Anamnesis was a potion of reflective liquid capable of holding memories.
“Or a host.”
Mal stared past her, nodding his head in understanding. He turned on his heel quickly. “Next lesson,” he turned back towards her, “how strong are your shields when you’re too weak to create such a strong memory?”
“What?” Maeve scoffed. “When would I ever need that?”
Wordlessly and without warning, a bright green light shot from Mal’s finger at Maeve, which she blocked. However, it was quickly followed by another. The second spell hit her square in the stomach.
She screamed as she doubled over. A sharp, slicing sensation was running through her body. A hundred needles pressed into her throat.
She didn’t get her shields back up in time.
He entered her mind a third time. It was a mess of things: the pain she felt here, a conversation with Abraxas, watching Spinel chase a mouse down the hall. Everything swirled past without control.
She couldn’t breathe.
She tried to bring forth a false memory to block Mal, but they all fell apart before she could create them. The pain was too much. She had no way to create the memory with her mind was scattered from the burning throughout her entire body.
Her position of dominance and control had not lasted long.
Mal shifted through her mind with ease, running down everything that rose to the surface. He didn’t stop to observe anything.
With a bang, the contents of Maeve’s mind appeared blank for a moment.
There was a loud scream from a woman. Suddenly a room Maeve knew well came into focus. The grandfather clock against the wall at Sinclair Estates said it was well past midnight, and the foyer was illuminated with blue moonlight through the windows.
No. No. No.
There were three men, one of which was her father, surrounding a mangled and bloody body that lay lifeless on the floor. Ambrose Sinclair was kneeled over the body crying.
Maeve recognized the memory instantly and desperately began trying to force Mal out. It was no use though. She was under a hex that wasn’t going to give until Mal himself lifted it. Her shields were down and staying down until he relented.
The scream had come from Clarissa Sinclair, Maeve’s mother, who upon seeing her only son dead on the floor, collapsed. One of the men shot to her side to console her.
Ambrose remained over her Antony Sinclair’s body. His oldest child. And only son.
There was a flash of green light, and another witch and two wizards stepped through the fireplace in the foyer. Maeve recognized them as Orator Moon, his Senior Secretary, and The High Lord of the Immortal Realm himself, Reeve.
Reeve halted halfway across the floor. His face stuck in a pained expression. And shook his head in disbelief.
Maeve wanted to scream for Mal to get out, but nothing happened. She struggled to breathe from the pain of his hex and was forced to watch the scene herself.
“The head of the Department of the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures is on his way,” whispered the Orator to the man by Ambrose.
Ambrose looked up.
“Maeve,” cried Ambrose, looking at the marble staircase.
The sound of his voice sent a chill down Maeve’s spine.
Every head in the room turned save for her Mother’s, and there on the stairs was seventeen-year-old Maeve, standing in complete horror.
Ambrose shot up from the floor and ran towards her, embracing her up in one quick motion. This revealed what was left of her brother, Antony’s body.
Clarissa screamed in agony once more.
“You shouldn’t have seen this,” cried Ambrose, tucking her head onto his shoulder and scooping her into his arms.
