My back starts to itch and I squirm.
Her arms wrap around me, pulling me into a hug. “You hold the keyspell, Eloise,” she whispers into my ear. “There’s magic in this land. Magic in your blood. It's time you used both.”
“What keyspell?”
She pulls back. “It’s already in you. Our love is all around you. You’ve already tapped into it. You simply didn’t know what you were doing.”
“I don’t understand.” I have no idea what she’s talking about but the itch between my shoulder blades has turned into a burn. I reach to scratch it and realize it’s my tattoo.
“The thing about the underworld is it links to everywhere. Every dimension. Every source of magic. Every soul. You hold the key, the ultimate key, just as we once did. We created it, your father and I, fueled by dragon’s blood and Harcourt magic.” She cups my face in her hands. “You share a sigil with the rest of the order, but the Harcourt keyspell is yours and yours alone. Find my journal. It will tell you everything you need to know.”
“Your journal? What journal?”
My father reaches us and places a hand on my shoulder, and I gasp as pure energy flows into me. I’ve never tried drugs, but I have to believe this is what they feel like. It’s like I’ve ingested ten cups of coffee. I have lightning in my veins.
“It’s time, Eloise,” my father says. “Deal with him quickly. What we’ve given you won’t last. We'll help you.”
“But… but... What should I do? How do I stop Tony from killing me?”
“Everything you need to know is in the attic,” Dad says. “You’ll learn with time.”
“I don’t have time,” I protest.
“Wake up,” Mom yells. “Wake up, now! We're with you. We're always with you.”
“Wait!”
No explanation is forthcoming. The world fades from light into drowning darkness and then light again. I rejoin my airless body. The pain is instant and excruciating. My lids flip open to see Tony's psychotic face as he squeezes the life out of me. Again, I stretch for the palette knife, but it remains frustratingly out of reach by a matter of inches.Come on. Come on.I try to force my joints to grow longer and pull against his merciless grip with all my strength.
Suddenly, the cup rocks on its base, then tips over, sending the knife flying directly into my grip. Without hesitation, I plunge it, hard and fast, into Tony's side, up and under his bottom rib.
The look of surprise on his face is priceless. He releases my throat and stumbles backward, confusion warping his features as he glances first at the knife in his side and then at my mother’s sculpture. A metal-on-metal whir fills the room as the blades shift and rotate. Tony's dark eyes widen to the size of saucers when he glances over his shoulder at the impossible danger growing closer.
With air burning down my raw throat, I push myself off the wall, take three running steps, and kick him right in the chest. I’m weaker than him, starved for oxygen, and barely hanging on. But Tony, distracted by the sculpture's eerie whine, stumbles. Swords and daggers slicethrough his torso like he’s made of butter, scooping and lifting him off the floor.
Only then does the sculpture screech to a halt. Arms spread wide and pierced through, Tony gurgles, a scarecrow on a stake. Blood dribbles from a dozen open wounds. He mouths something foul, his expression stained by disbelief, but there’s no air in his lungs to fuel the words.
He struggles, kicking his legs and flailing his hands, but the blades hold him. Slowly, the light fades from his eyes. I wipe his blood from my face with the back of my hand.
“You will never, ever have my home, you filthy, evil bastard. Enjoy hell.”
His head lolls forward on his neck, and his muscles go limp. Tony is dead.
Stumbling back, I catch myself on the wooden table and try my best just to breathe. Every sip of air feels like fire. My arms are covered in red marks that I’m sure will turn to bruises, and the skin of my face feels tight from dried tears and blood and probably more bruises too. I flash back to Tony beating my head. I’m hurt, and the longer I stand there, the adrenaline draining from my body, the more I feel it.
My knees decide they can't hold me any longer, and I sink to the floor with my back to the table leg, staring up at Tony, impaled on my mother's sculpture. The knives actually moved. My mother is here. Somehow, she protected me.
I take refuge in that thought as Tony's blood pools closer to my toes. I hug my knees to my chest so I won't get blood on my shoes. Then I rest my head on my folded arms and return to the darkness.
42
Blood Legacy
DAMIEN
Iwake before twilight, opening my eyes with one thing on my mind: killing Tony and bringing Eloise his head on a platter — metaphorically. In reality, I’ll spare her any details of the man’s death. Although she understands now what must be done, her heart is too soft to enjoy it, and I don’t want her to feel any guilt about what I plan to do. As far as she and the rest of the world are concerned, Tony will simply disappear. But I will know. My heart is not soft, and I plan to make him suffer. I’d kill a legion of men to protect my mate.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and remember the source of that particular impulse. I mated Eloise. Despite all my promises to myself not to, despite knowing it’s a terrible idea, despite not asking her explicitly if she wanted to be mated, I’d claimed her as my own, irrevocably.
