‘That has to be it. Hamlet will be with Helena. You’re trying to tell me I’m right, aren’t you, Ophelia?’ Cynthia gently extricated Ophelia from her neck and held the ferret in front of her, looking into her pink eyes. The fear she saw flashing there mirrored her own. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll bring Hamlet back, safe and sound.’
Ophelia calmed in Cynthia’s hands so Ellie could gently reclaim her familiar.
Cynthia grabbed her half-boots and shoved her feet into them, not bothering with stockings. ‘You need to tell Clio and Thomas right away. Thomas can alert Scotland Yard, and they can bring help.’
‘You aren’t coming with me?’ Ellie’s lips trembled.
Cynthia didn’t have time to comfort her friend. She raced to the door, which was still being held shut by Ellie’s witchwind. ‘You saw it yourself, Ellie. Helena and I face Sinclair together. I don’t have time to waste. I must go to her.’ She looked at the door, then back to Ellie expectantly.
‘Oh dear. Yes, of course. Silly me.’ Ellie waved her hand and the gust holding the door instantly ceased, leaving behind the scent of sugar and sage. The door flew open and a disgruntled footman fell to the floor in a heap. Cynthia stepped over him, running for the stairs. ‘Escort Miss Blair to my brother’s house. Immediately!’ she called over her shoulder, not waiting to see if the man heeded her instructions. Ellie could handle the footman herself if he didn’t comply.
Cynthia called for the carriage and nearly crawled out of her skin counting the seconds until the landau rocked to a stop in the drive. Before the driver could jump down to set the step, she flung open the door and leapt inside, shouting directions as she imagined all the terrible things that could be happening to Helena. Terrible things that she couldn’t prevent because the stubborn, infuriating, ridiculous woman had rejected her.
‘When I rescue you from this mess, Helena Blair, we are going to have a serious discussion about your misguided notions on love.’
Now, she just needed to determine exactly how she was going to rescue her spirit match from the Devil of Seven Dials.
Helena was dying. Her powers seeped out of her, and her vision refused to focus. She didn’t know how long she had been shackled in the hellish room, but she knew she couldn’t withstand the unrelenting heat for much longer.
Her hands were pulled over her head, and the leather ties around her wrists cut into the skin. At least they weren’t metal. In such a hot room, chains would have singed her skin to blackened char.
Surely her aunt and cousins would avenge her. They would ensure Damien Sinclair paid for killing one of their coven, but her heart ached to imagine their grief.
And what of Cynthia? Helena would never see her face again. Never watch her hazel eyes flash with humour, or see her skin turn luminescent with newly found power. She would never kiss her lips, taste the salty tang of her skin, hold her and feel her heart beating in tandem with Helena’s.
She’ll never know how much I love her.
Because as she faced the stark reality of death, she could no longer hide from the truth. She had fallen in love. Despite her oath. Despite her fear. Despite seeing the devastation love left in its wake.
That wasn’t love. What Mother felt for the blacksmith was a desperate desire. And what he gave to her in return was a poisoned need to possess. Not just Mother’s heart or her powers or her magic, but her very soul.
How painfully cruel that Helena only understood the true nature of love when it was forever out of her reach.
Cynthia would never try to possess Helena’s soul. She didn’t need to. Because their spirits were intertwined. They were laced together in a tapestry woven before time began. And the love she felt for Cynthia could never warp or twist into something monstrous. It was the only source of light in her darkness. The only reason not to hang her head and succumb to death’s cloying promise of freedom.
When I die here, goddess, let my soul linger. Let me watch over my love until her days are done. I will gladly suffer the hollow loneliness of a spectre’s existence if only I can be near my lady.
A sudden wash of cool air cut through the dry heat, carrying with it precious moisture. Blinking hard, she tried to clear her vision in the dimly lit room as a dark figure stepped in front of her.
Damien Sinclair had shed his coat and waistcoat. He wore only a linen shirt and breeches. Within moments, the furnace of a room had sweat sheening on his brow and dampening his clothes.
‘You bastard!’ Helena meant the words to be full of wrath, but they emerged as a dry croak of sound she barely recognised.
‘Hardly the tone to take with a man who holds your life in his hands, Miss Blair.’
She narrowed her gaze, forcing her focus inward, desperately reaching for the gush of magic within her, and finding nothing but dust. If she had the breath to spare, she would have screamed.
‘I’m sure you’re wondering why I have you here in a room that is hotter than hell and more arid than an Egyptian desert.’
‘Because you’re the Devil’s whoreson.’ The venom got lost somewhere between her parched throat and scorched vocal cords.
‘Did you win your sweet lady with such compliments? Perhaps I should ask ’er.’
Fear welled inside her.
‘Don’t you touch Cynthia. I swear to the goddess if you dare breathe on her, I will rip your lungs through your throat. I will steal your screams and sharpen your tears into daggers. I will cut your heart into a thousand bloody pieces and damn your soul to the wastelands for all eternity.’ A glimmer of power still remained, and her voice resonated with the last vestiges of magic simmering in her blood. She struggled against the leather holding her hands over her head.
Another blast of cool air washed over Helena. She absorbed the hints of moisture like a desert succulent extracting water from the sand.
