It’s not wine, though. It’s my blood.
I’m tied to a petrified tree in the Forest of Iron and Bone, blood pooling at my feet, running down my naked body in warm rivulets.
I still can’t move my limbs, but I can speak now, move my eyes. I can feel pain.
Not from the boot to the face—no, that’s already healed.
But now, every time he cuts me, drains me, the wound heals, and the process begins again.
Super dramatic, I know. What can I say? The man has a fucking screw loose.
Every time the blood touches his lips, an image sears my mind—a bearded man in red tunic and tartan, sitting on a throne, a sword and chalice beside him. His hand his raised in the symbol of the horned god. He’s the High Priest of the Tarot, the Hierophant. But in this version, the one I see when Phaines drinks my blood, he’s dark, his eyes full of malice, blood dripping from the chalice, running down the blade.
“Spells of Iron, Spells of Bone,” he repeats. “Grant me her power to claim the one.”
“Has it occurred to you,Professor, that your spell game is weak as fuck?”
“Spells of Iron, Spells of Bone,” he continues, louder now, holding the chalice up to the moonlight, then taking another gulp.
I kind of want to puke.
But I need to keep it together.
First rule of survival: don’t freak out.
“Has it occurred to you,witch,” he says, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, “that you could make this easier on both of us if you’d simply give me the translation?”
He can’t read the books without me—I’m the only one who can see the secret spells. Somehow, he thinks that drinking my blood will give him access to my magick—that he’ll be able to read the spells for himself.
I really fucking hope that’s not the case. Because while he’s not the Dark Magician himself, it’s clear he’s working for the douchebag.
“Hmm,” I say. “How about… Not a chance in hell?”
“Then ritual sacrifice it is.”
He shoves a blade into my side, holds the cup for a refill. The world sways before me.
Come on, girl. This is no different than being caught on El Búho Grande in that storm. No different than any number of close calls you’ve had in the desert.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, bringing my heart rate down.
Second rule of survival: use what you have, use what you know.
Professor Nakata says a witch’s sharpest tool is her mind, and he hasn’t put a bind on that yet.
So think. Fucking think.
“I do hope you’re not waiting for your familiar,” Phaines says casually, and my eyes fly open, my face twisting in a terror I can’t hide. “Oh, yes. The poor snowy owl. He made an appearance earlier, but you were unconscious, of course, and I had to make an executive decision. Too many cooks in the kitchen—you know how the saying goes.” He gives me an exaggerated frown. “I’m afraid he won’t be returning.”
Phaines retrieves something from his robe—a handful of white tissue, soaked in blood.
No, not tissue. Feathers. Owl feathers.
Tears fill my eyes, but I bite back a howl of pain. I won’t give him the satisfaction—not now.
“Any time you’d like to share that translation…” he says.
“Fuck off,” I tell him. “I’ll die first.”
