Page 48 of Malcolm

And Eliza had seen the witches who’d been failures, there had been three types of people in that hell. Shifters were being used as test subjects for some form of mind control. Most shifters followed a tight set of rules, and it took a lot to get them to act outside of their laws; she’d seen shifters tear a defenseless woman apart only to realize what they’d done and attempt to tear their own throat out.

As for the witches, they fell into one or two categories. A talented witch was often going to become a mindless slave to be used. If you were like her, a dub witch, you would either have your magic veins stretched until you became mad or your body deformed until you were unrecognizable.

Smelling blood she stopped cutting; only then did she notice the cut on her hand.

“Eliza,” She looked up only to stare into the cook's shocked gaze. “Dearie, your hand.”

She looked back down and pulled her hand back quickly, standing just as the cook approached her. “I'm sorry. Let me wash my hand.”

“Are you okay, love,” the cook's voice held soft worry. “Here, let me get a bandage.”

Eliza thanked her as she dropped the knife into the sink and turned on the water. She mentally prayed she hadn’t bled into the bucket of potatoes; that would mean she’d basically ruined dinner for these people.

She watched her blood wash away. She shouldn’t let herself get swallowed by the past; if she did, she wouldn’t be able to move forward. She’d be too busy holding on to the last strings of her sanity. She hadn’t been lying when she told Malcolm she enjoyed the work she was doing. Keeping herself busy prevented her from losing an important part of herself.

During the days she’d sat in the cell, she’d slowly lost that part of herself that cared when someone was hurt in front of her. She’d barely noticed the loss of empathy and sympathy from her own emotions, it had been chiseled away bit-by-bit by the screams that filled the hallowed halls of her hell.

Numbly, she’d watch people beg for their lives, but demons didn’t have mercy for others.

Kindness was nothing more than an illusion; she herself had murdered innocent’ people who’d thought that not fighting would keep them alive.

She reached up, turning the water off.

“Here you go, darling.” Turning around, she took the hand towel from the cook. “Thank you.”

“It’s okay, it happens.” The cook chuckled, “My husband calls me a ditz with the number of times I’ve come home with a burn here and cut there. It’s the hazard of working in the kitchen.”

Eliza offered her a tight smile. Once her hands were dry, she took the bandage that the woman held out with her other hand.

“It was lucky we still had a box; we werewolves heal pretty fast, but some of the children get scrapes and scratches that take a bit longer than normal.”

“Eliza?” She caught sight of Agun in the doorway, “Malcolm sent me for you.”

She nodded, “One second.” She turned to the cook, “Thank you, again.”

“No problem, dearie, you’ve been a big help. Now hurry along; your man is calling for you.”

She quickly ran out of the kitchen and followed Agun. “When did you guys get back?”

“Not too long ago,” he glanced down at her hand. “Do all witches have such markings?’

Eliza eyes flickered with worry, as her brow creased at his question. She looked down at her hand and saw that despite her disguise spell, some of the lettering had appeared on her brown skin. Immediately, she covered it up. Agun’s question made her feel self-conscious. When she was with Malcolm, she never thought of it, as he tended to look at her like she was the most beautiful thing in the world.

She cleared her throat, lifting her chin. She didn’t have time for such negative thoughts; if she had time to feel bad for herself, she could find them damn books and get out of Malcolm’s hair. “No, they don’t all have this.”

“Ah,” he said, glancing at her once more, “then do they all at least look as pretty as you?’

She looked at him in shock, “pretty?”

“Aye—I’ve not found my mate among our people. A Ceilidh gives us wolves such chances, but that is only through the full moon. The time of the mating fever, but I wonder if my mate could even be a pretty witch.” He gave her a bashful look.

Eliza couldn’t help smiling at him, “Well, it never hurts to visit other parts of the veil to find out.”

Together they continued on their way in silence.

As they drew closer, she could hear loud masculine voices. Curiosity, she picked up her speed, only to enter the main hall filled with men of all ages, most of whom wore expressions of determination.

Since this was her first time seeing so many McLaren man in one place, Eliza couldn’t help but ask, “What’s happening?”

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