Page 71 of Destined to the Lycan
I swallowed hard and quietly obeyed. Beyond the fact that I hadn’t nearly killed myself running here only to be reduced to cinders by being stubborn over such a simple request, I also realized that pissing off the person whose help I desperately needed wasn’t a bright idea. To my shame, I had to admit that getting off my feet in my still weakened state felt rather amazing.
“Good boy,” Cliona said, her ageless features softening back to that taunting expression. “I’d offer you some clothes, but as you will be leaving shortly, it would only be a waste of time.”
I squirmed in my seat as her purple gaze glided over me. Once more, it was devoid of any lurid undertone. I felt more like a weird animal being ogled at a local freak show fair. The wretched female clearly enjoyed making me uncomfortable.
“You arrived here much faster than anticipated,” she continued. “Well done!”
This time, the mix of approval and admiration audible in her voice and expression as she spoke those words touched me. Witha certainty I couldn’t explain, I believed the Weaver was rather stingy with praise.
“Time is of the essence,” I mumbled.
“It is,” she acquiesced. “But you must be parched.”
Without waiting for my response, she gracefully rose from her seat—which turned out to be a cushioned stool—and walked to the right side of the room, which had an impressive array of potions, herbs, and various paraphernalia anyone versed in the occult would kill for. Her long silver white hair plaited into a single braid gently swayed behind her, the tip almost brushing the wooden floor. She grabbed a pitcher containing a clear liquid with a very pale purplish tinge and poured a generous portion into a tall glass.
“I’m fine,” I said nervously.
Yes, I was beyond parched. But I had heard so many disturbing stories about the Weaver. Who knew what type of magic concoction she was serving me?
She returned, her steps completely silent as if she was gliding over the floor rather than actually walking. The only sound audible in the room was the soft rustling of the golden beige fabric of her floor-length dress. It had a slightly medieval flavor to it with the long sleeves, narrow waist, and fluffy fur around the collar and wrists.
Cliona resumed her seat across the table from me and gave the glass a little push in my direction. My stomach knotted when the glass slid on its own the remaining distance in a way that clearly indicated telekinetic energy propelled it forward.
When a couple of seconds passed without me reaching for it, my hostess’ expression hardened again.
“It is extremely rude to refuse the hospitality offered,” she said in a cold voice that had my anxiety going up another notch.
My tongue burned with the urge to tell her that coercing someone into doing something they didn’t want to was evenmore rude and poor hospitality. But once more, I reminded myself that alienating her would gain me nothing and only further delay obtaining the answers I desperately needed. Although I had just met her for the first time, I could tell there would be no changing her mind. She wouldn’t help me until I complied with her demands.
Bracing for what might follow, I reached for the glass and drank.
My eyes nearly popped out of my head as a powerful moan rose from my throat. Whatever this liquid contained, its taste was divine. The glass was at room temperature in my hand, but the concoction I was drinking was perfectly cool and refreshing. Each gulp felt like the lights of the gods themselves were flowing through my veins, soothing each aching muscles, rejuvenating me, and infusing my body with a level of energy I could not recall ever possessing.
Too soon, I emptied the glass. Feeling bereft, I put it down on the table, wishing I could get a second serving. I licked my lips to catch any drop that might linger there. A soft chuckle had me glancing back at the Weaver. My cheeks burned with mortification as I locked eyes with her. I scrunched my face at her smug expression laced with blatant mockery.
“Isn’t it better?” she asked, tauntingly.
“Yes, thank you,” I mumbled.
To my surprise, instead of launching into some sermon about being less paranoid, Cliona switched back to the topic that truly mattered to me.
“Little Amara did very well on this mission,” the Weaver said pensively. “You both did.”
“She’s dying!” I exclaimed.
“She is,” the Weaver concurred in a factual manner. “And she will.”
“WHAT?!” I exclaimed, leaning forward in shock and disbelief.
“It was always inevitable,” she replied with a shrug.
I gaped at her in anger and confusion. “You said she would live once she received the cure!”
“I said shemightliveifshe receives the cure,” Cliona corrected. “But first, she must die and be reborn. No one can survive Ranael’s poison. Italwayskills the infected. You better than anyone knows this.”
My mind reeled. A part of me had always known my mate wouldn’t be able to survive the poison. Everyone had known, which was why the others refused to escort her on that adventure. I had deluded myself into thinking that somehow it would work out because I needed to believe she would be okay, and that I wouldn’t lose her. The dark truth that lurked in the back of my head ever since Lyall told me that Ranael couldn’t cure Amara attempted to rear its head again. But I silenced it. I didn’t want to acknowledge the reality that the Weaver would soon force me to face.
“But how will she be reborn?” I asked.
