Page 75 of A Frozen Pyre
“My power is only water, Firi. Just as yours is fire.”
“Fire and manifesting.”
Dwyn sucked in a breath. “No. Just fire.” They stared at each other for a long time before Dwyn said, “Manifesting is blood magic.”
Ophir laughed, but she stopped when Dwyn’s expression didn’t change. Sedit stirred from sleep, lifting his head long enough to ascertain that his master was okay. He settled back into a resting position as Ophir’s brows lowered, forehead wrinkling with her unspoken question.
“You’re drawing on the blood, the hearts, the spirit of your people. The old texts suggest that royalty might be predisposed to manifestation, but in theory, anyone with massive amounts of blood magic could achieve it. Then there’s smaller blood magic.”
“You keep saying that term and applying it to both you and me. Blood magic. It doesn’t…”
“It’s what the pact—our gang, Tyr’s and mine—was pursuing. I figured out what none of them could and left Sulgrave rather than share the knowledge. When I drain, I borrow blood rather than use my own. Now that Tyr’s learned how to drain, he’s returning to Sulgrave to kill the men who hurt his dog.”
Once more, Ophir attempted to laugh. There was denial in the sound. Her heart squeezed, an unseen hand wringing droplets of blood from it as pain shot through her. She pictured the twinkle in Tyr’s eye, his wry smile, his fingers as they clasped her hips, his bright teeth grazing her throat, the warmth of his arms as he’d held her in her crumbling shack only a few nights prior. Water lined her eyes as she shook her head, face a mix between a smile at a joke she didn’t understand and deep lines of concern.
“I mean it,” Dwyn said, only pity in the outer edges of her voice. “You know how fae fall ill and sometimes die afterusing their secondary powers?”
Ophir didn’t attempt to hide her confusion as she stared at Dwyn.
Dwyn nodded as she said, “That’s because a secondary power, and rarely, a tertiary power, is just one they’ve learned to access by borrowing against their blood. My only power is water. The others are ones I borrow. Your only power is fire. Manifestation is one you borrow from your people.”
Ophir sucked in a breath as if to scoff, but no sound came out. She stared at Dwyn for a long while before asking, “If that’s true, why aren’t people dropping dead around me?”
Dwyn smiled understandingly. “You’re borrowing against hundreds of thousands—millions, even. Drops here, heartbeats there. You channel the love of your people. What I do is a lot grittier and more direct. It can be learned. It can be taught. And I thought you should know. This is who you’ve shared your bed with. I use blood magic, and Tyr pursued it. It’s why he followed me here from Sulgrave. I was the only member of the Pact who’d made the breakthrough, and I was his best chance at ascending, even if he hated me.”
“No.”
Dwyn continued, “I said more than I meant to. He learned what he needed.”
“No,” Ophir insisted. She scrunched her nose against the throb that banged against the inside of her skull. She shook her head hard again, despite her brain attempting to escape through her temples. “No, Tyr wouldn’t. He wouldn’t just leave me. He…”
Dwyn said nothing as she looked on with large, pitying eyes. Another damp cloud entered the room, filling the space as it had in the days following their escape. Ophir hated the sympathy etched into every line of Dwyn’s perfect porcelain face. Her lower lip lifted, pressed into a gentle, compassionate pout. It was one of the kindest faces she’d ever offered Ophir.
She could have sworn she heard the moment her heart splintered. It was the loud, high pop of a lake in the depths ofwinter as the surface cracked. Her fingers dug into her chest with bruising strength.
Dwyn stood and crossed the room in several swift steps. She crawled over Sedit, ignoring his protesting grunts as she wrapped her arms around Ophir. Ophir attempted to reject the kindness, pushing away, shaking her head, rebuffing, refusing, begging; then, piece by piece, her rebuttals turned to tears.
“I’m so sorry,” Dwyn murmured into her hair.
“It doesn’t make sense,” Ophir said between gasps, water spilling down her face. “He said…he…I…”
“I fucking hate him,” Dwyn said, “but I never wanted him to hurt you.”
Ophir folded herself into the hug, collapsing against the warmth of Dwyn’s chest as she heaved out her tears. The throbs of her headache matched the timing of her racking sobs. Her tears pulled in and out until Sedit was equally upset and mewling beside her, neither canine nor feline, just beyond the curtain of Dwyn’s hair.
Hatred wasn’t the emotion running its hands over her as her shoulders shook. Her heart chipped and crumbled as raw, unfiltered pain drove into her. It buried itself in her chest until nothing remained. “Why?”
“Shh.” Dwyn stroked her hair, pulling her in close.
“It can’t… I don’t believe…”
“I’m so sorry, Firi. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t want you to hurt.”
Somewhere between her gasping sobs and throbbing headache, she knew the words weren’t quite right, but she neither knew nor cared why. She nestled her face into the column of Dwyn’s neck until her vision was as dark as the rosemary-scented cloud of her hair. Maybe the pain was too heavy to carry, or Dwyn’s soft, rhythmic touches were too soothing. Maybe the world was too cold and hard to face. Before she realized what had happened, Ophir had cried herself to sleep.
Twenty-Six
Sedit’s growl sent a jolt through Ophir. He leaped down fromthe bed and ran to the door. She sat up quickly as she scanned the room in the last gray light of day. Orange embers cooled amid the whites and grays of the long-dead fire, telling her she’d been alone in the cabin for some time. Nothing about her surroundings had changed. No new food. No new logs. No sudden appearance of broad shoulders, strong hands, and crooked smiles.
