Or simply mad.
That is how Malachi intended it. He was explicit in his instruction—Romeria could not know what she was—and Sofie knew better than to question it. She could see now, how all the seemingly random duties he had tasked her with over the years culminated in this gifted mortal before her now. The fate hadn’t been ignoring her. He’d been weaving his scheme all along. What he would gain from all this, Sofie was unsure, but she did not care. All she cared was that Elijah was freed from the Nulling, consequences be damned.
She had never enjoyed playing the part of court jester with her powers, but had Malachi granted her more time and freedom, she would have made the stone shake and the sky cry and the wind howl and the flames dance until there was no other option but for the girl to believe. To expel such energy when she needed every ounce for this undertaking was a luxury Sofie did not have. Surely, Malachi intended it that way. He had his reasons. The fates always did.
Perhaps the girl’s ignorance would save her. Or, more than likely, it is what would keep her focused on her mission. The little thief was strong-willed and resilient. She was young, but not sheltered to evils. She’d learned how to navigate her cruel world, adapting to survive.
Soon, Romeria would see. She would know the world of vengeful gods and monsters, and the lengths one would go for love. And nothing would ever be the same for her again.
The blood moon was almost upon them. Sofie could not miss this window.
“It is time for your journey, my little pilgrim.” She shuttered Romeria’s piercing blue eyes and smoothed the tendrils of dark hair to frame her face. She was an adult physically, and yet so young. In some ways, she reminded Sofie of her dear friend, Adele, from long ago. Not so much in looks, but in her feigned swagger, the way she imitated confidence when her little heart thumped like that of a frightened bunny’s. Under different circumstances, Sofie might have even enjoyed her company.
“May the fates be merciful.”
Sofie dragged the blade across her palm. Blood trickled out in a steady stream to coat Malachi’s horn and farther, seeping into the girl’s wound, just as the fate had instructed. This was not a ritual she’d ever learned or heard of during her time in the guild.
With that important step completed, Sofie fell to her knees before Malachi’s likeness—for it was thanks to him that she might hear Elijah’s voice again—and called forth her full power.
Vermin scampered as the ground shook.
Chapter Six
I wake, gasping for air.
A deep throb pains my lungs.
The floor beneath me is soft and dewy, the ceiling above a blanket of darkness. It takes me a moment to realize I’m lying in grass, under a night sky.
And a few more moments to remember Sofie driving that horn into my chest.
My heart races as I draw my hand to where my body aches, expecting to find the object still protruding. Nothing but tenderness remains. “What did you do to me, you crazy bitch?” I mutter, my voice hoarse.
Obviously, I didn’t die, but it sure feels like she tried to kill me.
With a wince, I pull myself into a sitting position. And frown at the billow of material around me, confusion scrambling my thoughts. My jeans and sweater are gone, replaced by this enormous dress, with layers of silk and a plunging neckline. She stabbed me and then changed me into formal wear?
I hold up my hand. Even in the darkness, I can make out the outline of the ring Sofie slipped onto my finger, the one she believes will somehow protect me.
I don’t have time to make sense of this. I need to get the hell out of here.
I heave myself off the wet ground, stumbling a few steps before I regain my balance, my head swimming. Walls of cedar hedge tower over me on either side, forming a long, narrow corridor that gives me only two options—left or right.
Shouts ring in the distance—I can’t gauge how far away, but they’re definitely coming from my left. They’re male in timbre, interspersed with clangs of metal against metal. In the air, the smell of smoke lingers. Something burns.
I take off in the opposite direction of the commotion, sprinting as fast as the darkness and the throb in my chest allows, stumbling in the tangle of bulky material swirling around my legs and a pair of wobbly heeled shoes. By the time the hedge opens into a cobblestone pathway lit with lanterns, I’m panting, my lungs heaving from strain, and I’m ready to tear the skirts from my body.
The moon is full and casting white light where I could not see it before, buried within the cedar. Is this the garden Sofie was talking about? The one with the soldiers, where I’ll find the stone? I’m definitely in a garden. There are bushes with roses the size of my palm, their potent fragrance melding with the stench of smoke. The air hints at a warm summer night. Wherever Islor is, it must be far south of Belgium.
Blocks of jagged broken stone are strewn across the pathway ahead, as if something was demolished. Among the disarray, a shiny object gleams in the moonlight. Curious, I navigate around the debris to collect it. It’s an arrowhead, much like the ones Sofie’s guards had in their crossbow, only a brilliant silver.
And it’s drenched in someone’s blood.
I toss it away in horror, only to find my hands coated. I wipe them across the skirts of my dress as I frantically search for a way out of here. More cedar hedges loom, fanning out around me.
I curse with frustration. Sofie has dressed me like a medieval courtier and left me in a damn labyrinth. The odds of choosing the right path are grim. How long before someone finds me standing next to this bloodied arrow and I have to explain myself?
A female’s high-pitched scream snaps my head to the right. I hold my breath and listen. She screams again, and my dread stirs. I’ve heard that ring of desperation too many times—in dark alleyways, in urine-stained stairwells, in poorly lit parking lots. I’ve heard it once in my own voice, the night I unwisely took a shortcut through a park to get to the shelter before they locked the doors. If it hadn’t been for the bravery of a man out walking his dog, I would have had another horror story to add to my list.
I take off running without much thought about what I’m heading into, instead focusing on the opportunity. If there’s any way I can stop what’s about to happen to that woman, maybe she will return the favor by helping me escape this place.
My blood pounds in my ears as I race along another narrow cedar corridor, taking turn after turn, until I fear I’m simply running in circles in this rat maze. But then suddenly—thankfully—a stone wall looms before me. It’s at least thirty feet high—far too tall to climb—but there’s an opening just large enough for a person.
I slip through it.
And stall for a moment upon my first glimpse of the full moon. It’s three times the size of any I’ve ever seen, and it hangs low in the sky, casting a brilliant carpet of light across the land that could almost fool me into believing it to be daytime.
Except, it’s not the only one. Another moon glows to my right, this one much smaller and higher—more what I’m used to.
Where the hell has two moons?
The light is a blessing, though—I would surely have tumbled down this steep hill and broken bones had I blindly stepped out. From my vantage spot, I can see clear across the valley below. A long, narrow river serves as a divide between the fields of tall grass and dense forest beyond. A dirt road runs parallel to the river on this side and a wide, arching bridge allows for crossing.