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Tiernan paces at the edge of the room as he growls, “This shit is too twisted. Why would the Midnight Court want to fuck up their heirs this way?”
Hissing, Khol looks at the leopard with a knowing expression. The basilisk shift is oscillating up and down his neck and arms like a magical rash. “This is the way you create psychopaths and sociopaths, kitty. Our uncle uses it to train his minions and heirs, and I’d bet a week’s worth of blood bags that our quiet bloodsucker was put through something after he rose as well.”
I nod, folding my arms over my chest. “Yes. Anyone considered to be turned, childer, and those rising in the covens are often subjected to conditioning to ensure their loyalty and viciousness.”
Fiadh whirls around, her eyes spearing me as she asks, “Was it only mental or…?
Khol snorts. “Don’t we wish, Sassypants. I don’t have as many scars as I should because of shifter healing, and I’m certain the mosquito can claim the same.”
“Yes.”
The snow leopard stalks over, his eyes dark as he jerks his head at the opening. “Fine. The Fae are assholes, but not unusual ones, and everyone but me survived some bullshit trauma to be accepted as the heir or leader. That about it?”
Revelin gives him a thin smile as he nods. “Until now, Sassypants could have sat with you, but now…”
“You, too?” she says as she grips his arm.
The rocker shrugs, not meeting her gaze. “Midnight isn’t the only court with shitty rituals. Daybreak has its own, but I’ve been through most of them by now. Only bit left would be if Oliver stepped down which will never fucking happen, so I’m safe for the moment.”
“Witchling,” I say, loud enough to slice through her snarls of anger. “We should move on. We are wasting time with conversations that can happen later. Nothing in this trial has said that time will not be a factor eventually, and I’d prefer to have as much as possible if that becomes an issue.”
Plus, the knowledge of our pasts is distracting her and might cloud her judgment—something we very much do not need.
Walking ahead of her and the prince, I look into the new doorway curiously. The first glance at the walls reveals something different and I pause to get everyone’s attention. “Binding marks,” I say, tapping the sigils with a fingernail. “This entire pathway is laced with a memory enchantment. Unlike before, this isn’t for the living; this is for the dead.”
Fiadh blinks as if she doesn’t understand. “Memories of the dead? How is that going to challenge me? My memories are all fucked up as we know. What happens if I touch it and I’m sort of a blank slate for that shit?”
My smile is more of a grimace as I shrug. “I don’t know, witchling. You have so many layers of magic and enchantments cast on you for fuck knows how many years… Everything that happens with you is a best-guess scenario. Random things are cracking them, and we have no idea when that will happen or how many are left.”
“Do it,” Khol says, his voice gravelly but excited. He wants an excuse for violence, and he hates the analytical portion of this challenge. “Seriously, we have to fight everything this place throws at us to win, right? We might as well just fucking do things and get it over with.
His logic is simple, but it’s not totally wrong; we’re not getting out of here without defeating every bit of its bullshit.
“Okay. Let’s do this shit.” Fiadh sets her jaw, nodding at the basilisk. She’s as tired as I’ve ever seen a witch, but she presses her marked hand to the heart of the sigil.
The effect is instant—the crystal blooms with blue-white fire with a glow so strong it burns out the color from everything else. Our current location disappears in a flash, and in its place is yet another corridor made of shadows. Its stone walls are slick with magic that prevents us from moving as the image appears.
A woman with onyx hair streaked with silver runs in front of us. She has a face that would command any room, even one of monsters. In her arms, a bundle—alive and warm, though we all know what’s inside before she passes us. She tears through the hall, her breath ragged, and then turns a corner to slap her palms—crescents on both—onto the wall ahead of her. The stone gives way, revealing a portal opening that she stuffs the bundle through.
This is what the witchling saw before, but now we can all see it in the reliquary as vividly as she did.
Suddenly, the next part of the memory movie switches to slow-motion. The woman turns, faces the corridor, and squares her shoulders at whatever is coming. The shadow at the far end is not entirely a person, but also not just a monster. It’s projecting a hunger so vast that it makes me shudder and my fangs drop in response. As it walks toward the Fae standing her ground, it leaves claw marks on the stone. She lifts her glowing hands, her chin set defiantly, and waits.
The vision doesn’t end with her death; it ends with her refusing to move as a very familiar skull-headed monster comes out of the shadows toward her. Then the world snaps back, and Fiadh falls into Revelin’s arms like a limp noodle. Her eyes are wild and her pupils blown, but she’s not completely out of it like she was the first time this thing smacked her consciousness.
I can’t decide if that’s good or bad; it will increase our chances of survival, but also steal a bit of her soul in the process.
All the magic cycles down, and the colors fade until only the black crystal at the far wall remains, humming like an exposed nerve. It might mean that this is all it’s going to do or that it’s charging for a new onslaught in a few minutes.
“Your mother was brave, Sassy,” Khol says in a voice just above a whisper. “She got you to safety and didn’t try to save herself. We know what those fucking things do to their prey when they capture it.”
“I do,” Fiadh says hoarsely, caught in a different memory that we don’t see. “It’s not pretty, and I’m glad we didn’t have to watch that part.”
Revelin holds her upright, blue sparks still crawling across her skin as he murmurs, “Keep in mind, we may still have to witness the worst. Nothing is off-limits for this damn place, even our darkest thoughts and feelings.”
“She’s not in pain anymore. You can be grateful for that, and that we are not witnessing someone being killed in the here and now,” I say, hoping to comfort her. “Rituals done with this intent and magic always take a toll on the person being challenged until it reshapes them. The ones who made them were not concerned with what might happen if they went too far. The prince is right to suggest it will get worse every time it attacks.”
Tiernan rakes a hand through his hair in aggravation. “When is this going to be over?” he asks, but he already knows.
