Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 123190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 616(@200wpm)___ 493(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 616(@200wpm)___ 493(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Misha glances at me, then back to the witch. “I have one more question.”
“Then ask it. I do not grow younger.”
“The princess has these scars. They have been appearing out of nowhere, a new one every week or so for the last few months. Do you have any idea why?”
I spin on him. “What? What are you doing?”
“Show me,” the witch snaps.
“Please,” he whispers.
There’s a vise around my chest. I don’t want this female examining me. I don’t want her anywhere near me even in my true form, but in this form, I’m practically shaking as I pull up my sleeve and reveal my forearm.
The witch pulls out a magnifying glass and holds it over the circular knot of scars above my wrist. “Out of nowhere, you say?”
“Yes. She goes to bed without them, and sometimes a new one will be there when she wakes.”
I wish he’d told me he’d planned to do this. I would’ve found a way to get out of it. For one, Jas has lied to her sister and friends if they think these scars are coming from nowhere. Never mind that if the scars have been appearing weekly for the last three months, it’s going to seem terribly suspicious that no new scars appear while I’m at Castle Craige. And no new scars will—even if Jasalyn’s getting new scars daily, I won’t. I’ll only match the scars she had when she cut the hair I’m using to take her form.
“Every week?” the witch asks.
Misha looks to me, and I shake my head. I have no idea, but the more inconsistent this can seem, the better off I am. “At random intervals.”
“Scars tell a story,” the witch says, running her fingers over the mark again and again. “An adventure, a betrayal, an injury, a trauma.” She presses her palm against the scar and closes her eyes. Her brow wrinkles and she presses harder.
“That hurts,” I say through gritted teeth.
She opens her eyes to slits. “Oh. I’m sorry. Did the girl want me to solve this mystery without any discomfort?”
“The girl isn’t worried about this mystery,” I mutter. It’s true. I’ve dreamed one of Jas’s memories of waking up with a new scar, and she was oddly ambivalent about it. She knew where it came from but didn’t know why it was showing so belatedly. She was unconcerned about the effect on her appearance, and any memories the marks triggered, she pushed down deep.
“Sit,” the witch snaps. “You’re blocked. We need to open you up.”
I look to Misha, wide-eyed. “I don’t want to do this.”
He pulls out the green velvet chair at the witch’s small table. “You can trust her. We need answers.”
I lower myself into it while quietly fortifying every single one of my mental shields.
The witch opens a cabinet and retrieves vials and bottles filled with liquids and powders of various colors. “There are parts of Elora,” she says as she begins mixing them, “that dabble in blood magic. Ever heard of it?”
I have, though I’m sure Jas hasn’t. It’s one of those pieces of Eloran history that was lost—or, rather, buried—when the Elora Seven came into power. Now the magic is something that only they know and only they use. Magic is more powerful when fewer people have access to it, and the Elora Seven care about nothing more than power.
Misha folds his arms across his chest. “Blood magic? This is something Eloran mages practice?”
“Mages? Those spell-muttering humans?” she scoffs. “No, no. Blood magic is ancient. It’s from a time before the gates between our realms were ever opened, and it was outlawed across their lands, but that didn’t stop some from using it anyway.”
“If mages aren’t using it, then who?”
She stills with a vial ready to pour into another and turns narrowed eyes on the king. “Have you never been told the true history of the Eloran realm? From the days before the portals were open?”
He rocks back on his heels. “I haven’t spent much time worrying myself over the history of other realms.”
“Perhaps you should. Especially when you see evidence of blood magic used on a Faerie princess.”
“What does it do?” Misha asks.
She taps some powder into her glass of various liquids, and it fizzes. “Blood magic has many purposes—from borrowing someone’s magic to connecting your life force to theirs for extra strength in battle—but it’s these scars that make me suspicious.” She takes the seat across from me and meets Misha’s gaze. “I’ve never seen blood magic scars myself, but my mother told me of them when she trained me. When the flesh is cut for a blood magic ritual, no mark is left behind. The magic heals it. It is only when that magic is called upon later that the scar appears.”
Misha sinks into the chair next to mine and studies me. “Could these scars be tied to something that happened to you in Mordeus’s dungeons?” He fists his hands on his thighs, as if bracing himself. Assuming I won’t answer? Or preparing himself for the anger he might feel when faced with the truth?