I knew what happened next on the night that Kyrelle stumbled into the coven lands, hungry and desperate. This was my memory.
“Sister,” Maura said, moving to the center of the cave. There was no doubt she spoke to me—the past version of me, the one that existed in the memory.
My coven sisters fell into place around her, moving to the five points of the pentagram carved into the stone floor. We’d acted out this ritual dozens of times over the centuries, any time there was an intruder on the coven lands.
“You cannot know this human, can you, Koryn? That would violate our sacred covenants,” Maura said, her eyes never leaving mine.
I watched the blood drain from my face, watched my hands curl into fists as I tried to quell the power that rose up uncontrollably inside of me. I saw firsthand just how terrible I was at masking my emotions.
“Koryn,” Kyrelle rose up to her knees. McKean had bound her hands with a length of rope. “Please, Koryn. My father is ill. We need a spell?—”
“A spell?” Maura’s voice rose an octave.
“And she will give another,” McKean said. Her voice was deceptively smooth, even as she unraveled the secret I’d held close to my decaying heart for nearly four centuries. “And another and another. So long as her sister’s descendants walk the continent of Velora, she will continue to betray our covenants. I have seen it.”
There was no greater condemnation she could give. McKean’s power was foresight, ironically gifted to her by the Dark God when she’d defied her parents’ warnings and died because of a lack of it.
Maura’s dark curls bounced as she stepped into her place on the pentagram. She did not wait for me to take mine. Maybe she knew that I wouldn’t, or couldn’t. “Then we will do what is required to save our sister. We will remove the temptation.”
McKean pulled a dagger from her belt.
“Koryn,” Garrick said softly. He was still at my side. I’d been so caught up in the memory that I’d forgotten. But my power hadn’t. It swirled beneath the surface, ready but waiting, soothed by his warm hand around mine.
But I could not let him intervene on my behalf this time.
The only hitch was that there was nothing about this memory that I wanted to change.
My past self stepped forward, moving like I was going to take my place on the pentacle, like I was going to let them murder Kyrelle. I threw out my hand. Power crested inside of me, inside of us, in my chest, in the present. But in the time it took me to move forward, to step in front of the memory of myself, Kyrelle’s form changed.
It was no longer my sister’s descendant bound at the center of the pentagram, but Garrick. He was no longer waiting at the edge of the memory with his bow in his hand. He was on his knees before McKean and her dagger.
No. No, please, no. Not now.
Xyta’s second sacrifice.
This was more than a memory. That was the real Garrick, the one who’d kissed me and worshipped me. The man who’d stood at my side, protected me even beyond the demands of the Lifebind. The warrior who’d awakened parts of me I’d long thought dead.
If I did not stop McKean, she would kill Garrick.
If I intervened, I would betray my coven again. There would be no hope of redemption.
Xyta’s laughter filled the cave. It reverberated off the walls. It was more than a sound. I could taste their derision, scent their triumph. Frost swirled in my veins, over my skin. I fought to keep it contained. But Garrick was gone—bound, trapped, at the mercy of every bad decision I’d made over the past four hundred years. There were no breathing rituals that could keep this power contained. I was going to fracture.
“Please.” My voice broke. Even this part of the memory was doomed to repeat itself. I fell to my knees and begged. “Dark God, please, help me.”
There was no flash of light as the memory was wiped away, only sudden, complete darkness. No cave, no witches, no Isanara, and no Garrick.
Only the dark, frigid hell I had visited once before. He materialized before my eyes, unspeakably beautiful, eternally terrible. There was only one way to greet the God of Death.
I kneeled before the Dark God’s throne.
“Welcome home, wife.”
CHAPTER 67
“I am not your wife,”I bit out as I pushed up to stand. The less time I spent kneeling before this particular god, the better. “Not yet.”
“We have a bargain.” His voice was exactly as it had been before, the first time he’d ripped me from my world and brought me to his dark, frigid hell. Too melodious for a god of death and darkness. A siren’s call in the night.
