Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 123190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 616(@200wpm)___ 493(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 616(@200wpm)___ 493(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Jas probably wouldn’t answer, and I hate that responding differently feels like a betrayal to Jas, but I don’t have a choice. Continued stubborn silence will only make him push harder. That’s something I can’t risk.
“I don’t know if he was doing blood magic,” I say, “but these scars?” I swallow and nod. “It’s as if they are scars from what happened in his dungeon.”
“And how many are there?” the witch asks. “More than this one?”
I watch Misha as I nod. “Quite a few more.”
Misha pales, then squeezes his eyes shut. I know what he’s thinking because I have thought the same. No wonder she hates the fae. No wonder she’s so broken.
“What did he want with a human girl?” the witch whispers, swirling the potion in the glass. “And why are the markings coming to bear only now?” She takes my wrist again and lifts the glass, her hand shaking. “This will only sting for a minute.”
With a turn of her wrist, she dumps the steaming liquid directly onto the gnarled scar, and I scream. It’s as if the flesh is being ripped from my bones. As if she has inserted hundreds of tiny red-hot knives directly into the scar. As if she’s twisting them and digging them deeper.
When the pain subsides enough for me to open my eyes, the room is filled with steam, and I can’t see Misha or the witch.
A chair squeaks, and the steam clears enough for me to see her stand. A glass slips from her fingers and smashes on the floor.
“Get out.”
“What’s wrong?” Misha asks.
“Get out of my house!” The witch points at me. “She is not a human girl, and those scars are not right.”
I back toward the door, hands shaking as my gaze bounces between the witch and Misha. I’m caught. This is over.
“Tell me what you saw,” Misha says. He’s so calm. So unbothered by what she said.
“Nothing,” she screeches. “I saw nothing, and that is not possible.” She backs into the counter behind her, knocking a vial over. It rolls to the ground and shatters, sending a puff of red vapor into the air. “Leave this house and do not come back with your lies. You are fae hiding in human skin.”
“She has fae blood,” Misha says, standing and offering his hand to calm the witch. “She is a child of Mab.”
She dodges his hand. “Perhaps, but those scars have no story, no pain, no feeling in them. There are lies and trickery behind what we see there. You be careful, my king.”
Misha’s quiet for a long time as we walk away from the old witch’s house. I try not to stare, but I’m desperate to know what’s going on in his mind. The witch told him my scars are a lie. She told him this is trickery.
But he stays at my side as if we’re old friends and not as if he’s about to throw me in his dungeons. And I think that might be worse. The guilt I feel over this trust might be worse.
“How many more scars?” he asks. “I’ve seen the ones on your arms, but how many . . .” His feet scuff in the gravel as he stops and turns to me, eyes haunted.
“I haven’t counted.” I place my hand on my stomach. “Many here. More on my back. Some on my ankles.”
“He did this to you.” It’s not a question. He’s saying it for himself, as if he’s trying to wrap his mind around it. “You were trying to protect Brie. That’s why you wouldn’t tell her—you knew where they were from, but you didn’t want her to know what he did to you.”
Swallowing, I bow my head. “What good would it do?” How many times has Jas thought the same thing?
He pulls me into his arms, one hand behind my back and another in my hair, and tucks my head under his chin.
I stiffen, at first because I’m so surprised at the gesture and then because I remember that I’m supposed to—that Jas doesn’t like to be touched.
Misha releases me and steps back. “I’m so sorry,” he says, retreating another step and shoving his hands into his pockets. “I wish you’d never had to endure that, and if I could go back—”
“You can’t. We can’t.”
He nods, but his gaze is on my stomach, as if he can see the patchwork of scars through my clothes. “He was a special kind of evil. I knew it even then.”
I glance over my shoulder toward the howling sea wind and the cottage, now hidden behind the thatch of trees. “What do you make of what she said? About my scars being lies?” I swallow hard. “Do you think that could be part of the blood magic? The absence of the scar’s memory?”
Misha looks toward the cottage as well. “That’s what I’m guessing. She said herself that she’s never encountered this type of scarring before. I don’t think we should make too much of her panic. Remember she also told us resurrection isn’t possible without the gods right after telling us Mordeus lives.”