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It’s not the only spell in here that requires a sacrifice, but the things you’d have to do to the other person while they were alive, and it looks like theyhaveto be conscious through it all…
How could you stomach it?
How could you be the same person after you’d done it?
And yet, the things I’ve done, the countless people I’ve killed, whether I’d wanted to or not…
I close the book and toss it onto the bed beside me. I can’t keep obsessing about this. This book has been in my possession for less than a day and I already feel like I’m losing my mind trying to piece it together.
If Calla and Mom want me to do something with it, they’re going to have to be a hell of a lot clearer.
Unable to help myself, I flip back to the entrapment spell.
Would it be the same as killing? Or would it be a mercy, a way to stop someone else from causing so much harm? To protect the people on this side to ensure he couldn’t be brought back, that he couldn’t survive it this time, that his plans and attacks won’t stretch out for even more decades? So yet another Darkmore won’t be reading about wendigos and the psychosis a hundred years from now?
You could stop this, whispers a voice in the back of my head.
This isn’t the first time he’s done this, and if given the chance, this will not be the last.
My fingers still on the page. Is that why they chose the spell before this one? To control Westcott? To control his following?
I slam the book shut with a frustrated huff as there’s a loud knock on the door.
“It’s open,” I call.
Jones pokes his head in, grinning.
“Hey, Jones?”
He practically skips into the room, his cheeks flushed and eyes wide like a child on Christmas or something. “I have a full report,” he says, stepping to the foot of my bed, a folder held tightly to his chest. He blinks, the excitement in his face dimming as he takes me in on the bed. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m good.” I wave my hand, eyeing the folder. “Oh.” I point at it. I’d almost forgotten what I’d asked him to do, and I’d pretty much assumed he wouldn’t follow through with it.
He grins at what must be a baffled expression on my face as he drums his fingers against the folder. “I’m an eager student, what can I say? And I’m bored here, okay? Fucking rich people have too much downtime. I almost miss Cam barking orders at camp. Don’t tell him I said that.” He licks his finger then starts flipping through the pages. “Princess Anya Vasilieva…is completely and utterly clean. Seriously. Not a spec of dirt to be found. She is like the Russian estate’s sweetheart. There’s an online fan club. She’s on magazine covers. Runs some charity.” He pauses to set some articles and pictures on the bed so I can see.
“If she’s here for nefarious reasons, she has a very, very good cover.But. That’s from all of the official channels.” He wiggles his eyebrows and flips to another page. “According to the whispers aroundthesehalls, she’s pretty much kept to herself since she got here aside from official business. I overheard some of the humans talking about how there’s tension whenever she’s in the same room as another royal. They kind of treat her like an outcast. Her reputation back home is very bubbly and free-spirited…but here she’s been reserved and quiet. She spends a lot of time in the library and the gym, I’ve heard.”
I frown.Reserved? Quiet?Since she’s been here, she’s ripped a man’s spine out, then made a scene in a meeting with Auclair’s high-ranking officials because she wanted my damn seat. And she hadn’t been shy about speaking up in that meeting. But admittedly, I haven’t been around her besides those two occasions.
“I can keep digging,” Jones insists, shifting his weight side to side.
“No, this is good, Jones. Thank you.”
He sets the folder on the bed and heads for the door, but hesitates halfway there, biting his lip.
“What is it?”
He shrugs and shoves his hands in his pockets. “I’ve only seen her a few times around here, but for what it’s worth, to me she just looks…scared.”
The word hangs heavily in the air.
He shrugs, and I offer a lame wave as he heads back into the hall, then push myself out of bed for good measure, reaching for my shoes.
I may not have the strength for a jog right now, but the fresh air might do me good. And despite my complaints to Cam, training and getting my physical strength back has me feeling more like myself than I have in a long time.
It’s quiet out here today, quiet enough to hear the birds singing in the trees. My breath puffs up in a cloud around me, and a layer of fog clings to the ground.
I pace along the trail on the grounds, never venturing far enough that I lose sight of the estate, drumming my fingers against my phone, resisting the urge to text Reid about all of this.
