Page 17 of Claimed By Fangs and Darkness
Shadows circled Evie’s feet, and I felt her heart flutter through the bond. I wanted to tell her to be careful, to keep the channeling of power nice and steady. I wanted desperately to guide her through this, but I’d promised not to interfere. I bit my tongue so hard it bled.
“From born blood we rise.”
Evie changed before my eyes. She bloomed from her chrysalis, shadows swarming her from each focal point of the circle. Instead of releasing shadows, Evie now devoured them. They entered her mouth, her heart, her solar plexus, claiming her the same as she had finally claimed them.
A voice boomed from the cloud of holy darkness, a feminine power that rattled my bones.
“And from this day forward, the Masked Order will be renamed in honor of its patron goddess. The Hekate Clan, the rightful rulers of Etherdale and the spark of Ravenia’s revolution.”
I bowed my head. I closed my eyes. My body knew I was hearing the voice of a deity, a dark goddess of the chthonic realm.
Not Lillian.
Hekate.
It might’ve been wrong to do when Evie was already asking so much, but I said the prayer in my mind, anyway.
Please protect her. Thank you.
Evie’s own voice left her lips over the boom of wind and screaming shadows. “I will initiate myself as Hekate’s daughter under the light of the new moon, a vow I make with blood and shadow.”
My heart squeezed, knowing what such a vow meant. If unfulfilled, Evie would perish.
“Turn my brother.”
Some unholy bargain had been struck, and I didn’t have enough time to process these monumental recent developments. The moment Evie turned back to Idris, the shadows swarmed him next.
I was thrown back, away from them and to the southern point of the circle.
Evie closed the distance between her and Idris. Her palms were outstretched, her face twisted with exertion as she channeled raw, unearthly power in and through. The purple flames shifted to black, leaping toward the ceiling.
The sigil markings began oozing crimson as if painted in blood.
Evie fell to her knees, closed her eyes, and held Idris’s hand in both of hers.
When a tear fell down her cheek, her heart skipped a beat, and a strangled cry left her lips, I scrambled to my feet.
I took a step toward her and was blown back, barred from approach.
My teeth ground together. I struggled not to see Aisling, torn to pieces by the born while I watched, powerless to do a damn thing.
Evie was strong.
More than that—she’d been right. There had to be meaning to all of this. To the series of beautiful, cruel, horrifying, grueling, celestial moments that had led us here and would lead us into the revolution. I wanted to believe.
Ididbelieve. How could I not when Evie herself was the greatest evidence for miracles and divinity there was?
“Come on, baby,” I whispered. “Prove them wrong.”
Had Idris’s other hand twitched, or was it my hopeful imagination again?
It was hard to see through the chaotic web of power weaving around them. In a move that was all Evie’s, she placed a pink flower over Idris’s heart.
I tried to read her lips, her voice no more than a whisper. “It’s your turn to bloom, my knight in shining armor.”
Her lip wobbled. Then her head dropped, and it seemed like the power was settling. Draining, even.
I’d never been so tense, so terrified of my intuition proving fallible.
