“We may be criminals,” He tutted, “But we aren’t classless.” Holding the door open, he beckoned me inside.
Seraphim sat at a table, boots kicked up next to a glass of wine. “Ready to be apprised of all the details?”
“Assuming you’ll answer questions about yourself, yes,” I answered.
“Why wouldn’t I?” Seraphim shooed me away. “We can talk after you’ve had a bath and slept in a proper bed.” Grabbing her wine, she leaned forward. “You smell like a swamp.”
“So do you.”
“Yes, but I didn’t fall in.” Raising her glass, Seraphim stared at me with twinkling eyes.
The woman had a point. Suddenly horrified, I quickly excused myself.
The baths called.
* * *
I remembered my first real bath as if it had happened yesterday. Master Ainwir had beckoned me into a more richly decorated washroom than I’d ever seen, helped me fill the tub, and ordered me to relax.
Before that, all my baths had been taken by jumping into a river channel or by splashing my face in a fountain when nobody was looking. With that small gesture, Ainwir had won my trust.
Kindness was how con men stole your heart just before tearing it out.
Opening my eyes, I swished a hand through the bath water; it was getting cold. Had I drifted off? The poor serving boy had refilled my bath at least twice; scrubbing off the caked-on mud had been a battle in itself.
Stepping out of the bath, I unwrapped the parcel of clothing Eleos had left on the counter: a simple white toga with a golden sash. Had he read my mind and learned I preferred to be invisible?
Raking my fingers through my hair, I shook my head. Brunette curls that had never lain straight in all my life tumbled over my shoulder, dampening the gown.
Night had long since fallen. The others had probably turned in. Cracking the door open, I peered out, finding only a quiet, dim hall. Tying my hair into a bun, I stepped into the common room, but Seraphim was no longer sitting at her table.
Only a dim light spilled from the hearth, illuminating a single guest still finishing his bowl of stew. I had the night to myself. Finding the inn’s back door, I stepped out into the yard.
Feeling the grass beneath my bare feet, I touched the bandages on my arm.
Chthonic mages wielded magic through blood. Throughlife. Whether their own or another’s, they were harmless without it.
Supposedly, what effects they could shape from blood depended on the person. Ainwir claimed to have met someone who turned blood into sunlight. Seraphim had shaped it into solid flame.
Had my blood controlled the Empty?
Grimacing, I tugged my bandages off. Magic was bestowed upon those who experienced something extraordinary. And whatever they received would match their personality.
Reckless souls who lived violent lives became chthonic mages. Artful souls brimming with creativity became muses. And those with great empathy became psyches.
I was neither remarkable nor reckless. I’d been taught a valuable lesson by Ainwir: talk your way out of a fight. Failing that, run for your life. But never face battle if another option presented itself.
His lessons had kept me alive to date. Why would Haimyx bestow chthonic magic uponme?
Whimpering, I pulled my knife from my belt and stared at the stitches Eleos had carefully closed my wounds with. Holding the knife to my shoulder, I squeezed my eyes shut, hesitating.
“Fuck it,” I murmured, slicing the threads apart and digging the knife into the claw-mark, reopening the gash.
Cursing, I pressed my hand to the bloody laceration and pulled it away only when scarlet coated my palm. Holding up shaking fingers, I tried to do. . .
Something. I searched for what I’d felt before—the surge of emotions roiling in my breast: nostalgia and unease.
Lowering my hand, I gasped. Was I a madwoman? What if I tore open a rift to the Empty and killed everyone in this town, myself included?
