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“At one time, that line of ink had words. While I was mortal, I was bound to them—to serve them. They used a stone to live off my energy—keeping them young. This symbol tied my magic to the stone. Along with several others like me. My mother sold me to gain more strength. They granted her more power by offering her an old stone, one they couldn’t use anymore, but it still held trapped power.”
He takes a deep breath, releasing my hand, but I continue to study the symbol, tracing the lines of it with my finger.
“That’s why I don’t have a last name. Slaves at that time weren’t allowed to have more than one name as an identity.”
My heart clenches, and I fight the tears in my eyes.
“What did they make you do?” I ask weakly, worried about the answer.
He laughs bitterly while moving to sit down on the bed beside me, and my fingers tingle upon the loss of physical touch.
“That list would take too long to share, and I’m not sure you want to have those images in your mind. Is there something else you’d rather know instead?”
I don’t have to know those details to piece together the mystery. And I shouldn’t have asked.
“Sure. Um… How did you get free?”
There’s no laughter this time, but his smile is just as bitter. “When my immortality was approaching, I had no choice but to break free or die. If they allowed me to live until I changed, then the stone lost its power. My survival instincts kicked in.
“My powers were growing daily despite the fact they were draining my magic. I was stronger than the rest, and I knew it. That meant it was my responsibility to save us all. And I did. I managed to blow through our cells. The crests used were no longer strong enough to hold me back. The stone wasn’t easy to get to, and I had to be ruthless to get it, but I did. I got it, and I destroyed it. But before I found the correct stone, I first grabbed the wrong one. It was a dead stone with lost lives attached to it. I touched it… Everyone who had died, all the powers tied to the stone by them, ran through me and took root. That was unexpected, and that made me much more powerful than I already was. I suppose it might have just replenished the powers that had been stolen from me.”
He looks so crestfallen and guilty. As though it’s his fault everyone was trapped there.
“When the stone was destroyed and the powers were returned, a mutiny ensued, and all the enslaved ones rose against the coven. It might sound cowardly to you, but Hannah—the coven leader—was asleep when I killed her. I couldn’t risk facing her while she was awake. She was so damn strong, and her heart was black as coal, rotten to the core.
“I took a knife to her bed chambers, and while she dreamt, I slammed the blade into her heart, buried it to the hilt, and twisted it for good measure. It was the first time I spilled blood. When her eyes popped open to meet mine, I stared into them until they fell lifeless, just so that I could be sure she was dead.”
Talk about a messed up start to life.
“Why in the hell did you ever speak to your mother again after that?” I ask before I can stop myself.
His grim smile comes before his long sigh. He drops to lie down on his back, putting his arms behind his head as he stares at the ceiling.
“I have asked myself that a hundred times. Or maybe a thousand. I lost count. But after I broke free, I kept trusting the wrong people. I had more power than I knew what to do with, and I was initially afraid of who I would hurt. I chose dark magic as opposed to light because I wasn’t sure who would accept me, and I didn’t realize what light magic meant. I assumed it was all good, and I had killed to escape. After being used and betrayed numerous times, I finally tracked down the first person to ever betray me. I had to be taught to use magic by someone.”
I lean back, tilting my body and resting my weight on my elbow as I look down at him.
“But you never trusted her.” It’s not a question.
“Hell no. Besides, it was her sister who really taught me. My aunt was all I really had, and eventually, making my mother’s life hell became a fun pastime for me. My aunt helped with that as well,” he says fondly, and I grin.
“It took me a while to find either one of them,” he says on a long sigh. “I had to make a lot of hard decisions and wrong choices to finally find myself again. And I suffered my fair share as well.”
He looks so in control of all his emotions, and I envy him for that restraint. He suffered worse than I did. Much worse. And I never would have known if he hadn’t told me.
Vulnerable is a really good look on him.
“You almost define the term tortured soul.”
He smiles up at me, and I look down at the few inches of space that divide our bodies.
“I suppose I do. It could have always been worse. I’ve heard worse, actually.”
“Do you talk about this often?” I ask, trying and failing not to look over his chest and abs.
“Never. This is the first I’ve spoken of it since my aunt started training me.”
That has my head snapping up, and I cock it in confusion.
