Holy gods. Loren was trembling so badly, it felt like the earth was shaking beneath her.
The Well replica was a six-feet-deep tank made of material so black, it sucked up the light. A scent rippled from the contents splashing within, like that of violets. The few bulbs illuminating the room buzzed and flickered, and time seemed to slow, as if cowering under the presence of the prima materia.
The floor tipped beneath Loren knees, speeding up and then dragging. Veins of energy zipped from the earth’s core far below—from the anima mundi—and into the Well’s molten chamber.
Food for the Creature of the Gods.
Randal said, “Let’s get started, shall we?” His eyes turned black, and he picked her up as if she were a doll and threw her into the Arcanum Well.
Water and chemicals splashed as Loren was sucked under, pulled into the Well as if by a magnetic current. Loren held her breath, kicking for the surface that seemed so, so far away. Pain barrelled into her as someone’s magic—Randal’s—was poured into the Well.
The obsidian-like chamber of the Well replica electrified with bolts of blue and white as Loren broke the surface of the chemicals at last, gasping for breath. The Well glowed with power, and it felt like lightning was zipping into Loren’s body.
She arced her back, her spine nearly snapping from the force of how hard her body moved against her will.
The pain grew, and she threw her head back and screamed.
—
Randal’s magic wouldn’t let up.
For what seemed like an eternity, he poured his magic into Loren, driving her aura out of her body. Streams of white and rainbow light poured from every inch of her in tiring bursts, snapping back into the human body that was her aura’s vessel again and again, like a rubber band. Her body convulsed with each blow, limbs jerking as she lay buoyant in the contents of the Well, the scent of violets sharp in her nose.
Another wave of magic had her back arcing until it felt like her spine had split in two; had her fingers digging into the curved inner wall of the Well so hard her nails cracked from the force. Tears streamed down her face, mixing with the blood that was pouring from her nose.
She’d never felt anything like it. Never felt pain quite like Randal’s raw hellseher magic barreling into her, where it set her blood on fire—set her aura to screaming.
Until the magic stopped.
And a different, far worse sort of pain swept through her as she lifted her head to see Darien, with only his Familiar Spirit at his side, walking into the room.
53
“Darien.” His name was a broke whimper on Loren’s breath.
Darien almost lost it at the sight of her, soaking wet in the contents of the Well replica, blood leaking from her ears and nose. The delicate skin of her throat was splashed with bruises Darien knew would match up perfectly to someone’s fingers—to hisfather’sfingers, he’d be willing to bet.
Darien’s eyes turned black. “Let her go.”
Ears erect and teeth bared, Bandit stepped forward, awaiting his signal to attack.
“Not until we have what we want,” Randal crooned.
From the look of terror on Loren’s face, and the sheer agony gleaming in her eyes, Darien knew his father was using his own magic as a claw to grasp either her mind or her heart with his piercing grip. It was just as effective as holding a gun to a person’s head, and Darien knew that if he made one move—if he even attempted to dispatch this area full of fuckheads—Randal would kill her. It was a powerful type of magic Darien himself sometimes used on his own targets; he could lacerate a person’s heart into a pulp without laying a finger on them. Though it came with a risk not many hellsehers were willing to take, including himself; it used so much magic that it increased a person’s chances of contracting the Tricking tenfold.
But his father, having already fallen sick with the Tricking, had little concern for the things that could harm him. The damage was already done. And Randal, having honed his crafts for over a hundred years, was faster than Darien when it came to using this gift.
Which was exactly why Darien let the black dissolve from his eyes. He relaxed his hands that were trembling with rage at his sides and forced himself to concentrate on breathing. Theyhadto survive this.
Loren had to survive this.
“Whatever you want,” Darien gritted out, “I will give it to you. Just let her go.”
“Make her use the Well,” Calanthe said, where she stood like a statue by the river. On either side of her were Emilie and Christa; neither of them would look at him. They were cowards—they were both cowards. Also among the group was Lenora Aldonold, a member of the House of the Blood Rose—the person Calanthe claimed had gone missing. He couldn’t believe how much of an idiot he’d been these past few months. Calanthe continued, “We know she can do it, Darien Slade. And you’re going to tell us how.”
Darien’s mind spun, and his heart raced as he looked about the room, searching for something—anything—that might even their odds. But he came up empty, his usually sharp mind nothing but useless putty.
“We’re waiting, Darien,” Randal warned. Loren’s eyes were becoming bloodshot, every breath she took drawn through clenched teeth.
