Page 134 of Awry
I’ve done something I shouldn’t be able to do.
I tore the life force from another person.
I cut Chains’s life short — literally snipped his threads — by tearing his fate, his destiny, away from him.
I ignored aknowing, allowing Presh to fall into the trap that Chains— and the dire mage, I assume —set for her.Another of their traps.It was clear to me that I was meant to protect Precious and DeVille and Kris.And instead, I paused and saved dozens of lives from the cu-sith.
It wasn’t even five minutes.Not even five minutes off the path of theknowing.
And then …
I sit up.I force myself upright.
My head swims.
Hunched, I gaze down at my unmarked forearms settled limply across my lap.
I am the Conduit for all the life force — all the fate and destiny that flows through the world — yet I snipped threads last night.I remember the nudge from the universe, yes.But I still chose to do it, with only the barest hope that it would stop Presh from imploding as her awry power manifested under extreme distress.
Had it truly been a personal choice?
I swing my legs off the bed, stand, and slowly cross to the walk-in closet, catching sight of myself in the full-length mirror before I can look away.I look the same, but with a little bit of the weight gained back from dying on the beach.And I can see the bruises on my upper arms from when Rath grabbed me.
So I definitely didn’t die last night.
I strip off what I’m wearing and tug on the only other thing that’s likely to fit me among my old clothing.A calf-length dark-purple silk skirt, though it might have been longer on me in my midteens.The elastic waist is snug when tugged down to my hipbones.
I find a hand-knit sweater carefully folded in tissue paper.The ribbed collar is a silvery white, and large-petaled flowers of the same color flow down from the collar across the chest, back and shoulders, stopping midway.The rest of the sweater is a gradient of blues.A deep blue, almost purple, starts as a backdrop to the flowers, transitioning to indigo, then to a slightly lighter blue.Then the gradient reverses, so that the bottom hem is edged in that deep purple-blue again.
The knit fabric feels like cashmere, but paired with something sturdier.Merino, maybe?
I have no idea why I’m standing in the closet of my childhood bedroom obsessing over a hand-knit sweater.Except it’s a work of art and … and … I don’t remember who gave it to me.Who knit it?Who thought me precious enough to let me wear it?
I tug the sweater on over another lacy camisole.It’s perfectly slouchy.Though it’s slightly cropped and boxy, it will keep me warm.
I go barefoot because I’m not planning on leaving the house.I need … information.I need to know what I did last night, how it was even possible that I did it … and why …
Why didn’t my aunt tell me such things were within her power as the Conduit?Why didn’t she better prepare me?Explain the ramifications?
Except … maybe she never … maybe she never corrupted the power of the Conduit?Maybe she didn’t know?
And there is no one else to ask.No other expert.Not among the living.
I need to get into the locked drawers and the sealed armoire in the turret office.I step away from the closet to do just that, padding barefoot toward the hall.
Muta hisses after me pissily from the bed, but I ignore him.
A golden-haired, golden-skinned shifter is sprawled across the hall opposite my door.He’s found himself a pillow and thankfully some black sweatpants, but the rest of him is gloriously naked.
The sight actually stops me in my tracks.Stops my brain up.
Rought.
Is he guarding me?
There’s a chaise in the corner of my room.My bed is big enough for three people, even those of his size, but maybe he didn’t want to be in my space … uninvited?
An uncluttered web of tattoos — all black ink — spills over his shoulders, his collarbone, and what I can see of his back … feathers and claw marks and other things.But it’s the tattoo that sits over his heart that draws all my attention.
