Page 98 of The Sacred and the Tormented

Saoirse stared at the blurry figure before her. Dust moved at the female’s feet, reminding Saoirse of her brother’s magic. Saoirse swore the clouds above had thickened, as if smoke were blotting out the sun.

Whispers floated through the air and Saoirse quickly assessed their surroundings, wondering if a group of warriors was about to find them fighting. She needed to subdue Zylah and hide. She wasn’t about to be the one to set off the alarms.

Saoirse tugged at the bond, hoping to throw Zylah off balance. It was barely a whisper of a thing, nearly a figment of her imagination. But—it wasn’t there. No, it was further down the hall. Far away, as if—as if—

Damn it all.

Saoirse rolled away from another attack, then planted her boot in the female’s gut. Zylah, or rather, whoever this was, crumpled in on themselves before stumbling back, coughing and hacking as they struggled to catch their breath.

Saoirse checked her rune to find it intact and cursed again. If her mind was being messed with then it had to be Vairik or Niall, unless there were other guards who’d stood beside Vairik through the years. There was no telling how many others might possess his level of magic. Something they’d all taken into consideration before embarking on this suicide mission.

The female lunged again, her eyes darker and smile more wicked than she’d ever seen Zylah capable.

Saoirse dodged the blade again, then slammed her hand against the female’s elbow, pivoting before trapping her against the wall. The body beneath her struggled and for a split second, Saoirse considered slitting the female’s throat.

But what if this was a glamour similar to the one Niall had trapped Rion in? It might not be Zylah, but what if it were Arianna or Evelyn? How would Saoirse know otherwise?

The female struggled and Saoirse slammed her head into the stone wall. The scent of blood filled the space. A scent Saoirse recognized half a heartbeat later. The distraction cost her and the female shoved back, slicing her blade across Saoirse’s chest.

Saoirse only stared, her heart aching as Máili’s beautiful face stared back. But—but she’d seen—Saoirse’s eyes roamed down Máili’s neck to find a red line across her throat. Then that line began bleeding. A small drip at first, then a flood of crimson.

Saoirse stared in horror, her body shaking as the female before her smiled before her head rolled off her shoulders and hit the ground.

The whispers grew louder, coming at her like a storm.

Saoirse’s throat tightened as she held her weapon loosely in one hand. The body withered before her eyes, turning into a husk, then a skeleton, and finally crumbling into dust.

Someone walked through the doorway to Saoirse’s right. Saoirse could barely focus as she locked her gaze on Máili’s face again.

This one wasn’t smiling. She glared in anger, an incurable rage blazing in those once beautiful eyes. “Your fault,” the female said, her voice hoarse.

Then blood dripped from her throat. Máili rushed forward. Saoirse braced, but before she even made contact, Máili’s head hit the ground, her mouth still moving in silent accusation.

Saoirse’s body trembled and she stepped back, staring at the dead figure. This one didn’t disintegrate, instead, the skin peeled back as if her body were being burned by an invisible fire. Muscle turned black, then the flames reached bone, consuming everything in its path.

Another figure stepped out from the shadows of a veranda. This one with tears streaming down their face.

Máili again.

Saoirse’s breath shuddered.

An illusion.

This was an illusion.

It had to be Niall, he was the only one who knew about—

Máili stumbled forward, her body too thin and frail. “Your fault,” she whispered again before blood began trickling from the slice in her neck.

Saoirse stepped back again, her heart racing, breath too shallow. She needed to get herself together—she needed—she needed—

A violent tug on the bond yanked Saoirse from her panic and shifted her focus away from the head rolling at her feet. Fear shot down the bond next. Fear. Fear from—the bond—thebond.

Saoirse pivoted on her heel as warmth flooded her soul, spreading through her body until she could feel her limbs again. But it wasn’t that warmth alone that had her moving. It was the visceral fear pouring from her mate. From Zylah.

Saoirse sprinted down the winding passages, ignoring the figures that bled from the walls, white hands reaching, whispered echoes accusing. They didn’t matter now. Let her nightmares haunt her. As long as Zylah didn’t have to suffer at her side.

She followed the tug of the bond. Her magic raced across the ground, rising up and up. She sent them into the wall ahead and the stones exploded outward. Saoirse leapt through the hole, ducking around the still crumbling stones overhead.

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