Page 12 of Cursed Evermore
Blessed Mother! Iportaled?Me?
I’dripped through the fabric of reality without meaning to or knowing how.
I recalled the swirling chasm of darkness that had swallowed me when I tried to escape the wraith. Was that the portal? It must have been.
Maybe I'd created it in my terror.
The last time I’d felt such deep-rooted fear was when Father was taken.
“I’ve never portaled before.” My voice came out small. “I didn’t know I could.”
“Apparently, you can.” Emabelle’s lips thinned. “And it was just as Chancellor Blackthorne was leaving.”
All the air whooshed out of my lungs, and I placed a weary hand over my thundering heart. “Oh no. No, no. Did he see me?”
“No, thank the Gods. But he’s very suspicious. You know what that asshole is like.” She swallowed hard, wariness creeping into her eyes. “And he sent Friar Jameson to check on us yesterday morning.”
Shit. That was not good. Not at all. “Did anything happen?”
“No, but he did a full scan of the place. He asked to see you.” She hesitated before adding, “Your mother told him you were sick and managed to get rid of him.”
Chancellor Blackthorne unleashing Friar Jameson upon us was like releasing a bloodhound that had already caught our scent.
Blackthorne—a.k.a Stormfell’s head witch hunter—was the power-hungry bastard who had been tightening his grip on the south ever since my father disappeared. With no one left to challenge him, he was pushing hard for King Varis to name him Warden of the South.
Grandmother told me Blackthorne had been the first to decree that proof wasn’t necessary to burn someone for using magic, only suspicion.
And Friar Jameson?
He was supposed to be a devoted servant of the Faith of the Eternal.Instead, he served the highest bidder, his nose buried so far up Blackthorne’s ass he probably hadn’t seen sunlight in years.
The Faith preached that magic was a corruption of the natural order, an abomination against the Eternal Gods’ sacred design. Believers worshipped the Eternal in three divine faces who were meant to be the embodiment of purity and love. But thanks to men like Friar Jameson, their doctrine had become an instrument of persecution.
According to my journals, two years ago, I stood beside my grandmother as Friar Jameson burned a young woman at the stake.
Her only crime had been getting caught making a strange gesture before entering the abbey.
The memory itself was lost to me, swallowed by the curse. But reading my own words had sent chills racing down my spine, an echo of horror I must have witnessed.
I gripped the edge of the bed sheet as if the silky fibers could help me. Now I didn’t just have the wraith I unleashed to worry about.
Magic was forbidden in the mortal lands for reasons carved in blood and suffering. The Accords between the magical and mortal realms weren't merely laws, they were boundaries drawn from centuries of catastrophe, resulting from the Great War thousands of years ago. Magic in mortal hands warped and festered.
And it could get out of control, tearing holes into reality that allowed ancient horrors to slip through the Veil—the magical border separating the human realm from the magical.
Every forbidden spell cast was like a beacon in the darkness, drawing creatures of shadow and hunger that had no place in the human realm. Not to mention that it gave magic wielders power the rulers of the mortal lands would never allow.
If Chancellor Blackthorne even suspected the truth of what I'd done, the punishment would be swift and merciless. Death for me and everyone I loved.
Friar Jameson would ensure it; his twisted faith had transformed the protective purpose of the Accords into a crusade, his piety justifying every cruelty inflicted upon those who dared touch magic.
I needed to…
Wait… Emabelle said Friar Jameson came byyesterdaymorning. “Emabelle, how long have I been down?”
She bit the inside of her lip. “Two days.”
My mouth fell open and a pang of dread coursed through me. “Two days?”
