The priest retrieves a jewel-handled athame from the stone altar and presents it to Hunter. Candlelight glints along the polished blade.
“Kneel, Westlyn,” the priest commands.
I close my eyes and swallow the bile rising in my throat.
Most modern spellcasters who follow the old wedding traditions have eliminated the blood binding ritual, and with good reason. It’s demeaning and disgusting, not to mention dangerous.
The shadow magic society has no such hangups. They’re patriarchs to the core, and nothing brings them more joy than putting a woman on her knees before a man wielding a weapon.
Ignoring the churn in my stomach, I kneel at Hunter’s feet and bow my head.
What’s that whooshing sound? Oh, just the last of my dignity swirling down the drain…
“Westlyn, repeat after me,” the priest says. “I, Westlyn Patricia Avery, willingly bind myself to Hunter Forsythe on this night in the presence of friends and family and the gods and goddesses whose blessings we now call upon.”
I recite the words, each one stealing a little more of my soul.
“I hereby submit to Hunter’s will,” he continues, “and vow to honor, obey, and serve him in all things magical and mundane, from this night until we are parted by death.”
Again, I glance over my shoulder, seeking my father.
Again, I find no love. No sign of sorrow or regret. Just a worn-out mage undoubtedly relieved to finally shed the burden of a magic-less daughter and a mountain of debt.
I return my gaze to Hunter’s shoes. The priest’s words are a faint echo as I recite them without feeling, my heart as dead as my soon-to-be-husband’s eyes.
“Raise your hands,” he commands, and I do as I’m told. Hunter grips my left wrist, and I brace for the pain I know is coming next.
“I, Westlyn Avery, offer my blood as a symbol of my commitment to you,” the priest says.
I take a deep breath, forcing the tremor from my voice. “I, Westlyn Avery, offer my blood as a—”
“Holdstill.” Hunter jerks my wrist and cuts a quick, deep gash across my palm with the athame, making me gasp. Even the priest seems caught off guard by his abruptness, but when Hunter begins speaking his part without prompting, the priest doesn’t intercede.
“I offer my blood as a symbol of my power and strength,” Hunter says, releasing my wrist and making the same cut across his own palm. “Through my sacrifice, I bind you to me.”
He tosses the athame to the floor and grabs my hand again, smashing our palms together.
The instant my blood mingles with his, I feel it—a sharp, painful tingling that chews through the wound and straight up my arm. I cry out as it sears across my chest, quickly spreading to the other arm and throughout the rest of my body.
In a matter of seconds, it feels like my veins are burning, like some inexplicable dark fire is consuming me from the inside out.
“Let go!” I cry out, struggling against his hold. “Let me go!”
Hunter only clamps down harder. Too strong, too relentless.
I try to stand, but Hunter wraps his other hand around my throat, a vise grip that has me seeing stars.
No one in the cathedral moves to help me. No one says a word.
“Something’s wrong,” I choke out, my eyes imploring the High Priest to intervene. “It’s not supposed to—”
“Finish it, old man,” Hunter grinds out. “Bind her!”
Ignoring my pleas, the priest lifts his arms and calls out, “By the bonds of blood and magic, with the blessing of the old gods and the new, so shall this oath be… be…” He trails off, the final proclamation unfinished, his gaze shifting to the eves. “Morrigan be damned,” he whispers.
My blood is boiling, my vision turning gray at the edges, but I manage to follow his line of sight.
There, perched in the eves above, are my ravens. Silent but for the gentle fluttering of wings, they don’t so much arrive asappear, as if they’ve been hiding in the shadows all along.
