Page 128 of Claim Me
But I do have a lot of excess energy,I think, sensing the chilly essence of the death plane crawling over my skin. It’s all about souls, the power rooted in spiritual energy.
And Issy is lingering at death’s door,I realize. The machine is literally keeping her alive, her heart likely having slowed to a dangerous rate.
I check her pulse to confirm, my jaw tightening.
This is fucking cruel.
The patriarchs lack humanity, their goal to control everything and everyone around them regardless of the cost. This is no different.
They used Issy to control me, and the second they felt it no longer worked, they put her in this frigid coma.
Ihatethem. They’ve held dominion over me for too long.
But not anymore.
I have a new loyalty now—a loyalty to myself.And to my mates.
Stars, they must be so confused right now. I wish we were telepathically bonded like my sister and me, but we’re not.
However, I can feel them in my chest, our bonds pulsating with life.
And power, I realize, frowning.Is that related to the death plane or something else entirely?
I can sense their souls, at least the three I’ve officially mated myself to. Only Nolan is missing, yet his essence is lingering near my own, almost as though his spirit is circling mine.
It’s a strange feeling to sense my soul bonds in this way, but it’s also second nature. Because souls are the literal root of my power.
So where’s your soul?I think at Issy, my gaze narrowing.Where did the patriarchs put you?
I walk back over to the metal table she’s lying on and place both my hands on her torso, near her heart.
Where are you?I demand, my eyes falling closed.You can’t be far…
The death plane appears around me once more, but it’s different now. It’s… less cold. And there are no hooded figures this time. No death stone to bow over. Just an expanse of eerie landscape, the array of rocky tombstones reminding me of a graveyard.
More wisps of power linger in the air, resembling a frosty fog hovering near the ground.
I wander through the cemetery, noting the names along each of the graves.
Many of them are ones I recognize from the past—former witches who have all died.
A few, however, depict live witches.Future gravesites?I wonder.Do I have one?
From what Issy has told me, our souls add to the magic in this plane. Both when we’re alive and when we’re dead. Perhaps that’s the link?
I wander through the morbid courtyard, reading each name as I pass. The gravestones are all in pristine condition, the surfaces smooth and appearing freshly engraved.
It’s almost eerie how perfectly spaced each one is, too. How picture-perfect the entire scene is… until it’s not.
There’s a noticeable deviation ahead. A cracked surface. One that draws me forward with interest.
Amala,the tombstone reads, the last name indecipherable due to the cracked marble.
My brow furrows.
I’ve never met Amala, but I’m familiar with the exiled witch. The patriarchs made an example of her shortly before my forced mating to Klas. Apparently, she refused to follow their orders. But rather than kill her, they banished her.
And cracked her stone?I wonder, frowning.Why?
