Marc’s hands flashed. Ysabel’s lips twitched. “Marc wishes to warn you, Carver, that if you do anything to endanger me, he will not hesitate to kill you.”
Marc grunted and made an emphatic hand gesture.
Ysabel rolled her eyes and added, “Violently.”
Carver met Marc’s sharp gaze. “And if you do anything to endanger Amryn—likewise.”
“Men,” Ysabel huffed. “If you two are done threatening each other . . .” She pushed to her feet and gestured toward the staircase across the room. “Shall we?”
Moments later they were standing in a cramped room. The rented room was barely large enough to hold the four of them, the narrow bed, and a single chair. But at least it was private.
Carver and Marc took up positions near the neatly made bed where Amryn and Ysabel sat.
Amryn drew Saul Von’s journal from her satchel and set it on the quilt between them. “I want you to tell me everything you can about this. Specifically, about the man who wrote it.”
Ysabel studied the leatherbound book without touching it. “Do you know who wrote it?”
There was a slight hesitation before Amryn said, “Yes.”
“Ah. But you won’t tell me because you want to test me.” The corner of Ysabel’s mouth lifted. “Very well. I like a challenge.” She tugged off one of her gloves, and Carver noted that she was careful not to touch anything with her bare skin. She straightened her shoulders, inhaled a slow breath, then set her palm on the journal’s worn cover.
She stiffened, her eyes falling closed.
Beside Carver, Marc’s thick arms crossed over his chest, a muscle in his jaw ticking.
Silence stretched for a long moment. The lamp Ysabel had lit on the bedside table flickered. Amryn leaned forward, a look of concentration taking over her face. Carver wondered what she was sensing from the empath seated across from her.
Eyes still closed, Ysabel began to speak. “This journal belonged to the reviled empath, Saul Von. Desperation clings to it.” She opened her eyes, blinking slowly at Amryn. “Where did you get this?”
“I found it while in Esperance,” Amryn said, keeping her answer vague. “But anything you can tell me about Von, or what he wrote . . . I need to know.”
Ysabel frowned but closed her eyes once more. She bowed her head, her hand flattening against the journal. Another long silence stretched. Then, “He was afraid. No,terrified. Not by things that happened to him, or things he feared wouldhappen to him . . . He was haunted by things he’d seen.” Her eyes blinked open. “Visions.Terriblevisions. It was his gift and his curse to see them.”
Amryn leaned forward, her eyes fixed on Ysabel. “The Flame,” she whispered, as if she could not help herself. “The Sword—”
“The Dragon,” Ysabel interrupted smoothly, taking up the now familiar words. “And the Storm.”
A chill raced over Carver’s arms. “What does it mean?” he demanded.
Marc shot him a censuring look, but Ysabel’s eyebrows tugged together as she considered. “I’m not sure. I need . . .” Her words drifted as she lifted the journal and pressed the small book between both hands. Once more, her eyes fell closed.
When she opened her eyes this time, Carver knew she wasn’t seeing them. Her gaze was unfocused, her voice deeper than before. Rougher. “When five bloodstones unite, the earth will rend and chaos will rule. The power of five, wielded by one, leads to an unstoppable end.”
Amryn paled, but she didn’t look away from Ysabel. She didn’t even blink as the empath continued to speak. “Broken men will be drawn to defend The Flame, the hope for us all. For without The Flame, there is no spark. When no one fights, everyone falls.”
Ysabel’s hold on the journal shook, but she didn’t drop it. Nor did she stop speaking in that low, aged voice. “The voices of the cursed echo. In the end, they will scream. Only one can decide the ultimate fate. The Flame, shaped by betrayal that ends in violent death. The Sword, stained by the blood of enemies and innocents. The Dragon, silenced by all and none. The Storm has come.
“The Flame must choose to heal or destroy; to sacrifice or betray. The Sword must break; break and be mended, so it can shatter anew. The Dragon must wake; terror will reign for all but the monster. The Storm must rage.
“The Flame will choose, and burn out. The Sword will defend, and be defeated. The Dragon will rise, and fall. The Storm cannot be escaped or survived.”
Ysabel suddenly gasped, her entire body going rigid.
Marc leaped forward, grasping her shoulders. He shook her. Hard.
She didn’t even seem to notice. Her head was thrown back, her eyes rolling wildly, the rest of her body frozen in a harsh contortion. Her chest wasn’t moving. She wasn’t breathing.
Marc groaned, the sound wounded and frantic.
