Page 145 of Their Blood Rite

‘Sleep, Pixie,’ Shaw says softly.

‘Dream walk with me?’ I mumble. ‘I don’t want to be alone.’

‘Not tonight, Pix. But I’ll make sure you’re at peace as you sleep.’ He kisses my forehead. ‘Rest easy. We’re watching over you.’

My eyes close, and the gentle breaking of crisp blue waves greets me.

I hear Shaw speak somewhere in the distant fog of the real world.

‘We can’t wait any longer. We need to do this before she gets too powerful, gets killed, or we’re discovered. We almost lost the grimoire in the fire, along with the other items we need. If we don’t do this now, we may never get another chance.’

‘This cycle?’ Dorian asks. ‘That’s in three days. She needs more time. Her soul may not survive it.’

‘This cycle,’ Shaw agrees heavily. ‘She’s strong enough, Dorian. I know it.’

The bed is empty when I wake. The sheets are cold, and it’s clear I was the only one who slept here. I sit, seeing the beginning of sunrise through the window. I’ve come to enjoy sleeping under Shaw's control. Watching those waves on a perfect beach, a warm sun shining down on me. When he’s there, it’s better. A strange confession to make to myself, but a truth anyway. I enjoy his peaceful company when he gives it. When he lies beside me and watches the clouds. When he runs his fingers along my armor sweeps the hair from my face in a breeze. A breeze he creates. One to give him a reason to sweep my hair aside.

‘We can’t wait much longer. We need to do this before she gets too powerful.’

Did I dream that? I heard it. I’m sure. But I was sleeping when Shaw’s voice drifted on the sea breeze. I try to remember more of what I heard, but dreams are tricky to remember, often slipping through my fingers like sand.

Hunger drives me from my bed, and I head to the kitchens in search of food.

The halls are quiet. The walls are still stained black, and debris from the fire has been swept to the sides. As I pass an open window, I notice the residents who take refuge in the castle sitting together, drinking and talking about last night's events.

There’s a sombre mood to it. A grief.

They lost people. I saw at least two bodies as I sent the mud through the blaze.

The boys aren’t among those by the fire. I imagine they’re in the house somewhere, sorting out the mess my old coven caused. All to take the grimoire I stole from them.

‘We almost lost the grimoire in the fire, along with the other items we need.’

I remember those words, too. Mixed with the sound of gently crashing waves.

Dream or real? The grimoire was stolen. Those words make no sense to me.

I hear the distant sound of what I think is a scream. I turn, a chill travelling down my spine. Unmoving, I strain to hear it again. I do, and I run towards the sound. The idea of one of the guys being hurt fills me with panic.

Did one of my old coven stay behind to finish the job they started with the fire? To assassinate the guys? To make them pay for taking me? Protecting me?

When I reach the doors leading down to the cellar, it clicks open, and I'm sure I see the faintest orange mist fade.

The banshee? Is she here?

I hear another scream. It’s muffled but bone-chilling. My feet take me to the door, instinct and curiosity taking over, forcing common sense deep down.

I open the door fully and follow the steps down. The muffled screaming gets louder. I follow it all the way to the far end of the hall, past the room where the corpse of the earth witch I reanimated lay. Past three other doors made of solid steel, beyond which I have no idea what lies behind. The far door is ajar. It's from the slight gap that the pain-filled wailing drifts through.

I open it.

And everything inside me stops.

Shaw stands over a male who has been strapped to a stone slab. Dorian and Archie are on either side of the table, holding him down as he thrashes.

My father.

His body is battered and broken. Marks, both new and in various stages of healing, cover every inch. His fingernails have been pulled. His teeth shattered. His limbs are twisted, and cuts ooze puss from infection.

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