Page 142 of This Vicious Dream

My lips twitch. “Why is it you think I need this? I don’t have a past life.”

She sends me an impatient look. “That’s exactly what someone who can’t remember their past life would say.”

Eamonn stretches. “She has a point.”

I give him a hard stare. “I’m responsible for her mother’s death. Her aunt worships someone who wants to hurt me. And you want me to drink her tonic?”

Fliora grins at me. It’s a surprisingly charming grin, and it reminds me of the brief smile her mother gave me. “It sounds bad when you describe it likethat,” she admits. Her expression turns serious. “I’m having visions too. Not as many as my mother…” her voice catches, and her eyes glisten.

“One of those visions told you I need to learn about a past life.”

She nods, wiping at her eyes.

“Drink it.” Eamonn’s voice is low, insistent, and my skin prickles.

A strange sensation washes over me. A sensation that’s not quite dread but close to it. It feels as if I’m at a turning point in my life. Choose one way, and I can go on as I have. Choose the other, and my life will fundamentally change.

I’m not sure I have the strength for another fundamental change.

And yet I can feel time ticking down.

“Will it help me stop Calysian?”

Fliora shrugs. “All I know is my aunt wouldn’t want you to drink it.”

Her face flashes in my mind, and I can see the cold fury in her eyes when she looked at Calysian.

I glance at Eamonn. “If this is poison, I expect you to avenge me.”

Eamonn pads closer, angling his head as he gazes up at me. “Trust may not come easily to you, Madinia, but I’m asking for it with this.”

“Calysian—”

“This could be the key to saving him. Drink.”

Fear curls in my body, even as both of them stare at me expectantly. Taking the flask, I suck in a deep breath. The tonic is bitter, sour, and somehow…smoky. I gag once, and then I’m swept away.

We walk slowly, filing into the temple—ten women, all of whom have devoted our lives to our goddess. The marble floor is cool beneath my bare feet, the air thick with the scent of sacred oils—the faint tang of copper lingering beneath.

Fires shift and tremble in the braziers, making shadows dance across walls etched with the stories of Anarthys, goddess of fire and sacred sacrifice.

One by one, my sisters walk down the aisle toward our goddess. Even after so many years, I barely dare to breathe as I approach, bowing my head.

The goddess Anarthys may not be known for her mercy, but sheisknown for her power. All of us were plucked from our small mortal lives as children, purely because we were pleasing to her in some way. While we may not have been given a choice to serve, we were rewarded with the gift of reincarnation.

We will serve her in this life, along with all others.

Anarthys sits on her gold throne, her head canted as she watches us. Her long blonde hair tumbles down her back, her green eyes so vibrant, they seem to glow.

Someone snorts. The sound is so out of place in our goddess’s temple, I stiffen—as do several of my sisters. Two men stand at the temple’s entrance. Both are shockingly handsome, and both radiate the kind of power that makes my knees weak.

Gods.

They step into the temple, ignoring our gasps. The one on the left is blond, with pale blue eyes and a vaguely pleasant expression. It is as if the one next to him is his image in reverse, with dark hair and eyes, his expression indolent.

“Is all this really necessary, Anarthys?” The darker one asks, waving his hand to encompass the entire temple. His eyes meet mine briefly before moving on, and yet my cheeks flame, and I shift my feet as one of my sisters hisses a breath.

We are not supposed to gaze at men. Anarthys made that much clear when she took us.

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