“Call Zeke,” he suggests, a hint of urgency edging his words. But I am a step ahead, already punching in the familiar number. The line rings, each unanswered tone amplifying the creeping panic gnawing at my gut.
“Something’s wrong. We need to check on my brothers and Zirah,” I mumble, trying to stomp down the dread so I can piece this puzzle together.
James scoffs. “No one can take down Zirah. She’s the Oracle for Christ’s sake, the High Priestess, and the last female lycan.” His words hang in the air for a moment before his eyes widen, a look of realization etching his face. “Unless . . .”
“Unless what?” As much as I want to put my faith in Zirah’s abilities, the eerie silence from my brothers chills me to the bone.
“Litha cursed her own daughter . . . That might be how she’s cursed. She’s tied to them because she marked them. They’re her weakness,” he reveals. My gasp echoes in the room, realization dawning on me, bringing a surge of confusion along. “But what about my blood bond?” I ask confused. If they are dead, why am I not? I should be able to feel them.
“We may have just figured out her part in this curse and possibly a loophole,” James states. His explanation sends a cold shiver down my spine. “Regan, you three were bound by blood, but she severed your bond to your brothers when she rejected you. Instead, they tied their lives to hers, which in turn tied her life to them. If they fall, so does she, and vice versa.”
“Their weakness is her weakness,” I conclude, my voice hollow. I can see the nod of agreement from James, followed by a wry smirk. I glance at him, confusion wrinkling my brow.
“What?” I inquire.
“I bet the king assumes you’re tied to her too. He knows he can’t take you down unless your brothers are incapacitated. No sane person would dare confront a man cursed with wrath,” he elaborates.
My mind reels. “So you’re suggesting?—”
“I’m suggesting they would target Lyon first, then Zeke, and keep you for the end, knowing they can’t bring you down.” My brows pinch together, and a nauseous feeling swells within me. The image of Zirah with Zeke only amplifies my worry.
“You are not tied to them anymore,” James says slowly.
Clarity washes over me, and my eyes widen. “I never thought I’d say this, but I am so fucking glad she rejected me,” I grit out, anger simmering within me as I storm toward the door.
Chapter Thirty-Six
The inky blackness of unconsciousness ebbs away as I sluggishly claw my way back into the land of the living. Strands of consciousness intertwine, weaving a confusing web of reality and dreams. It’s like trying to catch a gust of wind with bare hands—passing and elusive. My body feels heavy as if I am submerged in an ocean with weights around my ankles.
As my thoughts return, I cling to the remnants of earlier memories, and my limbs respond with the speed and grace of driftwood in the undertow. I’m trapped within the confines of my body. Every attempt at movement is squashed by an unseen force. It’s like being a ghost in my own vessel.
When my eyes first open, I am confused by the gray paneling. It takes me a few moments to recognize my surroundings. I’m in the back of a van, and a chilly breeze sweeps across my feet, but I don’t feel movement or hear an engine.
Feeling disoriented, I peer around, capturing mental snapshots of the grim reality I have found myself in. Lyon is sprawled on the floor, unconscious. His chest heaves in a rhythmic pattern as he dances between life and death, walking on a blade’s edge. My stomach sinks at the sight of him.
Zeke is anything but himself at the moment. He leans heavily against the van wall, his eyes open but vacant. His hands are bound to the van’s steel wall, and another chain loops tightly around his neck. It gnaws into his flesh, revealing a haunting truth—one wrong move, and he’ll strangle himself.
My head feels heavy, and as I attempt to lift it and turn, everything spins. My feeble attempt to move draws the attention of a guard, who heartlessly stomps the heel of his boot into my ribs. The impact forces me onto my back, opening a clear view of his demonic red eyes. A savage sense of satisfaction crosses his pale face, like a cat playing with a cornered mouse.
“She’s awake,” he calls out, his voice a sinister sound in the silence. Footsteps approach, vibrating through the van’s metallic floor and resonating in my bones. Another figure clambers into the back of the van, his silhouette blotting out the little light filtering in.
Scattered pieces of their conversation whirl around me. Their words dip and flow, leaving me to wade through the murky waters of my thoughts as my hearing rings. Yet, with each passing second, their voices grow clearer.
The van’s open doors reveal a sight that propels my heart into my throat. I recognize this place—Regan’s kingdom. The torture dungeons stand hauntingly close, but the bricks have been blackened by flames after Regan burned those inside.
“He can’t have gotten far,” the first guard muses. I strain to make sense of their disjointed talk while my mind races to unravel what the hell is going on. As if on cue, a new person steps into the back of the van. He towers over me, his eyes glinting ominously under the dim light. A cruel smile plays on his lips as he kicks Lyon in the ribs. “He still hasn’t woken?” the man asks, glancing at the two guards. They shake their heads, and the man sighs.
“He’s barely alive. Just leave him. He probably won’t last long,” he dismisses with an icy indifference.
The harsh reality of his words grips me—if Lyon succumbs, the others will follow suit, and so will I. The grim revelation is driven home by the new man.
“Not my issue. I don’t understand why he doesn’t just kill them and be done with it. Not that it will matter if we can’t figure out where Regan dropped.” His statement leaves a dreadful echo hanging in the silence.
Soon, another man steps into the back of the van, making the space feel even more crowded. The mere shadow of this man sends an icy shiver down my spine. King Slavic.
“My King,” the guards say simultaneously, dipping their heads to him.
“Some city people said he left, that he tore out of the city late last night. How are our prisoners?” His smile is sinister as he crouches over me and grips my face. His fingers dig into my flesh. “Gosh, you look like your mother,” he states, turning my head from side to side, assessing me.
