“The queen of Ation. Who else? No other can afford my admittedly exorbitant rates.”
Well, well. The queen herself. The very person Blythe sought. She picked up the pace as much as inhumanly possible. Which wasn’t much.
“Don’t hate me,” the wraith continued. She flaunted a grin over her shoulder. “Or do. I do what I must to keep my people in peak condition for the coming of our Chosen One.”
Chosen One? “Do tell.”
“All I’ll share is this. She’s a being of exceptional ability who will free us from our suffering.”
“Meanwhile you make others suffer?”
“And you are above such pursuits?”
She narrowed her eyes. Silence reigned as they exited a valley teeming with wildflowers, bypassed a crystalline lake surrounded by gorgeous red flowers, and paraded past an ancient village of women toiling to survive. Some were dyeing and weaving garments. Some skinned animals, while others stirred stews or carried large clay pots of sloshing water.
None approached, too afraid to even glance at the wraith. No one spoke, either. They simply went about their day, as if used to encountering prisoners who were being dragged to and fro. Maybe they were.
Blythe blamed Erebus for her predicament, yes, but also Roux. Mostly Roux. Had he kept his claws to himself, Laban would be alive, Isla would have two parents at her side, and Blythe would be blissfully happy again.
When Miss Murder moaned with pleasure, Blythe groaned. She knew what came next—another draining.
Sure enough, cold infiltrated her limbs. Tremors set in.
Any thought of the Astra delighted the wraith, shooting hatred along the link between them.
Deep breath in, out. As she attempted to blank her mind, an idea formed, both brilliant and risky. Blythe seized it. Desperate times, desperate measures. If she could glut the woman, the feedings would stop, and her strength would return full force. She could kill Penelope, ridding herself of the ruby.
Worth a shot.
Blythe returned her focus to Roux, to the memories she’d stolen from him. The ones involving the torture of the boy. In her mind, she saw the Astra draped in a black robe, with the sleeves rolled up his forearms. He stood over the boy. A poor soul fettered to a bed of stone.
Expression gleeful, Roux pressed a multitude of branding irons into the child’s flesh. Screams of agony echoed within her head, reminiscent of those she’d heard while inhabiting him. Hatred swamped her.
New moans left the wraith.
Another memory of torture made itself known, and more hatred flowed along the link, establishing a pattern. Concentrate, flow. And flow. And flow. Gah! The wraith might be a bottomless pit.
Blythe’s knees buckled, and she toppled to the ground. Bad plan. Very bad.
The wolflike creature—she’d call it Amal—sustained its swift pace, dragging her behind it. Rocks sliced different parts of her. Amid an onslaught of aches and stings, she clambered to her feet.
The Astra will pay for every vile deed he’s ever committed! Every wound I’ve received.
Every moment of my family’s anguish.
A fresh tide of weakness crashed into her limbs. “I want my dagger back,” she snapped, stumbling again.
“Dream on, girlie.” Penelope chuckled with delight. “But whatever you’re thinking, keep it up. Your hatred is delicious. The most potent I’ve ever sampled. Truly, my thanks for the top off.”
Irritation flared. Blythe knew a bit about wraiths and how they operated. The only way to shed the ruby—without Penelope’s aid or death—was to rid herself of whatever emotion empowered it. Sounded easy. It wasn’t. She’d lived a long time and knew how emotions worked. They started out as seeds planted in the rich soil of your heart. Thoughts and words acted as water. Soon, trees sprouted and bore fruit, good or bad. More seeds, more trees. She couldn’t even die and revive to remove the ruby. The roots remained ready to grow a whole new orchard.
To remove her new bling, Blythe must truly forgive Roux for his crimes against her family. But how could she forgive him, even temporarily?
He and his brethren deserved to suffer. No other outcome was acceptable. But, at the rate she was currently draining, she might diewithoutreviving.
“Are we there yet?” she whined, and not just to be annoying.
“Unfortunately for you, we are.” Penelope pointed ahead to an overcast area where a group of large rocks formed a wide circle. Reminded Blythe of Stonehenge in the mortal realm.