“Sera?”
I knew that voice.
I looked around the dark chasm as the harp in Derrick’s mind played its low melody. I was only ever in that place—that strange in-between—for a blink before entering someone’s mind, but I was frozen as I searched for him.
The tiny Serafina who was suspended mid-travel cried out, where Derrick in the pool could not hear her, “Riyan?”
“Sera?” The voice rich as satin got louder. “Sera! I hear you! SERA!”
The vibrations of the harp swelled until they twisted themselves into a glowing rope in the dark chasm.
Then a horrible voice, layered like eleven men were speaking all at once, filled the darkness. “You are mine, sorceress.”
Before I could scream for Riyan, the rope wrapped around my throat and yanked me through Derrick’s open door.
And darkness suddenly became flame.
A crackling hearth appeared in the forefront of the memory. A large portrait of Alastar the Conqueror wearing his steel armor and brandishing his spear hung above the mantle.
The fire from the hearth spread throughout the memory, lighting up portraits and crossed swords on the walls and a large oak desk.
I must have been in the Duke’s study…but what brought me here? The voice that yanked me into the memory was not Riyan’s, nor was it Derrick’s, but I somehow still recognized it.
Was it the monster?
I looked around, trying to find a monster, but instead I found a young Derrick—maybe nine or ten years old—sitting in an overly large armchair in front of the fire.
His cheeks were splattered with freckles as he sheepishly looked at the floor. A wreath of twisted ivy circled his head and a crudely-made lyre sat in his hands.
He looked just like the God of Music from the faerie stories. The God of Music was a little imp, but nothing if not romantic.
Anders stormed into the study. Derrick flinched as Anders ripped the lyre and wreath of ivy away and flung the costume into the fire. Sorrow gleamed in Derrick’s eyes as the flames ate his trinkets.
Anders faced his son. “I swear, had your Uncle Ragnar caught you prancing around the garden like a little girl—”
Derrick looked up. “We were just playing, Father.”
“Playing?” Anders roared. “You are on the cusp of manhood! No more playing with your sisters.”
Sadness filled Derrick’s eyes, but he nodded.
“Your mother made you weak, boy.” Anders crossed to a wooden cabinet and pulled out a glass bottle of spirits. “She filled your head with lies about love and all that Midnight nonsense.”
Derrick looked down at his hands. “Mama does not lie to me.”
“Of course she does, all women do.”
Despite me not having a corporeal form, I still burned with guilt.
Anders poured two goblets of spirits and handed Derrick a glass. Derrick looked down at the cup like it was filled with sewage.
“Drink it,” Anders ordered. He knocked back his own cup and drained it in one gulp.
I knew I could not change what was happening, but I still wanted to yank that goblet out of that poor child’s hands.
Derrick tentatively put the cup to his lips and wrinkled his nose at the strength of the drink inside. He grimaced as he swallowed. “It burns!”
“Get used to it.” Anders poured himself another cup. “You are in for a lonely life, boy, and you will find that your only friends come in bottles.”
