Page 21 of The Deathless One
Torture wasn’t something she thought she could survive. Though she was strong, she’d never really suffered in her life until recently, and… ending that suffering was all too tempting. Look at how easily she’d trusted a kind stranger just because Sybil had promised her a safe place to sleep.
Maybe she was alone here. This would be her prison and her tomb until she did what they wanted her to do.
Sighing, she thudded her forehead against the door. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” she whispered, sending the words out to anything that might help her. “I’m no longer a princess. No longer a daughter. I’m not a witch. I am nothing and no one, and I do not know what to do.”
The lock clicked and the door eased open slowly, drawing her head with it until she had to stagger forward into the hall beyond. Her eyescaught first on the moss at the edges of the floor where it met the walls, emerald green and dotted with tiny white flowers. Then she dragged her gaze to the woman on the other side of the door, her dark features creased with worry.
Sybil held out her arm, gesturing that Jessamine should walk ahead of her. “A witch is never alone.”
With a snort of disbelief, Jessamine staggered down the hall. “I find that hard to believe. Why is she never alone? Because other witches are always going to be with her?”
“No. Because any witch worth her salt has a patron, and that patron is always with them. Strengthening them. It is a gift as much as it is a… burden.”
She heard the weight in that last word. Turning, she made eye contact with Sybil and watched as the other woman’s eyes drifted down to her throat.
“What?” Jessamine found herself asking. “Did he make the scar worse?”
“No,” Sybil muttered. “But I did not think what he left behind was possible, considering you aren’t part of our coven.”
What could possibly happen now? She lifted a hand and touched her throat, gently stroking the scar there as though it might hurt to touch. But when she drew her fingers away, she was surprised to find them smudged with black.
Like charcoal. She rubbed her fingers together, letting the darkness smear from finger to finger. So it had been real. He hadn’t been lying to her.
He’d been in the room with her. The Deathless One had touched her, pulled her against his warm muscles and held her throat like he owned her. Like he had a right to touch her however he wanted, and she…
Hadn’t minded?
No, that definitely wasn’t how she felt. She minded very much. She didn’t like that he’d touched her at all, and that was the story she was sticking to. Even if it gave her a certain thrill to know that she must have a black handprint around her neck.
Sybil caught her hand, holding Jessamine’s fingers out to look at thesubstance still clinging to her. “Magic,” she muttered. “He left a magical residue on you.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.” The witch looked perplexed before she narrowed her eyes on Jessamine. “What happened in there?”
Jessamine quickly ran through what she had done, stammering her explanation for why, as though it made a difference. “I don’t want anyone to tell me what to do anymore. I have lived that way my entire life, and for once I just want to make my own decisions.”
The troubled expression never left Sybil’s face. “We need to teach you more spells. If he’s going to be like this as your patron, then you need to learn how to protect yourself. The gravesingers I knew centuries ago could connect with multiple patrons if they wished, but he is a dangerous one to choose. The longer you are with him, the tighter your bond will tie you. Do you understand?”
“Like a noose?”
Sybil flinched, but then gave her the smallest of nods. “You will want to avoid that fate.”
“Isn’t he your patron as well?”
The stiff silence was enough of an answer.
Jessamine turned her hand in Sybil’s grip, holding on to the witch now with what she hoped was surprising strength. “How can you stand to serve a god like that?”
With a wince, Sybil pulled herself free. “We all do foolish things for a taste of power, do we not?”
Jessamine found herself unsettled by the truth of that statement. As they walked away, she cast one more glance back toward that room of power and knew she would do more foolish things. Likely soon.
Because the mark of his power on her skin had only created more questions. And Jessamine wanted answers.
Her dreams were twisted, warped, and wrong as she wandered through a black landscape full of nothing. Just ink. All she could see were writhing figures, creatures of muck and mire.
“Jessamine,” they called out, reaching for her with hands whose fingers ended in clawed tips. “Jessamine, come to us.”
