Page 40 of Between Soul and Vessel
Soren looked down at the cup and studied it, the teeny-tiny cogs in his peanut-sized brain turning—looking for an escape plan, no doubt.
Enough was enough.
My voice cut through the silence. “You have two options here, Soren, do not think you have a third. You can drink it on your own or I’ll shove it down your fucking throat, cup and all.”
Folkoln chuckled.
Soren nodded so fast it was almost comical, and perhaps if I wasn’t in such a sour mood, it would have been. Eyes darting back to the cup, he raised it to his mouth and drank. Gagging, he lowered it and exclaimed, “Creator above, this is awful!”
“Funny, it didn’t smell that bad to me,” Ezra said, a bony, crooked finger reaching up to tap her chin. “I wonderif it was the—” She cut herself off. “Never mind.”
“Does he need to drink all of it?” Folkoln asked, enjoying every second of this.
Ezra lowered her hand back to her cane and nodded. “That would be best.”
“You heard them,” I told Soren.
He blew air through his lips, then, like a good mutt, he forced himself to swallow the rest, face contorting in anguish. When he was done, he slammed the cup down on the end table, sputtering and choking and trying not to vomit. After he regained control of himself, he raised the neckline of his shirt to wipe at his mouth.
Then, we waited. And waited.
After a while, Soren looked at Ezra. “Nothing is—”
His mouth slammed shut, his head snapped back, and light shot from his eyes, beaming up at the ceiling. A scream, horrific and unnatural, shredded through his throat with such force that blood bubbled from his mouth.
“What’s happening?” I asked Ezra, striding forward.
“He’s going to die! Fuck! He’s our only way to contact Sage!” Kaleb exclaimed, jumping up. He ran his hands through his hair, his body tense. Wide-eyed, he looked at Ezra then me. “What do we do?”
“He’s not strong enough.” Ezra placed her hand on Soren’s arm, whispering in a language I had not heard for many centuries. “Vee norhvic mor leann.” She repeated the words, over and over again.
“What is she saying?” Kaleb asked me with urgency.
But it was Folkoln who replied, “She’s lending him herstrength.”
Brightness shone from Ezra’s eyes, blinding my own.
She continued to chant. Each time she said the words, her voice weakened.
“It’s not enough,” I said, moving toward them.
“Von, wait!” Folkoln growled.
But it was too late because I grabbed Soren’s arm and began chanting with Ezra. “Vee norhvic more leann. Vee norhvic mor leann.”
White-hot heat scorched into my hand, like a brand upon my skin. It sunk into my palm, carving its way through my arm, up into my chest. There, pain exploded. My teeth gnashed as the force of it brought me to my knees.
“Fuck’s sake,” Folkoln growled. His hand fell on my shoulder, and he started to chant along with us.
The world around me blinked out and a new one took its place. I was surrounded by a roaring crowd, full of females, in some decrepit-looking arena.
But all of it faded away the moment I sawher.
Crumpled upon bloodstained sands was my mate. My Sage. My everything.
She looked like a ghost of her former self, her expression vacant, like she had already checked out. She was dressed in rags, hair matted and clumped. She looked thin. I ached to take her in my arms, to bring her back here, to cook for her, to brush her hair . . .
But I couldn’t do any of that.
