Page 3 of The Blood that Binds Us

The collective is the life force that surrounds us all, but each person has a small portion of it to call their own. A private void to store one’s thoughts, dreams, needs, and desires. Mages possess the ability to bend their collective—to tap into its energy and manipulate the world around them. And then there is my kind, the only kind, that can reach out and pry into someone else’s to know what feelings linger within their hearts, and taste the motivations hidden behind smooth words. I project my collective towards him, completely undetectable to anyone but myself, and scratch the surface of his consciousness.

I immediately wish I hadn’t.

A hundred phantom blisters burst all over my body, and my chest threatens to cave in on me, to collapse under the weight of the shame and sorrow that presses on my breast. I’m immobilized, my lungs not wanting to fill with air, but I continue to breathe anyway, not able to stop my chest from rising and falling, even as each breath buries the pain further into me. I drop my hold on his collective and let mine snap back into place, back to the safe spot behind my eye, and I let out a tiny gasp when the invisible blisters disappear as quickly as I felt them emerge.

What was that?

“Are you alright?” he asks, appearing confused at my sudden sharp inhale.

“My shoulder,” I mumble nonchalantly, certainly not willing to tell him the real reason for my faltered breath—that I had pried into his collective and nearly doubled over from the crashing wave of pain.

“What is your father’s name? I can have my emissary locate him, and if your story checks out, we can coordinate a safe return.”

I shake my head. “I’d rather my father not know I was ever taken. He has a temper and would surely get himself killed trying to go after the men that took me. If I return alone, I can dismiss my absence as something else, running off with a gentleman caller perhaps, but certainly nothing to do with Legion.”

“Your father must be a smart man.”

He’s not. I haven’t seen my father in over a decade, not since he and my mother discovered what I was and decided I was no longer a child worthy of love.

“I’ll make you a deal, Miss Wren.”

My eyes narrow. I don’t like deals.

“Legion cannot possibly have many more resources. They need coin, I’m sure of it. If they went to the trouble of locating you for their gain, well, they certainly aren’t going to be content to let you stay here with me.” His eyes sparkle as ifhefinds the thought tempting. “You will stay at Castle Scarwood for the time being. Let them come back to collect their prize, which they will because they’re dumb enough and desperate enough. When they do, confirming what you say is true, you may leave on your own accord.”

“I beg your pardon? I can’t stay here.”

“You can. And you will.” His tone is level, calm, but drips with suggestion that this is not a choice.

“My father will be worried sick. I need to return home.” Another partial lie. I do need to return home, but home isn’t with my father.

“And if you aren’t lying to me, you will.”

“Am I to be kept here?” I ask incredulously, motioning with my chin to the room around me.

“I will have a room arranged for you. But understand, if you attempt to flee or harm me or anyone in this castle, I won’t be so merciful again.” The promise rolls off his tongue with ease, not a sliver of toxicity, but with a gentle coolness that sends a shudder skittering down my back.

If agreeing gets me out of this room and access to the castle, it is the best option. Eyes on the castle’s surroundings will be necessary for me to coordinate a successful escape.

Not wanting to agree too quickly and reveal my eagerness, I ask, “And if I don’t agree? To remain here for as long as you see fit?”

A predatory smile raises one side of his mouth. “Then I can only assume you truly are one of Legion’s playthings, and Icouldend this right now, but I think I might wish to keep you around for a bit longer.” He leans forward in his chair, his eyes dropping to the mouth I hold tight. “However, I don’t think you’d find your conditions as agreeable as I would.” The smile vanishes from his lips, and he raises one dark eyebrow in silent question, his green eyes daring me to reject his offer to stay here.

I don’t let him intimidate me. I stare back at him, hard, but I dip my chin in a quick nod.

He rises from his chair and walks to the door, pausing before leaving to speak over his shoulder. “I’ll send River to collect you. I look forward to our time together, Wren.” My name slides off his tongue like soft velvet, worn in and comfortable. And I don’t like it at all.

Not much time passes before there are two taps on the door, and an older woman with hair like sunset enters. She wears a pale servant’s smock, her face aged but gentle, with light brown eyes framed by vibrant red-orange locks.

“Hello dear,” she greets, and then looks at my hands disapprovingly. “Let’s get you out of this nonsense.” River reaches into a pocket of her linen apron, pulls out a key, and promptly undoes my binding.

I breathe a sigh of relief as the blood flows back into my forearms, and I go to stand up but stumble forward, my hands catching my fall on the hard floor beneath me.

“Easy, dear. Here, let me help you.” River extends her arm, and I use her as support, ascending to my feet fully this time.

I mutter a thank you, and she instructs me to follow her, promising food and clean clothes. River guides me out of the room and down a dimly lit hallway, the mounted flames casting shadows along the sickly yellow walls. We round a corner, and the hall widens into a larger tunnel, the corn silk paint replaced with empty barred cells on either side of us.

I follow River up a stairwell tucked behind the final cell, to a wooden door she opens to what I presume is the ground level of the castle. She guides me down another corridor, the pale gray walls broken up by large arched windows inlaid in intervals. I glance out each window casually, not wanting to seem too ambitious to scout my surroundings—not that my every move won’t be watched by the Black Art and his servants. He doesn’t believe me, only a fool would be dumb enough to, but he knows a Legion spy isn’t getting out of this keep unnoticed. He is laying a trap, a cat waiting for the mouse to corner itself, but he hasn’t accounted for the unexpected.

---