Page 89 of Lore of the Wicked Wood
“Embrace,” Everinne repeated, not entirely sure how Rozalie’s witchy moon logic applied to her. “It is not easy to embrace the unknown.”
“Of course not, darling. The tapestry of the universe is woven by threads of beating hearts, thousands of souls, and archaic magic long since forgotten by those who still breathe.” Rozalie cupped Everinne’s cheek, the green of her eyes sparkling like mystic seafire. “You wander lost in this world, unable to see the truth of your purpose.”
Everinne stiffened. She had no purpose, at least none that could be looked upon as anything other than a curse. It could not be seen as favorable by any gods or goddesses to be born with the power of pain coursing through one’s veins. Though Rozalie’stouch was warm, the air was suddenly sharp and cold, just like Everinne’s tone.
“I am touched by death.”
“No, my sweet child of the moon. You areblessedby death.” Rozalie ran her thumb along the apple of Everinne’s cheek, tracing a crescent moon with two uneven lines and a swirl beneath it. “You’ve been chosen by the moon goddess herself to wield her wild darkness. A strand to forge the grand design between the skies, the stars, and the realms of life. That power within you is an awakening, a reckoning. And you are its one true master, not your fear.”
Everinne wanted to believe the high priestess, she wanted to place her trust in the witch and accept her destined path, to regard this moon goddess as a trusted deity. But she knew nothing of covens or the old ways. Instead, her prayers and pleas were thrown into the wind without tradition or ritual, hoping to catch the attention of any god or goddess that might listen.
“How can you be sure?” Everinne asked, her voice far less steady than she had planned.
Rozalie gave a small, non-committal laugh. “Only the Azoura, the three sisters of fate, know all with absolute certainty.”
“Mm.” Everinne knew nothing about the sisters of fate, though given the way Rozalie spoke of them in such high esteem, she could only assume they were powerful within their own right. Her gaze flicked to the sky, where sparse patches of indigo were barely visible between the tangled branched and feathered leaves. “I should return to the city before I am missed.”
Rozalie dipped her chin, her plum-colored lips lifting at the corners. “As you do. Blessed tidings, Everinne Auvyre.”
“Blessed tidings.” Everinne pulled the hood of her coat over her head to block the wind, and set off, heading away from thelonely cottage in the woods and back toward the city that was so often more frightening than the forest.
She retraced her steps, treading carefully over worn paths that ended abruptly, and past hollowed trunks that seemed to watch her as she walked by them. Her breath puffed before her in a fine mist, the temperature dipping as the inky tendrils of night stretched across the sky. The trees were eerily silent, for there was no birdsong in these wicked woods, no scurrying of woodland creatures, no sign of life save for the creatures of darkness that already dwelled within the Deszvila Forest.
A ripple of unease caused her skin to pebble, and it had nothing to do with the biting wind nipping her cheeks and nose.
She tossed a hasty glance over her shoulder, half expecting to see one of thebaukvistlurking in the shadows, tracking her every movement, ready to flay the flesh from her bones. But there was nothing there, just an unnatural fog that settled along the forest floor, slinking about as though it held secrets of its own. Gnarled vines curled around the carved trunks of the massively thick trees, slithering and coiling like venomous serpents. The bitter breeze stung her cheeks and scraped past her ears, carrying the coarse whispers of alluring voices, each one an ancient summons. But Everinne didn’t dare look back. When she finally emerged from the dense line of trees and the worn dirt path leading back to Starysa came into view, the canopy of branches shuddered then sighed, though whether it was one of relief or mourning she could not be sure, for the touch of death was no longer in its grasp.
Everinne’s footfalls fell steadily on the earth, matching the even beating of her pulse. She replayed her conversation with Rozalie in her head and without warning, her thoughts drifted to Atlas. A spear of agony sliced through her, its blade of torment threatening to sever the bond in half. She clamped one hand over her mouth to keep from gasping, as the pain waswretchedly keen. Part of her wondered if he was still furious with her, she’d wounded him deeply. Despite her harsh words and outright denial, the connection between their souls remained in place. Soft and featherlight, her heart gently caressed the bond. Her hands trembled in hesitation and she clenched them into fists, burrowing herself deeper into her coat. His name echoed through her mind.
“Atlas.”
For a moment, there was only silence.
And then…
“Yes, Wildheart?”
The deep rumbling of his voice left her breathless.
Everinne shook her head. Hot tears pricked at the corner of her eyes and she sniffled.“Nothing.”
Twenty-Eight
Atlas’s soul ached.
It didn’t matter if he was still furious at Everinne for rejecting him, for denying the bond, because it was there, bleeding from him to her, binding them. He’d heard her whisper his name as keenly as if her lips had brushed his ear, and the sound of her voice in his mind did something to him, left him filled with a deep, insatiable kind of longing. For years,years, he’d known she was fated to be his, to belong to him, and he’d suffered in agonizing silence. He’d lost himself to surface level pleasure, pretending the next lover would be good enough, seeing Everinne’s face every time he shared the bed of another female. He watched as she danced a waltz with death, slipping further from his grasp with each reckless twirl, and now that the truth was finally splayed open between them, Everinne had struck him where it hurt the most.
There would be time later to convince her to come to her senses, to have her accept him as her mate.
Right now, he had to figure out why immortals with rare magic were vanishing, and who was taking them.
Caedian had chosen the Dancing Nymph as their meeting point with Rozalie and Valaina. While the parlor was ideal for itssecluded seating arrangements behind veils of glamour, moody lighting, and a panache for the discreet, Atlas wished his Captain of the Guard had picked a place where he wasn’t so famously known.
Atlas had spent more than his fair of time tucked away inside the numerous dancing rooms of the parlor, drinking and fucking his way into a mediocre oblivion. No sooner had they arrived than he was swarmed by half-naked females, each one vying for his attention and whispering lustful promises as he passed them.
Caedian guided him to one of the back rooms of the pleasure hall, where sheer draperies of scarlet and gold swirled like silky mist, framed with black beaded curtains. Music floated between rooms and the winding halls, a low, melodic cadence highlighted by sensual moans. The scent of heady floral perfume lingered in the air, coupled with the minty smoke of freshly lit stigs and expensive alcohol. Gilded floors reflected warm faerie fire from ornately shaped lanterns lining the walls, casting flickering shadows and glimpses of golden light.
A shimmering ward was cast over the far back room of the Dancing Nymph, its gossamer façade impenetrable by sight, allowing those within to speak freely, their voices muffled and unrecognizable to anyone outside of the magical barrier.
