The Weaver's Source

Chapter 66

I was in a world of white, a place I was growing familiar with. A place I dreaded. Stone walls loomed around me, a fort black from fire and blood. A blizzard whirled, but I couldn't feel it, instead I felt oddly warm. As I stared at the massive walls, my body crawling with a shiver of unease, my magic stirred. With little else to do, I stumbled forwards through the thick snow, following the pull of my magic.

Abruptly the snow ended and my feet scuffed against hard stone. I was inside a narrow hall, windowless with only candles as light. The wind outside whistled through the cracks in the brick, unsettling age old dust and ash and rustling my hair. My magic urged my to move onwards, so I did. There were no doors, just endless miserable walls, so when I saw one I instantly hurried to it. I pressed my palms against the wood and pushed hard, tumbling inside when I finally created a big enough gap for me to squeeze through.

My breathing stopped. Grigore was in the middle of the tiny room, slumped on his knees as candlelight danced off the knife stuck into his back. Blood pumped from smiling cuts lining his arms and chest, staining his tattered shirt black. I rushed to him, my hands pressing against his face and lifting his head, locking my eyes on to his with fear. His eyes were dark, exhausted, but they glittered in recognition. With hunger. His hands snatched at me, pulling me between his legs and pressing me against his frame as his mouth found mine hotly. I moulded against him, pressed my hands against his wounded chest and returning his kisses urgently, revelling in the urgency of his mouth and the hand that slipped around my bottom, pushing my hips against his.

Then sharply I was ripped away from him by the hair, sending a spasm of pain through my neck and my magic curling in fear. I stared up at a man, but that's all I could pick out of him. He was a blur, out of focus, his blond hair and masculinity the only thing I could be sure of. The stranger slammed his boot into my chest, twisting his heel in deep and painfully, short-sword flashing nastily and bloodied. Then Grigore was rising, wrenching free the knife from his back and standing tall, his whole demeanour dangerous. I froze from fear, whimpering for Grigore to stop. To not fight. He was going to die. He was too weak, his song dim and magic exhausted.

He didn't listen. Grigore stepped forward, knife armed, as the blond stranger crackled with magic, an ugly hateful scent filling me; the taste of rotten flesh and blood filling me. He scared me. He made me scared for Grigore. I didn't want Grigore to fight him. He was going to die.

"Stop, Grigore!" I shouted, my voice thick with terror, snapping awake and flinging myself upright just as Grigore came bursting into the room, all fury and fight.

My white eyes latched onto him, my magic's fear making it difficult to breathe and think. I didn't register that he was clean shaven, dressed and safe, protective rage filling him; all I felt was the danger he was in. That he was going to die. That I had to keep him safe. I reached out to him as he strode towards me, not caring about the blanket slipping down to my hips, revealing my nakedness. All I cared about was him.

Grigore snatched me up, his arms surrounding me and pulling me into the safety of his chest, warm and powerful. I pressed myself against him, my fingers latching onto his jack, breathing in his scent and song and listening to the deep rumblings of his voice calling me stiffly as the fear still swamped me. My mind whirled. I had to protect him. The stranger was going to kill him.

"Calm down, Lyra." Grigore murmured, pressing his face into my hair and tightening his grip around my naked shoulders and waist, moulding me against him as I continued to shake. "Breathe."

"We need to go, Grigore. We need to leave here. You're not safe." I babbled frantically, trying to wriggle away but unable to shift his grip.

"Lyra, I'm perfectly safe."