CHAPTER 7
Darkness consumed me.My senses welcomed it back as an old friend, my eyes adjusting easily to the lack of light. My other senses sharpened, the gifts of the Dark God thrumming to life in my veins. Frankincense and palmarosa filled my nostrils, burning in the shallow stone altars to each of the gods. Near, something dripped. Far, something different flowed. The dripping came from me, the frost and snow on my clothing melting in the heat of the temple. My sight cleared more with every second, but I didn’t need sight to recognize the source of that flowing sound. Too thick to be water. And even the burning frankincense and palmarosa could not cover the coppery tang. At the center of the temple, a single enchanted fountain ran with the blood of those who had come before—those who had attempted and failed the gates.
My hands tightened to fists, my pointed nails scraping across the stone floor before sinking into my palms. But the noise was overshadowed by hurried footsteps.
“Get up,” a male voice hissed.
Even with the sparse light creating a silhouette, I was able to make out his features. His thick black curls created a halo around his thin face, a riot of freckles dancing across his golden-brown cheeks and the bridge of his nose. His voice didn’t quite match his face—it had dropped into the heavier tones of maturity, while his face remained trapped in the fervor of adolescence. He could not have been more than twenty—so young.
Which must have accounted for his idiocy when his long fingers curled around my upper arm.
“Get your hands off of me,” I snarled, ripping my arm away. I was still on the fucking ground, and though he knelt over me, he hardly had the advantage.
The young priest flinched but didn’t back away.
“Please, get up.” He wrung his hands, whipping his gaze over his shoulder and then back to me.
He was more scared of whatever awaited deeper in the temple than he was of me, I realized. An unhinged laugh bubbled up in my chest.
“Please,” he said again, his gaze spearing for mine. His amber eyes were soft, pleading. Begging, actually.
I swallowed as I braced my arms beneath me. What was more terrifying in the temple than a witch?
“Hurry,” he urged, checking over his shoulder again.
I’d never seen a priest act so strangely—not that I’d spent any time with one in the last three hundred and seventy-seven years. Most priests and priestesses considered witches a dangerous aberration. The Dark God had broken with the other six gods in creating us.
He nodded and exhaled as I gained my feet, my cold, wet garments scraping uncomfortably over my skin as I straightened and shook loose the remainder of the snow.
“Put your hand out,” he instructed. I did as he asked, but I didn’t remove the fingerless leather glove that covered my palm. He eyed it, as if he’d ask me about it, but wisely decided otherwise.
“I have to touch you now,” he said.
I lifted one eyebrow.
“It is required for the Oath of Atonement.” Another furtive look over his shoulder. “It’s required,” he repeated.
His eyes whipped to the two males I hadn’t noticed before, one positioned on the inside of the doors. Muscular, well-fed, and armed to the teeth. The threat was clear enough—offer my hand willingly for this oath or the guards would force my hand. Quite literally.
I exhaled between my teeth but nodded.
If the priest noticed how cold my skin was, he didn’t show it. He probably assumed it was from the frigid day outside, not the power that simmered beneath my skin. He did not react to the pointed nails, either. Not that surprising, considering that all the other covens had fled Velora years ago. The odds of this young human male having ever encountered a witch were next to nothing.
He dragged his finger over my palm in a practiced movement, touching seven pre-determined points around the edge before spiraling his fingertip in toward the center.
“Repeat after me,” he said. “I offer up this mortal frame, in storm, frost, or cleansing flame. Not for glory, nor for grace, but to purify the past I face.”
Both of my brows rose this time. I was no mortal. I guess the gods hadn’t expected a witch to attempt the gates, though plenty of fae had in the first century of the curse. But I didn’t question him. I repeated the words.
The young priest nodded along with each one, the tension in his shoulders easing as I spoke.
“Good,” he murmured to himself. “Judge me, break me, take my breath. Let my sacrifice outweigh my debt. So swear I now, in endless night. My life for balance, wrong for right.”
I repeated each word. On the last, a great exhale whooshed from the young man’s chest and he released my hand.
“Thank you,” he breathed. “I should have been at the door to greet you. It’s the job of the acolytes. But I—” He shook his head, saving me from whatever plaintive excuse he’d offer. “No matter. It’s done. You’ve taken the oath.”
An acolyte, not a priest, my mind corrected the understanding it was rapidly constructing of the temple, the gates, and their rituals.
