"Save her?" Lochan's voice is a low rumble. "You're the reason she's in this mess. Your potion—"
"Is the only thing keeping Brigid from being completely erased by my old friend," Sirona interrupts, her tone brooking no argument. "The prophecy had to be fulfilled, but on our terms. Not the Council's. The prophecy is more complex than you know."
I can't hold back my anger any longer. "And you didn't think to warn us? To warn her?"
"Some paths must be walked alone," Sirona says, her voice tinged with sadness. "But now, the time for secrets is over."
She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small vial filled with a swirling, iridescent liquid. "This potion will allow Marius to retain his consciousness when the Raven King takes him as a vessel. He is powerful, but he is no god. So Marius will remain in control, in a way that Brigid could not."
Marius steps forward, staring at the vial. "And you're sure this will work?"
Sirona nods, her expression grave. "It's the same potion I gave Brigid. But as I said, you'll be able to retain more control, as the Raven King is not a deity."
"So what's the plan, then?" Rory asks, his voice tight with tension. "Marius becomes the Raven King and what? We just hope he can find Brigid?"
"It's more than that," Sirona says, her gaze sweeping across all of us. "The Raven King and the Morrigan are bound by prophecy. Two halves of a whole. Where one goes, the other will be drawn. Marius, as the vessel, will be able to sense Brigid's location."
I feel a flame of hope, quickly doused by suspicion. "And then what? We can't exactly fight a goddess. You saw what she did in the ritual chamber. How easily she slaughtered everyone." I see my father’s broken body lying on the chamber floor again.
Sirona's eyes meet mine, and I see something—empathy, perhaps—in their depths. "No, you can't. Even I cannot. The Morrigan is more powerful than me. But Brigid can."
The room falls silent as we process her words. It's Tiernan who breaks the silence."What do you mean Brigid can?"
Sirona turns to him. "Brigid is more than just a vessel. She is a descendant, her blood more potent than any who came before. She has the power to control the goddess, to bend her to her will. But she must choose to embrace that power."
The room is silent at this new revelation. It seems impossible, and yet... it makes a twisted kind of sense. Her power, her connection to shadow magic, the way the prophecy centered on her.
"And how exactly is she supposed to do that when the Morrigan's taken over her body?" I demand. I’m unable to keep the bitterness from my voice.
Sirona's gaze locks onto mine. "That's where you come in, Callen. All of you. Your bond with Brigid—it's more than just fate. It's a tether, an anchor to her true self. When Marius finds her, you'll need to use that bond to reach her, to remind her of who she truly is."
I feel a sharp ache in my chest at Sirona's words. Our bond... could it really be that powerful?
"And what about the Council?" Lochan asks, his voice gruff. "They'll be after her too."
Sirona's expression darkens. "The Council has played their hand. They sought to control the prophecy, to use Brigid as a weapon. But they've failed. Now, they'll seek to destroy her."
"Over my dead body," Marius says. For once, I find myself in complete agreement with him.
"So what you're saying," Tiernan says slowly, "is that our only hope is to let Marius become the vessel for the Raven King, find Brigid, and then somehow use our bond to help her overpower a goddess?"
When he puts it like that, it sounds utterly insane. But what choice do we have?
"It's madness," I mutter.
"It's our only shot," Marius counters.
Chapter Four
Brigid
I watch through eyes that aren’t mine anymore as Stacy Nangreaves gets out of her expensive car and adjusts the collar of her cream blazer. She’s parked in front of her parent’s real estate agency where she ended up working after high school. She works alongside her mother, a former beauty queen who wound up back in Newton after a few years in L.A., despite her best efforts. They advertise themselves with signs pasted on benches and stuck into front lawns, both of them brilliantly blonde with impossibly white toothy smiles. Neither of their smiles reach their eyes.
Stacy angles her head and watches as the Morrigan—as I—approach. Her coral-glossed lips curve into the same practiced smile she used when tripping me in the cafeteria sophomore year. "Well," she says, clicking her tongue against her teeth. "If it isn't... "
Her sentence dies. Confusion flickers behind those frost-blue contacts she started wearing after graduation.
Too late, I think. She smells the rot in the air even if she doesn’t know its name.
