Page 14 of Try As I Smite
The blackness lifted as suddenly as it had descended. Only this time revealing a nighttime scene, and Alasdair stared at the familiar home they stood outside—aglow with strings of Christmas lights all along the roofline—his own dread descending like being buried alive, his heart thudding harder against his ribs.
No.
The word broke inside his head, and he had to swallow back the bile burning as it rose up his throat. Even though he still owned it, he’d never wanted to see this place again.
Gods, he should have guessed.
Tension rolled through him, gripping his muscles, stringing them so tightly, Delilah shifted against him on a murmured protest. Then stilled.
He could feel her stare, the questions rising in her. “Where are we?” she asked.
“Apparently it’s my turn.”
…
The man had kissed every lucid thought from her mind in the middle of the worst moment of her life and sent her body into a spiral of sensation that still gripped her like nothing before in her long, long life. Madness. Only she couldn’t think about that right now, because if Alasdair tensed any more, he’d snap like an Achilles tendon bearing too much strain. His expression one she could only describe as haunted.
Delilah glanced around them, wondering at the source of his sudden unease. They stood surrounded by mountains, towering sentinels in the dark. Snow on the ground, which oddly they couldn’t feel inside the vision beyond a general sense of cold. In front of them stood a massive mountain cabin that seemed to have been built around two sides of a large, clear pond. Moonlight illuminated the scene from outside while a warm glow from lamps inside beckoned her closer.
“Your turn?”
“What could I possibly have to learn from this?” he muttered.
“Hey.” A hand to his cheek and some gentle pressure and Alasdair turned to look down at her. “What is this?” she asked.
“This is the night my father killed my entire family. All but me, and my youngest sister, Hestia, who wasn’t there.” He said the words so matter-of-factly, it took her a moment to absorb their meaning.
His entire family… “I’m so sorry.”
Bright blue eyes suddenly blazed with an emotion she doubted he ever let anyone else see. Trepidation.
Her own horrible memories melted away, and she focused on him.
“I assume this won’t be over until we witness the memory?” he asked.
Dammit, Mother. Delilah gave a reluctant nod.
“Come on, then.” Grabbing her by the hand, they walked across a small bridge that spanned a burbling, ice-crusted stream, along a snow-lined gravel path to the house, and right in through the open front door. Open because it hung off the hinges, she could now see.
There they found a scene of absolute horror. Chaos reigned, as though a hurricane had blown through the room, furniture scattered, festive holiday decorations shredded, windows blown out on the wall facing away from the pond, and crimson blood, still wet, splashed across the walls.
So much blood.
No bodies. Thank heavens.
Amid the chaos, on a loveseat obviously re-righted, because it had been set at an odd angle in the room, sat a boy of maybe eight—black hair, blue eyes, and a strength in him even then that revealed itself in a hard-set jaw. Not a tear in sight. He kept clenching his hands, bright bands of electricity wrapping and slithering about his fists, almost as though he was playing with his power.
“So young?” Delilah asked. Most mages came into their powers at puberty.
The man still holding her hand, though she was sure he wasn’t aware, nodded, lips set in a grim slash. “My powers manifested in full that night.”
A group of men and women—mages at a guess, though difficult to tell when she couldn’t feel the crackle of their energy in this dreamscape—gathered in one corner of the room murmured in low voices she couldn’t hear. Which meant he hadn’t heard that night, either, almost as though he hadn’t wanted to, because they’d been standing close enough. They kept glancing over at him, expressions full of concern and…fear.
A witch, her gunmetal gray hair pinned in a knot at the nape of her neck, separated from them to sit beside Alasdair. “The Syndicate has ruled your use of underage magic to be in self-defense.”
The boy said nothing. If anything, though he turned his head, he looked straight through her. She might as well have not been there at all.
Then he cradled his arm in a protective move and Delilah had to hold back a gasp at the raw, burned skin visible along one side of his skinny little appendage. Had no one seen to his wounds? Checked that he was physically harmed?
