoever is on the other side doesn’t want to startle me.
Or maybe they don't care if they do.
I don't know.
An old man steps in first. White beard, bent back, eyes that shine too sharply to belong to someone fragile. The room fills with the smell of smoke and bitter herbs.
Behind him, a girl barely older than me follows, clutching a clay bowl that steams faintly. Her eyes widen when they land on me, but she doesn’t speak.
The old man does. His voice is rough, like stones grinding together. “You’re alive.”
Barely.
I press myself harder against the wall, breath uneven. “Where…” My voice breaks. I swallow. “Where am I?”
The old man studies me for a long moment, unreadable, then gestures to the healer. She kneels, sets the bowl on a wooden stool, and reaches for me as if to help me sit up.
I flinch.
Her hand stills.
The old man finally speaks again, slow and deliberate. “You should let Lyra attend to you.”
Lyra , the redhead’s smile is small, but seemed practiced.
“You’re in Lycan’s Hollow,” the old man continues. “The council will want to hear your story when you’re up to it. They’ve grown tired of waiting.”
Lycan’s Hollow.
The name drops heavy into me, my stomach twisting.
I know that place. I know its stories. It was where the Draxmores were before ShadowCrest.
Why am I here? In Lycan’s Hollow of all places?
Was this Devlin’s doing?
It has to be.
“Tell Devlin I’d like to see him.”
- Writer
