Page 113

AMETHYST

The dream coalesced from the dregs of my mind like a boat breaking out of the fog hugging the shoreline. Awareness faded into my limbs over several seconds as I took in the foreign forest around me.

The trees were tall, as tall as the sequoias in California but twice as dark, their branches covered in a dark, broad leaf more like those Sloane had shown me of maples. The ground was teeming with life, small bushes and flowers blooming in the light cutting through the gaps of the canopy overhead. Birds called around me, long trills and a clacking beak similar to the acora but not identical.

Sweat beaded on my forehead as I stood there, trying to gain my bearings. My hair was pulled back, the ponytail brushing my neck as I tilted my head to look toward a rustle of movement to my right. My heart lurched into my throat, worry rising like a wave only to recede when the small fox scurried from one small bush to another. The eyes lacked the awareness that said it was a shifter like Joseph.

It was only with the turn that I realized I was armed as impressively as any of the guardsmen who traveled with the group from the Rite. A dagger was strapped to my left thigh, low enough it would be an easy grab with my right hand. Another was similarly positioned on my right leg, and two more were worn in sheaths attached to a belt cinched around my waist. A sword, its weight heavy and foreign, followed my spine, the hilt angled just over my left ear, positioned just like the dagger—easy to grab and use in the same movement.

The ground tugged at me, long tendrils of sensation that were so strong I swore I could almost see them out of the corner of my eye with each small adjustment of my feet. Each flex and swell had an unnerving sensation building behind my sternum, so similar to what the Zimerus Forest had felt like.

“Is this the place?” The no nonsense alto voice pulled me from where the fox had disappeared.

Two women stood behind me, similarly armed, their clothes covered with a supple, quilted leather armor I’d never seen before. Embroidery covered the chest and hem, owls and iris flowers interwoven with smaller stars and vines and small words in a language I did not know or recognize. Both women had white hair worn blunt to their chins and bright purple eyes deep set in a heart-shaped face with full lips and a narrow chin. Their likeness was so similar they could be twins. One kept flicking her gaze above and behind me, surveying the forest surrounding us.

I spoke without knowing what I was saying, my mouth not beholden to me.

“It feels like the others have.”

The one not gauging the forest around us nodded.

“Do you feel you’re close enough?”

Again, I spoke.

“Yes, it should be very near here if it’s like the others.”

What others?

The second woman, the one that had been watching the forest around us, focused on someone behind me.

“You feel the same? Or is it clouded for you, too?”

A deep male voice spoke from my side, warm and weighty and eliciting goose bumps along my skin.

“It’s clouded like your sense is. I can feel that it’s near, but that’s all.”

The woman’s lips thinned and then her gaze went back to watching the woods.

“She was right, then. Only the children can truly sense them.”

“It seems so,” the man said, clearly dismayed.

Displeasure and irritation burned through me at the tone. I turned my attention to him, and something I couldn’t quite name pitched in my stomach. His hair was the same deep black as mine, worn as long as Vincent’s, braided over one shoulder and tied with a utilitarian piece of tan leather. He stood only a few inches taller than me, similar in height to Arden and was similarly armed to the other two women: daggers on both thighs. He also had a bandolier holding several more sheathed daggers across his chest and two short swords sheathed on his hips. He wore a black pack on his shoulders, filled to the brim with what I knew were supplies—food and clothing and healing remedies outside of what blunt magic could manage.

When he realized I’d focused on him, he gave a soft smile that was a touch remorseful. “I’d rather not risk your life when they hunt for these places as diligently as we. I doubt they would hesitate to use you as they did the Alholím.”

My throat tightened and tears burned my eyes, though the emotion felt too big for the small comment. The man smiled again and then grabbed my hand, squeezing it once.

“You can feel it? Truly?” When I nodded, he blew out a breath. “If you’re sure, cárias, then let us begin. I do not want us in this forest for longer than necessary.”

My breath caught with the name, though I had no idea why. Silence was enough to appease him, though, as he pulled a small object from a satchel I hadn’t noticed on his hip, wedged just in front of the hilt of the short sword. The spear-shaped bloodstone glowed in the dappled sunlight, illustrious and bold against his palm.

I held my hand out, gathering my magic around me with a precision and ease I hadn’t managed in my lesson with Callum. It crackled along my arms, gathering in my palm. The earth tugged toward me, happily bending to my will, too. My hair lifted in a harsh breeze as I released the magic with a rough gasp, aiming it at the bloodstone. It grew impossibly brighter to the point I wanted to look away. Without missing a beat, the man closed his hand around it and murmured something I couldn’t hear over the sudden rustling of leaves and snapping of twigs on the ground.

One of the women cursed viciously and pulled the sword from where it sat against her spine, her other hand left empty. No, not empty. A flicker of flame sat in the middle of her palm, poised as she was. The other woman was slower but no less ready, her own sword held in both hands, her gaze locked on something behind me.

“Is it the howlers?” I asked.