Page 11 of Enthralled

The stranger curses. Viciously, bitterly. Then, slowly, he lowers himself into the room, his mighty wings moving with strength and control to ease his descent. The instant his feet touch the stone floor, the wings vanish, and he becomes nothing more than a man. A haggard, gray-haired man. “Let her go, Estrilde,” he says.

My captor catches her breath. “Swear you will bring Ivor forth from Saalvru. Swear it to me in blood.”

“My word is good enough for you.”

“The word of a half-human. The word of a liar.” She spits and gnashes her teeth. “I need blood, Castien. Either yours or hers. I don’t care which, but I will have it.Now.”

The stranger whips out a knife, a delicate little thing, no bigger than a penknife. He opens the front of his robes, revealing the chiseled contours of a warrior’s chest, however faded and pale his skin. He pricks the flesh above his heart. Blue blood wells, flows. Next he pricks his right hand in the center of his palm and holds it up to show the red stain. He places his hand against his chest. “I swear on my blood, both human and fae, I will call Ivor forth from Saalvru.”

He tips his head forward, those eyes of his like living fire under his dark brows. “Now let my wife go, you bitch.”

She’s here.

She’s here.

I cannot trust my own eyes. This must be a dream. How many times has my own unconscious plagued me with variations of this same scenario? Clara. My wife. Returned to me from across the worlds. As beautiful and stubborn and terrifying and brilliant as ever. Sometimes in my dreams, she would run to me in a joyful haze of love and renewal. Sometimes she would rage, hurling words of vitriolic hatred. It never mattered. Whatever guise she came in, I would always react the same. I would catch her in my arms, crush her against my chest, and cover her with kisses, drowning out either her joy or her rage until she gave in to me, answering my passion in kind.

But in none of my dreams has she been bound and exposed, stripped to her undergarments, her skirts hiked up her bare legs, her hair wild about her face.

This is no dream. It’s a nightmare made real. But I have experience with nightmares.

I stand by silently as Estrilde and that boy cut the bonds holding Clara down to the hideous slab. She sits up, rubbing her wrists, flinching away from Estrilde and reaching for her brother. As though he wasn’t equally guilty of the crimes taking place here. Estrilde could never have found Clara without that boy’s help. What other crimes has he committed since I lifted that suppression curse I’d placed on him? I should never have released him, should never have relented to Clara’s pleading. The sheer power seething in his soul is enough to put whole worlds at risk. If I were wise, I would have slain him in cold blood long ago.

He helps his sister down from the slab. She casts a frantic glance over her shoulder at me, and that single look is enough to cut me straight to the heart. There’s no recognition in her gaze, only blankness and confusion. I did that. I stripped all memory of myself from her mind when I sent her from this world. I’d hoped it would make it easier for her to blend back into her old life. Or maybe I was selfish. Maybe I simply didn’t want to go on living with the knowledge that she was out there somewhere, beyond the edge of this world, hating me. Now I would give anything for that hatred. Any emotion would be preferable to this absence.

Though every instinct burning in my being tells me to throw Oscar against the wall and take her in my arms, I stand firm. She would not be comforted by my embrace, the embrace of a stranger, of an old man. I know full well how my body has disintegrated over the weeks since our parting. How long has it been for her? After she passed through the gate, I’d seen to it that the portal between her world and mine was broken. This ought to have severed the timeline, allowing her world to progress at its own rate, unsynchronized with mine. What has been weeks for me could have been days, years, or mere hours for her.

She looks exactly as I remember. Still the same beautiful creature I’ve longed to claim since the first moment I laid eyes upon her. But in my eyes, she could never change, no matter the ravages of mortal time.

Estrilde steps between us. Now that Clara is safely out of her clutches, I fight the urge to swipe that knife from my cousin’s hand and drive it straight into her black heart, a worthy punishment for the crime she was prepared to commit. My blood-oath binds me, however, and I restrain myself. “Well, Castien?” she demands, fear glimmering in her eye. “Shall we get on with it?”

“Nothing good can come of bringing Ivor back,” I say, my gaze momentarily dropping to the black stone my cousin wears on a chain around her neck. It’s the bloodgem necklace, the Obligation price she demanded in exchange for Daniel Gale’s freedom. Clara and I gave up a great deal to pay that price. Far more than it was worth. “That man is evil. He cares nothing for you nor anyone else. He will do anything to further his own ends.”

“You are bound,” Estrilde snarls, her voice cracking. “You must fulfill your oath.”

She’s right. I have no choice. I look at Clara one last time, standing there beside her brother, so desperate and confused. How many times will I let my love for her drive me to these dark places? “Very well,” I growl. “Let the consequences be on your head.”

With those words I step to the stone slab. Estrilde has chosen an interesting site for attempting this spell. Long ago, before my father ruled Aurelis, this tower was used to contain Miphates prisoners brought back from the war. They would be bound to this very slab, the magic drained from their veins, a slow torturous death. It was said some of their fae keepers learned to keep them and their magic alive for long periods of time, their blood feeding great workings of black magic.

I hold my already bleeding hand out over the slab. The Rite of the Thorn is an ancient practice, complex in its workings, strict in its laws. I know it well enough—the blood battle, the sacrifice, the mercy offering. Only I never thought I’d see the day when I would extend such mercy to Ivor Illithor.

“Ipyrea hyrssean atim,”I say, the ancient words flowing from my tongue.“By the Rite of the Thorn. By the blood of my veins. By the blade of Tanatar and the fire of Urym, I call forth my enemy and declare the price of his life paid.”

Three drops of my blood fall to the center of the slab. Immediately there’s a shift. The stone becomes liquid, whirling, bubbling. Then it falls away entirely, and I stand on the brink of another realm, a seething realm of mist and writhing tentacles. So I gaze once more into Saalvru, the Third Hell.

I grimace, bracing myself against the horror rising from that pit. Ivor fell weeks ago, but time itself means little under such circumstances. Hell is not governed by such feeble forces. It would not matter if Ivor had spent weeks, hours, or whole ages of existence in that place. People do not come back from hell unchanged.

I extend my arm again, allow three more drops of blood to fall. Those dark tentacles lash in response, and a deep groan of unspeakable madness echoes up from the depths. The demon of Saalvru does not give up its prisoners willingly.

“Ipyrea hryssean atim.”I call again.“Siandrar.”Then in a loud voice which echoes into those endless depths, “Ivor Illithor, I summon you. Come forth!”

Clara stands just on the edge of my vision. She’s buried her face in Oscar’s shoulder while her brother holds her almost protectively, as though she has not spent her entire life shielding him from the horrors of the worlds. He stares into the pit, his expression one of desperate hope. Does Estrilde know the true nature of the relationship between Ivor and this boy? Or does she not care so long as she gets what she wants in the end?

“Siandrar!”I bellow again. The demon writhes, uttering a roar beyond description. But the Rite of the Thorn is an ancient law, inscribed into the very foundations of Eledria by the Great Goddess Aneirin Herself. No demon can resist Her will.

I squeeze my hand, send more blood streaming into that pit. I am dizzy, trembling. The long separation from my Fatebound has weakened me more than I like to admit over these last few weeks. Her proximity has reawakened a spark deep inside, but her lack of memory impedes any real flow of magic between us. There’s only one way now that I can be restored to full power—and that is not something I can take from her. Not now. Not ever.

“Ivor,”I call again, my voice ringing against the stone walls, down into that hell. “Come forth!”

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