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And I’d shared that connection with Zyran just last week. And he passed it on to Jasper. Although, Jasper had no idea who Zyran was because of the memory alterations. But that’s a temporary issue.
Daithi had shown me how to transfer my power with a specific set of instructions.
“Contain any fallout, should your brother fail.”
It should have been me,I think with a growl.
But my power made it too dangerous for me to take on such a job alone. Just one death could send my power into overdrive.
The kind of death that a witch like Ishara Doyle was capable of would make me implode.
Still, I’d challenged Daithi over who should send the witch’s soul to the death plane when it was time. Now that he was dead, we ironically had a better means to control her.
Not that we gave Jasper the mute collar we had developed—he didn’t need it and it would be too risky for that kind of magic to fall into Gold and Garnet’s hands.
Because it could control us, too.
Although, now I regret my decision as I stare at the destruction on the screen. I admired my brother the mercenary, the one who survived every day, but could he have survivedthis?
My memories remind me why Jasper was left behind—not because of his strength but because of his usefulness.
“Do you think the patriarchs framed Jasper Justi for your murder for fun? He’s our link to the insides of Gold and Garnet. It was immensely good fortune that Ishara Doyle chose to retreat to Lapland. He’s destined for this sort of job.”
“It’s why he lives at all. Don’t forget that we control death—not you strange collection of necromancy-vampire hybrids. You’re abominations and are only still alive because you’re useful. Don’t forget your place.”
His order was simple enough. Kill the witch, then Daithi could tuck her away in the death plane for good. When his revival was completed, he could bring her with him and no obedience spell would have been necessary this time around.
She would have been bound to him in death.
But that’s not what happened at all. Jasper’s still there and…
Everything.
Is.
Dead.
“Jas is alive, Kor,” my brother says, likely sharing my concerns. “I feel him.”
If Zyran says he feels our brother, then Jasper Justi is still in the land of the living.
For now.
I turn from the screen and lean back in my leather chair. It doesn’t give very much. None of the things “gifted” to us by our latest soul-captor ever do.
Our world has been a cold, unforgiving place since we were children. I can’t remember much outside of New York, where we’ve been holed up for almost half of our lives.
But something deep inside of me misses Finland.
Misses the family I was supposed to have had.
A family I hope to one day get back.
“He’d better be,” I say, referring to our brother’s precarious situation of life, “or I’m finally going to chop off that asshole’s head.”
The death stone rattles in its pedestal as if it heard me.
Zyran clicks his tongue. “Don’t piss off our master. He’ll be back soon, and if you take his head, I’ll probably come back with two just to spite you.”
