Lycan followed instructions, laying on a large stone table in the middle of the space, feeling like a sacrifice. Underneath him the stone seemed to pulse with its own energy, and that fact somehow made the rest of it all seem more real. Maybe, in a way, he was a sacrifice, but he was a willing one.
He shook a bit. With nerves. Fear. Would it hurt? Maybe not physically, but what he learned? What would be worse, the coven removing the spells that held him or not being able to do anything at all? Lycan trusted the Pack, but as he lay still and vulnerable, he just could hope that trust was well-placed.
Too late now, he reminded himself, trying to seek out Seath from his limited range of vision from where he lay.
A coven of seven witches stood around him, not close, but there.
Thirteen witches would be a full coven, but this coven was convened with hand-picked members. If it was needed there would be a circle of seven, ringed again by a circle of thirteen. If it came to that, it would be another coven, another full moon. There were not enough people in the room for a full coven.
Lycan hoped it would not come to that.
Serepta led the way, explaining to the witches what she had learned after weeks of studying him and the weaves of the magic the witches could see around him. She had explained to him the weaving threads of magic into the fabric of his mind.
More like lace and less like a tapestry, she had said. Now, it must be undone. Unraveled, although he didn’t like that word for it, didn’t like the idea of his mind becomingunraveled. He shivered harder at the thought.
“It’s okay, Little Wolf.” Lycan turned his head, and Caine was beside the table. “I’m right here, as is Seath.” Lycan could see Seath appear from behind the witches.
Seath nodded at him, laying a hand on Lycan’s shoulder that made him tremble. Alpha-touch was powerful, and in his still touch-starved state it made his eyes roll and warm pleasure wave through his body.
Still, having Seath beside him made Lycan a bit braver.
“Steady on, Alpha,” Serepta said, “can you keep your hand there?”
“Of course,” Seath answered, his thumb sweeping down toward Lycan’s collarbone and back up in a soothing gesture.
It tingled and it soothed, making him feel a bit floaty, but most importantly it distracted Lycan from whatever was about to happen because it was hard to focus on anything other than where Seath touched him, even with a coven forming around them.
There was no pomp and circumstance to the meeting, no endless ritual. Rather, it was more like a medical exam. Or at least this part. The witches had been at the cavern prior to his arrival, and he imagined that was much more ceremonial than his part.
Lycan listened as the witches mused about the tightness of how the magic was braided together or how it was anchored into him. They slipped off from English into witch-speak, and he just focused on the cadence of their speech. Witch-speak was buffered to the ear that wasn’t meant to hear it, and even if he could have understood the words, he couldn’t hear them.
In his mind’s eye he saw flashes of what they saw, threads of every color tightly bound in weaving. But, the threads were pulsing, living things, parts of him. The magical existence of a living thing reproduced as a vibrant pattern. Lace, as Serepta had said, but more geometric in pattern than any lace he knew.
There were other parts too, where the pulsing threads were braided in with a lifeless, dull one. The new threads were sharp and pointed, like mental barbed wire. Others had thick matte black threads wedged in, as if rebar were set into the pattern.
When those were examined, the unease through the witches could be felt.
“This is dark magic,” Serepta said, back in English.
“But, just magic of witches,” Caine added. “No Fae. None of my kind.”
An image flashed in Lycan’s mind.
“These are anchor points,” Caine added, reminding Lycan he had his own magic to throw into the mix, “some are deeper than others.”
Serepta nodded, and conversed again in the witch’s language. Even Caine did not know what they were saying. Witch-talk was a gift, and only witches were able to learn it. It was old and a secret protected fiercely. Even keen wolf-hearing would not be able to make out the words, and every attempt to record the language had failed. Technology, no matter how sophisticated, could not bend the rules that governed magic. Witch-talk was unrecorded, unwritten, and would remain that way. A culture kept in the oral tradition only.
“We will begin.”
That’s all the warning Lycan had before his brain went fuzzy. It didn’t hurt, not exactly, more like being suspended in a sensory deprivation tank, while laying right on the stone table.
Serepta tisked under her breath as they worked to loosen and free even a precious few tangles in the weaving. The poor boy. He was wearing a clear diamond she had helped Seath pick out. The Legate had been tasked with finding a suitable earring for Trav and Van to gift Lycan, but Seath had surprised her by being astute enough to check in to see if there were any stones that could aid in the channeling they must do this evening. The clear diamond would help, but it would still take all Lycan’s energy for this.
Even lying on the stone table, in robes that prevented interference from other fabrics, the young man was stunning. Had he had been captured for his beauty?
He was obedient too, working as directed to become healthy. To become ready for his body to handle the work they must do.
Would she only untangle memories that harmed him? Would the things she unravel only cause more confusion to a wolf that had clearly been harmed enough? “Do no harm,” may be the creed of human doctors, but they learned it from witches in a time when they were one and the same.
