Page 12 of Of Wind and Terror

With an almost blistering speed, Aleksander reaches for my hand and tenderly holds my arm up for his inspection. His already pale face drains of all color, making his scars stand out like stark beacons in the dim cave.

“That’s impossible.” His brilliant blue eyes narrow on the strange mark. He begins to shake his head in refusal of whatever he’s seeing. “That’s impossible.”

I wave my hand in Aleksander’s face, trying to garner his attention, but it takes him two ticks until he finally looks up. A muscle works in his jaw.

“What is it?” I sign with my free hand, and then I gesture wildly at the strange brand.

“It’s…a mark.” He swallows again.

I don’t know him that well—and everything I’ve learned about him thus far has been a lie—but I’ve never seen such an expression on his face before. Gone is that jovial maliciousness, that white-hot insanity. In its place is a terror I feel in the hollow of my bones.

“The mark,” he corrects when I continue to stare at him. “The Mark of Chaos.”

5

KASSANDRA

Once, when I used to live with Madam Herra, I healed a fae who was choking.

He had come with his wife—who lost her hand in an accident—and hadn’t intended to be healed himself. However, while he was waiting, he swallowed a grape and began to choke on it. I didn’t think, only acted.

I placed my bare hand on his cheek.

A strange, tight ball manifested in my throat almost instantly. Tears pricked the backs of my eyes, but they didn’t fall. They just hung there, suspended, crystalline shards that shrouded the world in a hazy, silver glow. I desperately inhaled, trying to capture fresh air, but the ball didn’t dislodge itself. Nothing I did could ease this desperate, suffocating sensation that threatened to send me spiraling into unconsciousness.

All of that flits through my mind now as I stare at Patric’s dead body.

I’m suffocating.

Choking.

Dying.

Aleksander’s words play on repeat.

Mark of Chaos.

Mark of Chaos.

Mark of Chaos.

What in Gaia’s name just happened? How did Patric go from normal to…possessed? That’s the only word I can think of. That male speaking to me wasn’t Patric. It was someone else, someone other.

The world will burn.

What did he mean by that?

My head begins to throb, but still, I can’t pull my gaze away from Patric. I was always told you looked peaceful in death, but that isn’t the case for the ancient priest—and not just because his head isdisconnected from his body.

His unseeing, vacant eyes are wide in terror, the black having receded as soon as Aleksander hefted his blade. His lips are parted, almost as if he wanted to scream, but no sound was capable of escaping. And I can’t help but wonder…did whatever unseen force that gripped him release him before he died? Did Patric experience that fatal blow? Did he feel pain?

I think I’m going to be sick.

Aleksander isn’t faring much better, but not for the same reasons as me. He just keeps staring at the mark on my upper arm, almost as if it holds all the answers to questionshe hasn’t even formulated yet.

And then his voice ricochets through the cave, hoarse and raspy. “We need to leave. Now. We need to get you to the Amorite.”

Even before he finishes speaking, I’m shaking my head. He keeps saying that I’ll be safe there, that they have all the answers I’m looking for, but I don’t believe him. And I certainly don’t trust him.

---