“If you’re so very powerful,” Fethan sneered, “reach out and take the strength you need. Use his energy against him. Fight him, Holtlands bitch. Fight him or die. You can’t do it, can you? You can’t control your own magic, stolen and unnatural as it is.”
She knew Fethan hated her. Hated everything she stood for. Why had she believed his offer? She was a fool. Panic made her mind flail wildly, and Shan came to her mind again, running towards her, exhausted, broken, but still running.
“I knew it,” Fethan sneered. “If you can’t face us, who could believe you could face your cursed brother? He told me as much, told me you’d fail in my dreams. You’d deliver us all to the Fellna. I didn’t want to believe a Holter, but he was right. Weak and vain female. You deserve nothing better.”
Her vision dimmed even as her instincts finally responded. And she saw him through a smoky haze, a man with a wolf at his side, leaping through the space between them, coming to her aid. Shan, her Shan, but he’d be too late to save her. He called her name again, ran along the narrow road that was taking them south. She knew the trees, the tall pines and the rocks scattered on either side. She knew where he was! She’d read the scouts reports that morning. He was an hour from her on foot. Coming back. Coming back to her. But still too far. She was going to die here. He couldn’t save her. He’d fail and never forgive himself. He’d torture himself with her death as he did Anala’s. Unless... unless she saved herself.
A force like iron gripped her. Her body turned rigid, her spine arcing like a bow. All she could feel was Gracen’s hand clamped on her throat, his skin burning against hers. He was riddled with light, a body-shape packed with fireflies. Jeren concentrated on that light, an ever-flowing river within him, his magic, his life force, his energy. Inside her, something cracked, opened and Gracen froze. From his lips came a small gasp of alarm, just a breath really, but he didn’t move away. Couldn’t, perhaps. They were locked together, and he had revealed his fear. All the chink she needed. His eyes widened, staring into hers as she reached out for his life-force, and then the light in them went dead.
Energy, pure and unadulterated magic, flooded into her, pouring through her veins and muscles, making her heart race and her chest ache. At the same time she drank it down, feeling it fill her, illuminate her. Her magic spun itself around it, controlling it. Ah yes, now she understood. Now she could control it. After so long, so many people telling her she couldn’t do it that she believed them. But here she was, revelling in raw power.
Gracen’s grip grew limp, but still he didn’t let go. He couldn’t. The connection between them, flesh to flesh, was the conduit she needed. She couldn’t allow him to let go, not when she needed him and the vast reservoir of power he provided. The Feyna were born with magic imbued in every last part of their bodies, while her kind, so the legends said, stole magic in order to become True Blood.
Now she understood how. So easy, so marvellous. She could take it, make it her own, control it. Make it part of her. Better than wine or the finest food, better than rest after the longest journey, better even than the peak of sex or falling into Shan’s arms after—
Shan!
A howl of rage ripped through her and she let go in shock as the image of Shan which leapt into her mind fragmented and shadows swept into his place. He was gone. Completely gone.
Someone tore Gracen away from her. Not Shan. It struck her like a bucket of ice-water. It wasn’t Shan. There was no wolf. The Seer dropped like a discarded rag at their feel and Jeren, drenched in sweat, tingling all over with raw power, slumped into Indarin’s arms.
It wasn’t Shan. He hadn’t come.
Even though he had promised, he hadn’t come. He’d left her. And dreams were not enough. He had not come back.
His vengeance was all that mattered to him.
“Are you all right?” Indarin’s voice was frantic, wild. Jeren’s head filled with the ringing of bells and the snarling of beasts. Fethan backed away, arms held out to ward off the former Shaman.
“I’m... I’ll be...” No sentences would form. Every nerve shivered, every follicle seemed charged with static.
“It’s what she must learn,” Fethan argued, his voice cajoling, whining at them. Lies, all lies. He’d tried to kill her. Tried to use Gracen as a weapon to do it. And her need for magic. Tried to use her own weaknesses on her. “It’s a power, a weapon.”
“Jeren,” Indarin shook her gently but insistently. He wouldn’t give up, she knew that. Her teacher was ever insistent. “Jeren, answer me.”
“I thought... I thought you were Shan.” The world swooped and soared around her, like the owl somersaulting high in the air, revelling in strength, freedom and power. But she had sent Kiah after Shan.
Fethan stepped forward and Indarin snarled.
“Come near her again... Come near her again and come through me!”
“A small threat, since your magic is spent.”
Indarin snatched Jeren’s sword from her hand and brought its point up to Fethan’s face. He gazed down the length of it. “I don’t need magic to deal with the likes of you.”
“He made a deal with Gilliad,” Jeren whispered, her voice harsh as if she had spent hours screaming. “He said—he told me—”
Fethan made a snarl like a wild animal but even as he rushed towards her, Shistra-Phail warriors seized him. The Seers gathered up Gracen between them and fled.
Indarin waited before handing the sword back to her. Jeren took it willingly, welcoming it like an old friend. Before she could say another word, he scooped her up into his arms and carried her back to the camp. Vertigern’s pavilion stood nearest and that was where she found herself. The Holtlanders and Feyna alike exploded into chaos and panic at the sight of her.
Everything was too much, a tsunami of emotions and sensations. Her body rang as if filled with music and as he set her down on her feet she pulled away from him. Her legs wobbled but she held herself upright. Barely.
Shan hadn’t come. Her heart shattered. Her magic raced in to gather up the pieces and shield her from the pain.
Both Indarin and Vertigern followed her, ready to catch her, goading her irritation.
“I’ll be fine,” she assured them and slowly, away from the others, the sensations started to fade. Her body absorbed the magic, leaving behind such a sense of well-being and energy, she wanted to shout for joy, to dance. Jeren threw back her head and laughed. “I don’t think that was the lesson Fethan had in mind.”
Indarin and Vertigern looked less than amused. Their stony faces greeted her when she turned around.
“You must never do that again,” her teacher said. “Never. Fethan should never have even shown you how. He was trying to kill you, Jeren. He was trying to destroy you. It’s dark magic.”
“He was trying to serve your brother,” Vertigern added coldly, his eyes narrowing on Indarin too. “An assassin in our midst. You heard him.”
The euphoric mood which made it all seem like a joke was abruptly punctured. Indarin wasn’t just angry. She’d never seen him so enraged.
And she didn’t care.
“You look like a Dew addict,” Vertigern rounded on her. “Off your head and wild. Shan’s gone. Accept that. Sit down, Jeren. Stop and breathe before you hurt yourself.”
Laughter bubbled up inside her again, so powerful she couldn’t control it. The breath that filled her lungs was fresh and invigorating, the scent of the fresh fruit on the desk like the most exotic thing she’d ever encountered. She seized an apple, bit deeply and the sweet moist flesh tingled against her tongue.
The two men charged with her protection looked like twin grey clouds.