Page 80 of Spirit Storm

My heart hammers. This is what happened in my vision of the Ireland chamber.

Behind him, the massive floor-to-ceiling rune circle of the lockstone remains obscured behind Asher’s shield. Hopefully, his angel essence can counter Tharuzel’s demon strength.

But to my horror, he doesn’t seem daunted.

He draws the hook of a clawed finger across his arm and then starts drawing on the stone floor in front of the wall, in careful, deliberate strokes with his own blood.

The lines go on, dark and wet, and catch the faint bioluminescent pulse of his own runic glow and gleam. The rune-script on his skin burns brighter, hotter, and he turns that smooth bone mask toward me.

I feel his stare hit me like a physical blow.

And then the blood bond detonates.

Power punches through my shields like a fist through glass, not his voice this time, not a vision—his will, raw and invasive, flooding my veins and locking every muscle rigid.

My vision goes white at the edges. I can't move. I can't cast. I can feel him in the architecture of me, pressing into every corner like he's measuring how much room he takes up.

"There you are," the chorus whispers, all of it aimed at me alone.

I glance around the cavern, but whatever is happening isn’t there, it’s inside me.

The blood bond pulls tight, sharp and sudden, and my breath catches.

"You’ve done well, little witch."

The world tilts. I’m falling.

And then… nothing.

I surface from the darkness, slowly becoming aware, the curtain of confusion lessening as my dread increases in equal degrees.

Limestone… salt air…

I’m in Khylie's cavern…

The Bahamian lockstone chamber.

But the light is wrong. There’s no beautiful turquoise filtering through cracks, no sea waves lapping at the smooth sand floor, no battle between my friends and Tharuzel’s minion army.

Everything beyond the pool of space where I stand is black. I'm in a chamber, which is equal parts grounding and confusing.

In every other nightmare Tharuzel has pulled me into, I arrived like a ghost—drifting through his consciousness like smoke through a keyhole.

I watched, but wasn’t present. A passenger in something that wasn't mine.

Except the time the wolf called me to the forest. That time… oh, no… I was possessed.

My heart begins to race as realization overwhelms me. I have weight. My feet press against stone. My hands are my own.

I am entirely myself… aren’t I?

I turn in a slow circle, letting my eyes adjust to nothing. The cave around me is rough-walled and low, the ceiling close enough that I can feel it without touching.

No carvings. No shelves of relics. No light source I can identify. Just cold, damp rock and the distant sound of something dripping.

Okay, maybe this isn’t Khylie's cavern.

Well, it’s not Ireland's lockstone cave either.