At the end of the afternoon, I know next to nothing about my curse, and I’m no further into learning how to control it, but that crevice of hope in my chest has grown a little wider. Along with an unbearable aching beneath. I find myself scraping for an internal lid to cover the black chasm of my soul as Eogan watches me—studying my Elemental eyes as if he can decipher whatever puzzle defines the curse I am. While Colin is clearly suffering from a level of boredom that’s killing him.
“Colin, go on and head into the house for dinner,” Eogan says finally without moving his gaze from my face. “Nym will join you shortly.”
“Why? What are you two gonna do?”
“She’ll be along shortly. Go eat. And put on a shirt before you stumble the ladies,” he adds with a hint of sarcasm.
“Too late for that. But we’re gonna practice on each other tomorrow, right?”
Eogan sighs and turns. “I don’t know. But in the meantime, believe me when I say that if either of you act out away from me, you’ll have my foot in your backside. So don’t even consider it.” He says this as if it’s to both of us, but we all know he’s directing it at Colin. “Neither of you are to display in public, or Adora will eat you alive once I’ve finished.”
I expect Colin to argue, but he checks himself, obviously having heard this lecture before, and instead sends me a lopsided grin. “I’ll save you some grub. Just don’t let Master Bolcrane do anything new with you while I’m gone.” He gives me one final chest flex and struts off to the house.
Eogan rolls his eyes. “He’s a good kid, but . . .” He shakes his head. “His thirst for excitement will come with a price.”
I can’t be sure if he’s telling me this as a caution or simply making an observation.
“Here. C’mon.” He leads me around to the front of his cottage and, once inside, waves me over to the worktable. Near the wolf. This time I’m careful not to get too close.
“This’ll only take a minute.” He pulls a pot and woodstick from one of the many shelves lining the room and sets them between us. “Pull up your sleeve.”
I bristle.
The circle. I’d forgotten. Of course Adora would have him do it. She’d never stoop to dirtying her hands herself.
And of course he’d obey her like a lapdog.
Any decent feelings I developed toward Eogan completely dissolve. I yank the leather up to my shoulder while my gut knots and turns numb.
He bends over my arm and pins my wrist to the table. I hold perfectly still and refuse to let my cheeks blush with my shame. Maybe my glare will burn a hole through the floor and drop us both into it.
Eogan’s grip tightens. I stiffen. Then the soothing from his fingers sets in.
He doesn’t look at me as he slices a thin cut around the circumference of my right arm just below the elbow. I flinch and bite my tongue to keep from swearing at him. The blood wells up and dribbles onto the worktable, staining it dark with my humiliation.
“What are the other markings for?” he asks softly.
I don’t answer.
“The ones on the other arm.”
How he saw the other tattoos, I’m not sure, but at this moment, he’s no better than an owner. “Just do your job and get this over with,” I whisper.
He nods and says nothing further. Just dips the thin woodstick into the black mugplant juice and rubs its tip inside the cut in my skin.
It sizzles and smokes, eating away my flesh, and I can’t help it. I cry out.
His handsome face grows darker and his hands work quicker.
After smearing the juice in, he wipes the excess off and spreads a thin layer of curing herb on my arm before binding it with a clean cloth. Finished, he stands and waits while I tug down my sleeve to hide all fifteen circles.
Straightening my shoulders, I force down the pain-induced nausea and rise from the table. With my head held high, I walk shakily to the door.
“You can do this, you know.”
I close my fingers around the handle. I don’t want to hear whatever it is he has to say.
“The gift you have. You can learn to use it.”
I shake my head. I want to plug my ears. Stop talking to me, I want to tell him. Stop pretending you have any idea what I’m capable of. You have no right. But none of those words come.
Because it’s the first time anyone’s ever called my curse a gift.
I shoot him a look of disgust. “You’re an idiot,” I say, and stroll out the door.
CHAPTER 9
THE FRESH, STICKY BLOOD SWIRLS AROUND THE old memorial tattoos in my skin. The ones already stained into my flesh in suffocating threads entwined around my bones.
I lean against the stone of my room’s fireplace and push the knife blade farther into my arm, just above my elbow, until the scorching pain sucks the air from my lungs. Then I grit my teeth and draw a thicker breath, arcing the tool around to complete the feathery bluebird that should be flying outside the window rather than grafted into my skin. For a shame-filled moment, I wish it would free itself and carry me from what I am.
But it doesn’t.
It just bleeds.