Phulan nodded, and a strange energy shifted in the air as the mage summoned her magic in preparation. Without looking at anyone in particular, she said, “We will need to move fast. There is likely very little time for Ariadne.”
Stilling, Emillie stared at the mage. “What do you mean?”
Those piercing amethyst eyes struck her. “You know Loren Gard probably better than any of us. Do you believe he’ll allow your sister to avoid him all day?”
Day. Emillie looked skyward where the midnight hues dripped away to pale blues and a golden horizon. She should be in the tent, not out here where she could become sunsick. Aegrisolis was not something she ever planned to catch.
“On my life,” Phulan said, bringing her attention back from the sky, “that stone around your neck will protect you. Madan is out here too, you see.”
Oh, she saw alright, and she hated it. As much as she desired to regain her days, Emillie did not appreciate leaving her safety up to a mere rock, no matter how much magic it possessed.
Emillie chose to ignore it as best she could and instead consider Phulan’s inquiry. No, Loren would not take kindly to Ariadne staying away from him, particularly on their wedding day. He had plans, she was certain of it, and those would not be ignored by anyone.
Without warning, Madan snatched the piece of paper and inked pen that sat next to Phulan. He began scribbling in the common tongue, the penmanship messy and slanted as his eyes focused and unfocused on that which was right before them and…what Ariadne must be seeing on the far end. Except rather than runes, Madan translated and scrawled the instructions from the book in real time. His brows furrowed and relaxed and furrowed again.
“A tattoo?” Emillie read over his shoulder. “That cannot be right.”
Zeke, however, appeared interested. He and Luce shifted to also look at the forming ritual on the page. After a moment, the elder lycan nodded and said, “This makes sense. There needs to be something that anchors them.”
“In L’Oden,” Luce clarified, “we use scarification.”
That had been one piece of information Emillie had not been privy to. She looked between them and the spice merchants, horrified at the prospect. “You said your ritual is done to infants.”
“It is,” Haen acknowledged.
“That is barbaric!”
Pol’s eyebrows shot skyward. “And forcing women into loveless and abusive marriages all for the sake of blood preservation isn’t?”
He had a point, but that did not mean Emillie had to like it. She looked to Luce again. “Where are the babies scarred?”
Silently, she turned her head and tilted her chin down. There, just below her hairline, was a pale, knotted scar in the shape of a leaf. Then the other fae moved their own hair to reveal the scars she had never seen before, all some flora variation.
After a long moment of working her mind around the tradition of harming an innocent infant, Emillie turned back to the page. “There is nothing about the tattoo’s contents. Would that not be why the tomb was needed?”
“It would be,” Luce agreed. “For fae, we use a specific salt gifted to Myridia by Silve to create the scarring, but it is usually paired with different plants from L’Oden as well.”
Emillie started to respond with Pol’s favorite—yet another question—when Madan went deathly still. His eyes widened, and he slowly lifted his head, turning in search of Whelan. In an instant, his partner was beside him, murmuring low to ask if he was alright. If Ariadne was alright.
“Take the collar off him.” Madan’s voice was quiet but strong.
At first, Whelan did not move. In fact, a dark shadow seemed to pass behind his eyes, and the dhemon glanced over his shoulder at Razer, who was already moving, giving Azriel space. The Dhemon King stood, turning his attention to them, his eyes burning like twin coals.
Speaking low, Whelan glared back at his friend. “What if he—”
“If you don’t let him go now,” Madan said, eyeing the key dangling from Whelan’s neck, “then Ariadne…”
The words did not need to be spoken. Dread dripped like ice into the pit of Emillie’s gut, and she had half a mind to take the key herself to free her brother-in-law from the magical band of metal that imprisoned him.
Still, it took too long for Whelan to stand, a long, sheathed sword in one hand. His face turned stony with distrust, but he closed the distance between him and Azriel nonetheless. The thin chain holding the key glinted as he lifted it from around his neck, navigating it dexterously around his horns. When he reached Azriel, whispered words were exchanged just out of range of Emillie’s sharp vampiric hearing.
Whatever was said seemed to have the desired effect. The next moment, Azriel snatched the sheathed sword from Whelan’s grip and launched himself onto Razer’s back. In a great gust of wind, the pair disappeared into the lightening sky.
Chapter 8
Ariadne could not think straight. Beside her, Camilla and Revelie stood shoulder-to-shoulder, creating a wall between her and the door that now shook as Loren shouted her name again and yanked at the latch. A great thud told her all she needed to know about how incensed the vile man had become. He would, indeed, break down the door.
“Ariadne!” Madan’s voice punched through her screaming thoughts. “Get out of therenow!”
