Snakeroot Page 5

  After Audrey had spent a vigorous five minutes rubbing her fingers against the decaying leaves that littered the forest floor, Logan deemed them ready.

  “We’ve been over this,” he said. “Take your places. Once I begin the incantation, there can be no interruptions.”

  From within his coat, Logan withdrew a dagger.

  Audrey made a small, frightened sound.

  “You knew this would be part of the spell, Audrey,” Logan said.

  “I know.” Audrey’s lower lip formed a pout. “But . . .”

  “Ugh.” Chase cuffed her shoulder. “Don’t be such a wimp. It won’t be that bad.”

  “I don’t care about the pain or the blood.” Audrey frowned at her brother.

  “Then what’s the problem?” Chase asked.

  Audrey turned a plaintive gaze on Logan. “It’s going to leave a scar.”

  “So?” Logan’s brow furrowed.

  “I’ve never had a scar,” Audrey replied. “If I so much as skinned my knee, I’d have Guardian blood to heal the wound. My skin is perfect.”

  “I’m sure the forces of darkness will doubly appreciate your sacrifice, then,” Logan said drily. “Now can we get on with this?”

  “But—” Audrey held her hands up, gazing at her smooth, pale skin.

  “Keep in mind that if we don’t cast this spell, those hands of yours will be full of bulging blue veins and wrinkles in a matter of years,” Chase added, throwing Logan a wink.

  “Fine.”

  Each of the three would-be supplicants stepped into the circle to stand before a stone. Logan took Chase’s hand, turned it over, and carved a triangle into his palm with the dagger. He handed the blade to Chase, who in turn cut the same shape into his sister’s palm. Audrey winced but remained silent as she’d been bidden. And she didn’t try to make her own slices into Logan’s palm overly slow or deep. Her hand shook as she drew the sharp point of the dagger along his flesh, and Logan realized how frightened she was.

  Taking the dagger from Audrey’s trembling grasp, Logan gave a quick nod and all three of them held their hands, palms facing down, over the wet stones. Their blood mingled with the water from the jug, and Logan began to speak.

  “We three supplicants offer our blood on this blind night. Hear our call and let us see beyond this plane. Open beyond and below that we may gain passage to the other, to the Nether.”

  Logan could barely hear his words due to the roar of blood in his ears. On either side of him, Audrey and Chase were breathing hard, and Logan knew they must be feeling what he was. Power, thick and heavy, like a python curling its way up his calves, constricting as it moved. The force of it made Logan want to fall to his knees, but he did not dare lose control.

  Silence covered the forest around them. No birds stirred in the branches. No breath of wind turned leaves over to rustle against the ground.

  Then, a sound. Low and steady. Menacing.

  A snarl.

  “Holy shit.” Chase stumbled back, and for a moment, Logan was terrified Chase would step beyond the circle and break the spell. But Chase recovered his balance even as he stared in horror at the shape that had formed from the forest’s shadows and now stalked toward them.

  “Logan,” Audrey breathed in horror. “What did you do?”

  “It’s all right, Audrey,” Logan said, though he was far from sure that was true. He clasped his hands behind his back, afraid that if he didn’t they’d begin to shake uncontrollably.

  The wolf drew near. It was still snarling but didn’t move to attack. The beast’s dark fur shimmered with silver, and as it came closer, Logan saw that its body, though clearly outlined, was partly transparent. The wolf was both there and not there. Then Logan’s chest clenched.

  No. It couldn’t be.

  Even as his mind rejected the possibility, the wolf shifted forms. A tall, lean figure gazed at Logan with dark, accusing eyes.

  Logan cleared his throat and said the only words that came to mind. “Hello, Renier. I wasn’t expecting you.”

  Ren’s smile made Logan shiver. “That makes two of us.”

  THOUGH NOT A HARD and fast rule, Adne knew that weaving for her own purposes, and doing so in secret, ran counter to Searcher protocol. She’d never been that reluctant about rule-bending, and sometimes rule-breaking, as she deemed it necessary, but tonight guilt gnawed at her when she began to weave.

  Threads of light spooled out from Adne’s skeins as she moved, and in a matter of minutes a pattern emerged, then an image. A room full of shelves and boxes.

  The Tordis Scribes had declared it foolhardy to relocate Rowan Estate’s collection of books, scrolls, and assorted strange occult objects to the Roving Academy. Someone had suggested that it might be possible that one or more of said items could emit magic akin to a beacon, magic that could be traced. While the Searchers widely believed that the remaining Keepers had been cut off from their magical ties, no one wanted to risk revealing the location of the Searcher stronghold.

  Thus one of Rowan Estate’s drawing rooms had been repurposed as a storage and research area. Scribes came and went from the room, cataloging works and marking them according to subject and relative urgency: what needed to be studied without delay and what could be put aside until more immediate concerns had been addressed.

  But even the most obsessive scholars from Tordis didn’t crave nights spent in the former lair of Bosque Mar. As a Weaver, Adne knew the schedule of portal openings to and from Rowan Estate, and none of them took place after ten P.M. or before six A.M. And that was why Adne had slipped out of Connor’s bed just after midnight and returned to her own room to weave a door that no one else would use or see.

  Wiping the fine veil of sweat from her brow, Adne stepped through the portal and immediately closed the door behind her. A rash move, as it turned out, because she was instantly plunged into darkness. The room’s lights had been turned out for the night and Adne hadn’t given thought to the fact that its temporary state of illumination had been courtesy of her portal.

  Fumbling through the darkness, Adne groped along the floor and then the wall until she found a light switch. She flipped the switch without hesitation. The Scribes insisted on keeping the old books and papers stored there in a protective environment, meaning that sunlight was blocked out by heavy drapes drawn over all the windows. The night patrols roaming Rowan Estate’s grounds would be none the wiser that a room which was supposed to be empty now had a sole occupant.

  The sometime parlor smelled of leather and must. Bookshelves that had been hastily erected were filled with ancient tomes and yellowing scrolls. Adne passed by the scrolls and headed for the shelves that held tall leather-bound volumes.

  Logan had stolen several books about the Keepers’ history and lineage, but according to the Scribes Adne had struck up casual conversations with, he hadn’t taken all of the pertinent volumes.

  The books’ spines were no help. Their leather bindings might have been exquisite, but they didn’t reveal a book’s content, so Adne was forced to take one volume off the shelf at a time and scan its pages until she discerned what it was about. The process would have been much less tedious had she been able to get a copy of the Scribes’ cataloging system, but asking for those records seemed too likely to invite questions Adne didn’t want to answer. As a Weaver, she wasn’t supposed to be digging through potentially dangerous books as they were readied for archiving. She also wasn’t supposed to be in possession of a box of relics that Logan Bane, for reasons unknown, had deemed valuable.

  Connor should have made Adne turn the box over to the Scribes, but he hadn’t pressed the issue. Though she knew he’d left her alone about it out of respect, sometimes Adne wished he would confront her and push her to rid herself of the macabre collection. Her obsession with the amulet, rings, and finger bone tucked into the little box was unsettling and often creeped her out. And yet she couldn’t bring herself to part with the strange assortment of objects.

  She’d even
taken to wearing the amulet under her clothing, only taking it off when she went to bed. If Connor saw the necklace, he’d ask questions for which Adne couldn’t begin to fathom answers.

  Adne’s hand slipped beneath her collar. She wrapped her fingers around the gold chain from which the amulet hung. From the moment she’d set eyes on the bloodred stone, Adne had been consumed by the sense that it belonged to her. An impossibility, of course—since this piece of jewelry had been crafted centuries before Adne’s birth.

  The pull of the stone on Adne’s being, however, was undeniable. Powerful as the feeling was, Adne feared it. And she was determined to discover its source.

  Releasing the chain, Adne pulled several books from the shelf, set them on the floor, and knelt beside them. Handling the ancient bindings and delicate pages with care, Adne leafed through each book, scanning the pages and hoping that a word or phrase would jump out at her. It wasn’t the most practical means of research, but Adne didn’t know what else to do. All she had to go on was that her restless nights were linked to the Keepers’ history. And that history was documented in these volumes.

  The night wore on and Adne’s eyes grew strained from hours of staring at page after page of esoteric writings, much of which was barely legible. How did the Scribes bear hour after hour, day upon day of this tedium?

  When she knew dawn had to be soon approaching, Adne decided she’d have to abandon her mission. At least for tonight.

  She returned three of the books to their shelf. When she lifted the third, something fluttered out from within the pages. Folded, yellowing sheafs of paper landed gently on the floor.

  Adne wondered how she could have missed this. Were there pages stuck together that she skipped?

  Setting the book on the shelf, Adne bent down and picked up the folded pages. They crackled under her fingers and she winced for fear that they would break apart or tear.

  Turning to one of the Scribes’ desks that had been brought to the drawing room, Adne carefully smoothed the pages along the wooden surface.

  It appeared to be a hand-drawn family tree, which was intriguing enough, but what stole Adne’s breath was the inscription at the top of the page.

  Sanguine et igne nascimur

  Adne reached for her necklace, pulling out the amulet to gaze at the inscription on the back of the stone.

  Sanguine et igne nascimur

  With her heart tittering against her ribs, Adne stared at the written and inscribed words. This was the link she’d been seeking.

  Something in the room stirred and Adne gasped, jumping back from the desk.

  But the room appeared to be empty. She was alone.

  Nevertheless, Adne stayed very still. When she was certain her imagination had gotten the best of her, she heard it again. Adne shivered at the softness of the sound. It must have been a draft. Old estates like this one always had drafts, didn’t they?

  The barest breath of a cool wind stroked the back of her neck. She didn’t want to admit that she’d heard something more.

  Ariadne.

  It came again. Still quiet, but more distinct. An accompanying chill slid over Adne’s shoulders.

  Ariadne.

  Adne took the papers from the desk and carefully folded them, tucking them into her coat. Considering that the pages had been stashed in a book, unnoticed thus far by the Scribes, Adne wasn’t worried about anyone missing them. She’d return them, of course, but not until she had a better sense of what they were.

  She needed to get out of there. The sun would come up soon and the Scribes woudn’t be far behind. She reached for her skeins.

  I need you.

  Her hands paused beside her hips.

  Come to me.

  Fingers trembling, Adne drew the skeins from her leather belt.

  Come.

  Cold that had been making her limbs shake took hold of her bones, but instead of weakening her, the icy sensation began to push away her fear. Her cooling blood felt like a ward against looming danger. The frostiness of her lips and the misting of her breath seemed to serve as a shield.

  Without knowing what prompted the thought, Adne mused: A heart encased in ice can’t be broken.

  Adne began to weave. Her movements were smooth, unbroken. A silvery door took shape in the drawing room, casting pools of ghostly light on the shelves. When the portal stood open, Adne gazed through it. Snow covered the ground, its soft sheen enhanced by the predawn light.

  All was still.

  Come. Now.

  Adne stepped through the portal, passing out of the mansion and into Rowan Estate’s garden. Snow crunched beneath Adne’s boots. The winter night caused no chill, despite the light fabric of her coat. She felt oddly warm, and the source of her body heat seemed to be radiating from the place where the amulet rested against her sternum.

  A small object that lay in the snow caught Adne’s eye. She closed the portal and bent to examine it more closely.

  The rosebud peeked through the snowdrift, barely discernible given that the flower’s white hue camouflaged it quite well.

  Adne frowned at the rose. “What are you doing here?”

  The only possible explanation was that someone had dropped the rose. But why would anyone have been carrying a rosebud through Rowan Estate’s garden? Stranger still, the rose’s presence didn’t trouble Adne so much as a nagging sense that it was the wrong color.

  White and still, nearly invisible in the snow, the rose seemed drained of life.

  Bloodless.

  In blood and fire we are born.

  Adne dropped to her knees, reached into her shirt, and withdrew the amulet. Clasping the warm stone in her left hand, Adne stretched her right hand out to hover just above the rose, her palm facing down.

  “Sanguine et igne nascimur.”

  The snow beneath the tight rosebud began to stir. The white rose pushed up toward Adne’s palm, and she saw that the flower hadn’t been cast aside at all. The rose still clung to its bush, which now poked up through the snow. The dark, twisting wood of the rosebush snaked over the snow, its thick, rope-like branches broken by sharp thorns. The branches curved up and over the white bud.

  Adne gasped when suddenly the rosebush wrapped around her wrist and hand. Thorns sliced through her skin and blood dripped from the wounds, falling like raindrops upon the closed white petals of the rose.

  Barely feeling the pain of her pierced flesh, Adne was instead transfixed by the rose. As Adne’s blood stained the white petals a deep crimson, the rose began to bloom.

  In blood and fire we are born.

  Somewhere behind her, Adne heard slow, heavy footsteps crunch in the snow. She tried to turn, to see who approached, but her thorn-covered bonds held fast.

  The footsteps were closer now. And for the first time since she’d stepped into the garden that night, Adne was afraid.

  A spike of adrenaline made Adne jerk back. The thorns tore her skin and she screamed, the wounds suddenly unbearable. Despite the pain, Adne struggled to free herself from the tangle of branches. Not a speck of white remained on the rose beneath Adne’s palm, soaked as its petals were with her blood.

  Light brought by the rising edge of the sun filled the eastern sky, appearing to set the horizon on fire. Without warning, the rose under Adne’s hand erupted into flames. Adne screamed again as the fire seared her palm.

  The footsteps halted at Adne’s back. A presence loomed over Adne, surrounding her. She would have been able to turn her head to look at whoever stood behind her, but she was too afraid.

  “I can take the pain away.” A man’s voice. Low, coaxing.

  Yes. Please, Adne thought, but she didn’t say the words aloud. Even so, the flames of the rose became embers. Adne’s hand throbbed, but her skin was no longer burning.

  “Ariadne,” the man said. “I can do more for you. So much more. Let me show you who I am.”

  Adne didn’t want to turn. She didn’t want to look. She even shut her eyes, squeezing her eyelids so tight, i
t made her temples ache. But she felt her head moving, lifting toward the sound of that voice.

  “Open your eyes.”

  Adne shook her head, desperate to resist the command. There was no denying that it had been a command.

  “Open your—”

  A new sound cut through the night, silencing the stranger’s voice. A wolf howled, long and sorrowful. Another voice joined the first. Then another. A chorus of their distant calls reverberated in the winter air.

  The pack’s song surrounded Adne, filling her ears and easing her frenzied pulse. Their howls carried her to the earth so that snow kissed her cheek. Her hand was suddenly free and she moaned as her burned skin was buried in the cold drifts. A new sound drew close, someone approaching. But these weren’t footsteps; they were the quiet padding of paws, nearly silent on the snow. Then she knew no more.

  “A GUARDIAN!” Audrey shrieked. “You summoned a Guardian! What the hell are you playing at, Logan? Is this some kind of sick joke?”

  “Calm down, Audrey,” Chase told his sister, though he was also gazing at Ren in absolute horror. He said to Logan, “I’m sure you can explain what’s going on.” His voice was calm, but his face had taken on a sickly pallor.

  Though his heart beat at a frenzied pace, Logan managed to say, “Of course I can, and I will, just as soon as Audrey stops her hysterics.”

  “I am not in hysterics!” Audrey flailed her arms.

  Fear made her look and act so ridiculous, it actually helped to calm Logan’s nerves. “My mistake.”

  He turned back to the strange, yet so familiar, apparition. At least he hoped it was an apparition. Thinking of what a flesh-and-blood Ren Laroche would want to do to his former master made Logan’s skin crawl.

  Logan remained silent, returning the Guardian’s steady gaze.

  “Aren’t you going to ask why I’m here?” Ren smiled lazily. The silver flecks in his dark irises flashed with amusement.

  With an uncomfortable cough, Logan said, “You’re here because I summoned you.”

  Except that he hadn’t. The spell had been intended to open a channel between the earth and Bosque’s Nether realm. Manifesting a likely vengeful Guardian hadn’t been part of Logan’s plan.