Set me free.
Those words had no sooner been uttered than the door opened and a guard removed me from the room. Hank hadn’t even looked at me; he simply stepped away, turned his back, and that was it.
The short minutes we had were intense, confusing, and hurtful. I wanted to help him, to read that damned tablet and secure his freedom. The Circe had used him to convince me to do just that, had obviously screwed with his mind, but why did it feel so . . . final? I couldn’t shake the feeling that something else was wrong, and quite frankly, it felt like I’d been hit by a rogue wave and was still sputtering up salt water on the shore.
“You can tell the Circe I’m ready to cooperate,” I told the guard before entering my cell.
I was left alone for all of ten minutes before being retrieved again and taken to the massive cave opening to the sea. Hank was there, which surprised me. He stood rigid, a stone sentinel staring out at the water with flat, cold eyes. The neck manacle was back, chaining him to the wall behind him. They’re that afraid of him, I thought.
I approached the altar and picked up the stone tablet. It looked so innocuous and yet the small piece of clay was the key to my sister’s freedom and Hank’s freedom. To hell with Leander and his doom-and-gloom diagnosis about the NecroNaMoria. Hank would recover. And the first step to recovery was freedom from the Circe.
If I could translate it.
Of course, passing along the knowledge written on the tablet to the Circe was one hell of a gamble, but I’d come this far. Sandra was gone, kind of, and I wasn’t going to fail or abandon my partner; he’d had enough of that in his life already. I’d come here to find him and return him home. That goal hadn’t changed.
And, besides, if the words did end up making sense to me, who said I had to tell them the truth? This was simply an exercise in buying time.
I mustered my determination and turned my attention to the tablet. The symbols and slashes did, in fact, resemble the markings on my arm. But just looking at them didn’t tell me a damned thing. “If I’m able to translate this,” I said, eyeing all three and pulling up my shield against their voices, “you’ll free him.”
“Of course,” Arethusa said.
“We have already sworn this to him.”
“Our word, once given, cannot be broken.”
“And if I can’t translate it, then what?” I asked.
Electricity snapped in the air. Metal and magic sparked against stone. I turned slowly to see a male siren striding across the floor, dragging a whip behind him. A metal, spiked barb was tied to the end of the whip and it glowed with some kind of arcane energy.
My gut tightened. I flicked a glance to Hank, it all making sense now why he’d been brought here. “That whip touches his back and I won’t translate a word.”
“You will translate it.”
“The tablet’s meaning has eluded us from the beginning.”
“We’d all but forgotten about it until you came along.”
“And now we know”—Ephyra glanced at my right arm—“there is power in the symbols.”
“The deity has brought you to us.”
“A gift of power, surely.”
I frowned. “Like you don’t have enough already?” Three pairs of eyes stared back at me blankly, as though the idea of it was incomprehensible. “Right,” I muttered, returning my focus to the tablet, holding it in both hands, and closing my eyes.
With Sachâth threatening any power move, and life being in virtual overdrive the last few months, I hadn’t really practiced calling up my power at will. Sure, it rose like gangbusters with my emotions, but standing here like this, with the whip sparking, the Circe’s eyes on me, and a translation to make instead of a fight . . . my power didn’t rise quickly, let’s just put it that way.
But with enough concentration . . . there. There it was . . . pooling slowly in my center. A quiet kind of event. I heard the Circe whispering in that strange singsong way of theirs, which was a little distracting.
Finally, I felt the familiar tingle, the hot and cold, the hum that bled into every part of my body. I looked at the tablet, seeing the symbols through a filter of energy. The language flowed into my mind, and I could speak the writing as naturally as breathing . . . but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make the connection between this ancient language and my own.
Damn it all to hell. I kept trying, but it was a lost cause.
I finally gave up, releasing the mental hold I had, and felt the energy drain away into a dormant state. Weariness replaced the void. “I’m sorry,” I said, breathing heavily. “I can say the words—I just don’t know that they mean.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat, hesitant to look at Hank, and my fear spiking. I’d failed to do the one thing needed to set him free. When I did glance at him, he stood stock-still. I’m sorry.
My fingers curled into tight fists against the altar. “It’s not his fault.” I tried to reason with them. I’d seen what that whip could do. “Please don’t hurt him.” If that barb struck his skin, all bets were off. I knew I’d lose it.
“You will try again,” Ephyra demanded. She nodded to the whip master. He grabbed Hank and turned him around to face the wall.
I cursed Sachâth, cursed Fate for having given me great power and then tying my hands behind my back. What was the point? Frustrated, I grabbed the tablet with both hands and tried again . . .
And failed again. I glanced up at the Circe, intent on making them understand. “It’s not—”
The whip cracked.
I flinched. The sound reverberated through the chamber. The barb sliced through Hank’s shirt at the shoulder, leaving a long tear. At first there was nothing, a delayed reaction. And then the blood came.
Hank remained silent, but his body was taut, the muscles on his arms tight, the cords on his neck standing out. The whip sliced through the air with the backlash, creating a distinct sound, and the barb skittered across the stone, snapping and sparking as it came to rest.
Panic and fear ballooned, reawakening all the power I’d just drawn. My pulse began a frantic dance. I felt trapped, with no way out, no way to help Hank, no way to stop the whip or the Circe.
A hand on my arm pulled my attention back to the Circe. Arethusa had me and was leaning over, peering at the symbols on my arm, which had begun to glow brightly. I jerked against her. “Get off me.”
Rage clouded my thinking. I wanted to kill her, right then and there. I was pretty sure I would, but Sachâth lurked in the back of my mind. While I might be able to kill one, the other two would have me at their mercy if Death came and knocked me out.
“We must learn more of this power, sisters,” she said. “If not through the tablet, then through the human.”
“Not going to happen,” I ground out, pulling back, but she was stronger than she looked.
I tried to push my power back down, but Calliadne reached over the altar and grabbed my other arm. “Yes, let’s see what happens.”
“Stop it!” I managed to pull free and slugged Arethusa in the jaw. “You don’t know what you’re doing!” Their hands dug deeply into my arms. Power continued to fill me, fueled by my panic. Ephyra stepped in the center of her sisters and smirked. They were going to make me use it. I didn’t see any way out of it, but I knew one thing: I sure as hell would take someone down with me. Collateral damage—they should’ve thought of that before they pushed me.
Ephyra placed one hand on Arethusa’s shoulder and her other on Calliadne’s, making a link between the four of us. Heat surged through both of my arms. I screamed, gasping as their power slid into me.
I squeezed my eyelids closed and gave myself up to the divine. It was so eager that it lashed out immediately. I heard myself scream again but was lost in the pain of their power being pushed back from my body.
My eyes popped open as a strange sort of calm took over. My hand curled around Arethusa’s arm and I directed everything I had into that hand, into doing exactly what she had done to me, but a thousandfold. From my shoulder to my fingertip, my arm burned cold and hot and deadly.
“You wanted my power?” Light breached my fingertips. “Here. I hope you choke on it.”
And then it arced out of me with the force of a rocket, burning electric as it went into Arethusa, and shoving me backward. I hit the ground and saw stars, but quickly scrambled to my feet to defend myself.
A high-pitched keening erupted in the chamber, rebounding off the walls, and making me cover my ears. After several seconds, the volume dropped enough to allow me to raise my head.
Holy shit.
A bluish white light—what came from me—ate its way slowly through Arethusa’s chest. Direct hit. Her sisters were pulling at her, chanting, using their power to try and save her, and screaming.
God, the screaming.
Hank faced the wall, had a fistful of chain, and was trying to pull it free of the stone, using one foot braced on the wall for better leverage.
I have to help him. Before Sachâth gets here. Before I’m completely screwed.
I made for Hank, but Ephyra’s head snapped up. The light in her eyes was maniacal. I got two steps before she threw out her hand and shouted one word.
Stop.
Instantly I was rooted to the floor, held there by her word. I pushed against it, knowing my power was greater than hers, knowing I had to figure out how to fucking gather it again and use it. Through the adrenaline haze and the sound of my own wild pulse pounding through my ears like a ritual drum, images and language scattered across my brain. Ancient things. Words that echoed in my head.
My skin tingled with power, and I latched on to that sensation. Growing it, fanning the embers left over from before. I wasn’t as empty as I thought.
I gave everything I had to push through the force of Ephyra’s word. A scream built from somewhere deep inside of me, burgeoning, growing, trembling along with the rest of me as I gave all my strength and power. The sound burst from me and I fell forward onto my hands and knees, gasping.
Oh shit. I’d done it.
Startled, I glanced up and met the shocked eyes of the two Circe. Arethusa was gone, burned up. Dead. And I had just broken through Ephyra’s power word.
The siren with the whip gaped from the Circe to me, unable to move or process what he was seeing.
And then the entire chamber shook. Small rocks came loose from the cave ceiling high above, pinging the floor and splashing into the pools. A whine like an inbound missile filled the space and the sonic boom rocked me onto my ass just as the wall around Hank’s chain cracked and shattered with his strength.
Too late. Death has come, I thought, scrambling to my feet just as shadows crept quickly into the cave like a coming storm, gathering me up.
He was free.
Bitches would pay.
One already had. Arethusa was dead. And the two who were about to die faced him along with the whip master who had moved behind them. Only it was too late; he was already there, snatching Calliadne by the throat, spinning her in his arms so that her back was against him, bracing his elbow on her shoulder, and grabbing her head, twisting her neck until he heard the sickening, satisfying crunch of her spine snapping in two.
A second, two at the most. And it was done.
With a gathering of strength and a growl, he wrenched her head from her body. Blood, warm and thick, ran over his hands and forearms as the rest of her slid down to a pile at his feet—the only thing now lying between him and his next target.
Ephyra’s face had drained of all color. He lifted the head of her sister, holding it out to her, making her see what he was capable of, what he was good at.
And then he started laughing. It was too easy. And he’d wanted them to suffer as he had suffered.
He tossed the head aside, staring at the last remaining Circe, his bloodlust nowhere near fulfilled—he was just getting warmed up.
“Run,” he told her, letting her see the intention in his eyes, the gleam of anticipation that he felt all the way to his toes.
Her eyes flashed fire. The whip master grabbed her arm. She snatched the tablet and they fled.
The hunt was on.
Calm settled over him. He walked toward the passageway where Ephyra had disappeared, stopping for a moment to look over his shoulder at the gray shadows swirling above, holding Charlie immobile in their grip. Then he continued walking.
Nothing mattered now but the kill.
Nothing.
Pressure squeezed my neck, but I wouldn’t exactly describe it as a hand. All around me darkness floated. Directly in front of me, it began to condense, slowly forming a dark, featureless face with ghostly eyes.
That had never happened before.
I tried to swallow but couldn’t. I could barely move enough to look down, far below me, to the altar. Hank stood there, paused at the passageway, staring over his shoulder. Staring at me.
And then he turned and walked away.
He just walked away.
Sachâth spoke then, and I nearly wet my gown, the voice reverberating through me so heavy and powerful that everything went a little squirrely. It sounded like a hundred voices all speaking at once. It made the Circe look like amateurs, and I was glad I couldn’t understand the words.
I struggled, tried to grab at the pressure on my neck, but there was nothing solid to hit or kick or grab on to. Pressure built in my face. My pulse went into overdrive, and I knew I couldn’t keep this up for much longer.
The blackness around the white eyes began to form into finer features—still dark and difficult to see, but there was a real face there, coming together until finally it resembled a female, but still wrapped in shadow. I stopped struggling. All around the face, the shadows moved and swirled like tentacles. One whipped toward me, striking me on the cheek, drawing blood, blood that was taken to the dark mouth and tasted.
Its brow furrowed deep and angry and frustrated. The pressure on my neck increased. It leaned in and spoke in a very pissed off voice before throwing me down and retreating into a swirl of vanishing gray.
I braced for impact, for my body to break against stone.
But I slapped against water instead, hitting one of the pools, and drawing in a shocked gasp that filled my lungs with seawater. I sank to the glittering bottom as everything went black.
Emma.
Her face appeared so clearly in the blackness. But it was different, she was different. Older. Gorgeous. The sun was like a halo behind her, making the red in her brown hair turn to fire and gold. It was down, long, like mine used to be, and it moved in the breeze, and she laughed, dimples slicing into smooth cheeks, eyes brimming with happiness and serenity, a confidence that wasn’t there now. Wasn’t there yet.
Love. Profound love. So perfect and pure, it made my soul hurt. It pierced my heart and demanded I acknowledge its significance.
The golden light behind Emma’s form shimmered, growing until it blinded everything and in this light another form took shape. Female shape, hair moving as though underwater and glinting like sunlight on the sea. I felt a smile, more than I saw one. Felt kindness and acceptance.
I saw myself reaching out, but didn’t feel the movement, only knowing that I was supposed to open my hand. It was enveloped in golden warmth. Two pearls were pressed into my palm. They were the size of marbles, and heavy. The inscription on the jewels glowed.
I gazed in dreamlike wonder at what rested in my hand. I remembered the dancers at the banquet, the story . . . I knew what I held.
Yes, a voice entered my mind, a beautiful voice filled with kindness and love and power. And I knew this could only be Panopé, the Witch of the Sea, the mother to the siren race. But how? Laughter filled my head, sweet and ethereal, and I wondered if I was gone.
No, you’re not dead, human. The only way I could reach you was here, in the sea. The Circe have imprisoned me.
Imprisoned?
They have kept my power locked in their sanctum. They had so much promise. They took the gift of my vision and twisted it, became too powerful, too unworthy . . .
I glanced down at the Source Words in my hand. The Adonai never stole them. It was my voice. You took them back.
It was long before the Circe were born, but yes. My children were not ready for them.
And now they are? And why was she giving them to me? I wasn’t a siren. I wasn’t preprogrammed to read or wield the words inscribed on the pearls. And why two of them?
They are but two of the three words I took back. And there is one who is ready to wield them. Hank? But . . . To wield words of Creation and Destruction one must understand the weight of that power, the sacrifice, and the responsibility. The corruption power can bring. Only now is he ready for such gifts.
But how? I found myself asking. He could only wield one of them . . . right?
When the families of Elekti and Kairos combined through marriage, the children inherited the innate power to wield not one but two Source Words. Destruction, originally intended for the Elekti, and Creation, intended for Kairos. Niérian was one of only a few children born to this marriage before the Circe struck and destroyed the house forever. Give him the jewels. With them, the Circe’s power will end as it should have ended long ago and I will be free. We all will be free.
I hesitated. Unsure of why, but knowing that no one gave something for nothing. It just didn’t work that way. And if it did . . .
There is always a cost. I give Niérian a curse as much as a gift, but it is his choice, if he chooses to bear it or not. Now, you must leave the water. Leave now.