Let them think they were protected. Let them feast and laugh. For when she was done, the laughter would be screams.
She called one of her creatures so it perched on the arm of her chair while she skimmed her fingertip over the rough ridges of its face. She could send an attack, just to watch them scramble like ants, but it seemed wiser to let them have that feast, to let them believe they’d won some battle.
And let them lead her to the Fire Star.
When they did—if they could—she would take it. She would rip them to pieces, crush their bones to dust, paint the sea with their blood.
She wearied of waiting, wearied of only watching through the curtain of magic. She stroked her creature nearly into slumber. Then snapped the head from its body with one vicious twist. She added some of its blood to the goblet as a woman might add cream to her tea.
She imagined, as she drank, it was the witch’s blood, and his power ran in to twine with her own.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
She swam through cool blue water, strong and sure. It called to her, like a song, and she wanted only to answer. Even when her lungs burned and begged for air—just one gulp of air—she swam on.
She saw the change of light, a kind of beckoning, and risked all to dive still deeper. Even when her arms weakened, her kicks faltered, she never thought of the surface. Only the light. Only the song.
Close, so close. Tears burned behind her eyes as her body betrayed her. She could see the mouth of the cave, but knew now she couldn’t reach it.
She wasn’t strong enough.
As the light began to blur, the song to dim, hands grabbed her.
She sucked in air that scored her throat, gagged on dream water filling her lungs. And stared into Bran’s dark eyes.
“Thank the gods.” He dragged her to him, rocked them both. “You stopped breathing.”
“I was drowning.”
“You’re here. Here with me.”
“There was a light, and I wanted to reach it. Had to. I was swimming for it,
but I wasn’t strong enough. I was drowning.”
“A dream.” Not a prophecy. He wouldn’t permit it. “You’re stressed, that’s all. We dive tomorrow—” Today, he thought, as dawn crept close. “And you’re stressed.”
“I was alone. Not diving, not with a tank. And I wasn’t strong enough.”
“You won’t be alone. We’ll stay back today. I’ll stay with you here.”
“It’s not what we’re meant to do. You know that. The dream doesn’t make sense. I wouldn’t dive without a tank. And I wasn’t afraid, Bran. More . . . mesmerized. Until I realized I couldn’t do it.”
“Do what?”
“Get to the light. The cave. Stress,” she said with a nod. “Sometimes a dream’s a dream. I’m still the weak link—physically. I’m sorry I scared you.”
“Only to the marrow of my bones. Come, rest a little longer.”
“If I get up now, I can get coffee in before Doyle starts cracking the whip. I think it’d be worth it.”
“We’ll have coffee then.” In that moment, with his fear still circling the edges, she could have had anything in his power to give. “Sasha, if when we’re diving, anything reminds you of the dream, you need to let me know. You won’t be alone.”
“That’s a promise.”
* * *
She felt calm. The dream left her no residual upset or worries. In fact, it barely felt real. And after twenty minutes under the crack of Doyle’s whip, absolutely nothing was real except sweat and quivering muscles.