Page 43 of A Frozen Pyre (Villains #2)

Twenty-Five

Ophir opened her eyes to the rise and fall of Sedit’s chest. Slick, shiny skin clutched his ribs, lungs filling and deflating with every carrion-filled breath.

He twitched in his sleep, large eye clenching in synchronicity with the two smaller eyes below them.

His claws shot out, accompanied by a whimper as he moved.

They retracted a moment later as he settled back into regular breathing.

She wondered what sort of nightmare would haunt an unkillable creature.

“I assume he dreams of you,” came Dwyn’s voice.

Ophir sat slowly, gasping against the ache in her temples as if she’d suffered a hangover. “What?”

Dwyn leaned into her chair. “I think the only thing that would scare Sedit is seeing you hurt.”

Ophir absently wondered if Dwyn could hear her thoughts. She looked back at Sedit, watching him twitch again as he huffed, attempting to run for an unseen enemy in his nightmare. She didn’t entertain the idea for long before asking, “Are there any healing tonics in the cabin?”

Dwyn shook her head apologetically.

Ophir groaned as she leaned her head against the logs of the cabin wall.

She searched her memory for images of the cabin rather than opening her eyes.

There was only one small cabinet, and it lacked doors.

None of the bottles had been the telltale brown packaged by healers.

A pile of blankets, a cupboard of pots, pans, and plates, a pantry of dry goods, four windows, a door, a hearth, an uneven table, two wooden chairs, a bed, a vageth, a hungover princess, a Sulgrave fae.

She brought her hand to her head as she asked, “Where’s Tyr? ”

Dwyn’s lower lip puckered. She abandoned whatever she’d been busying herself with at the table. “You don’t remember?”

The attempt to shake her head only exacerbated her headache. She winced.

“Lay down, Firi. I’ll get you some cold water.”

“When is he coming back?”

Dwyn sighed loudly. She gestured to the overturned bottles. “We drank a lot last night. Things got…weird.”

Ophir grunted against the pain and the statement alike as she said, “We’ve been trapped in a hate threesome for months. How much weirder can they possibly get?”

She was met with an appreciative, considering face before Dwyn said, “Maybe weird was the wrong word. Tyr got what he came to Farehold for, Firi. He’s returning to Sulgrave to use what he learned to get vengeance for Svea. He’s gone.”

The intricately linked log walls wobbled as her eyes struggled to focus. She rubbed her temples. “What do you mean?”

Dwyn chewed her lip. She followed Ophir’s line of sight and looked at the wall for a minute before asking, “Why do you call me a siren?”

Ophir attempted to chuckle, which only worsened her headache. “A water fae who drains the lives of unsuspecting sailors? You’re the only one I’ve met, but it’s textbook siren lore. I’m still disappointed that you aren’t from the Isles.”

“My power is water,” Dwyn said.

“Yes, water, and—”

“There is no ‘and.’ You know of the Reds. You know of blood magic. Why have you given me special allowances?”

Ophir gnawed on the thought. “Reds grow ill. Blood magic is outlawed. You’ve never fallen sick from what you do, just like the folk creatures of the sea.”

“My power is only water, Firi. Just as yours is fire.”

“Fire and manifesting.”

Dwyn sucked in a breath. “No. Just fire.” They stared at each other for a long time before Dwyn said, “Manifesting is blood magic.”

Ophir laughed, but she stopped when Dwyn’s expression didn’t change. Sedit stirred from sleep, lifting his head long enough to ascertain that his master was okay. He settled back into a resting position as Ophir’s brows lowered, forehead wrinkling with her unspoken question.

“You’re drawing on the blood, the hearts, the spirit of your people. The old texts suggest that royalty might be predisposed to manifestation, but in theory, anyone with massive amounts of blood magic could achieve it. Then there’s smaller blood magic.”

“You keep saying that term and applying it to both you and me. Blood magic. It doesn’t…”

“It’s what the pact—our gang, Tyr’s and mine—was pursuing. I figured out what none of them could and left Sulgrave rather than share the knowledge. When I drain, I borrow blood rather than use my own. Now that Tyr’s learned how to drain, he’s returning to Sulgrave to kill the men who hurt his dog.”

Once more, Ophir attempted to laugh. There was denial in the sound.

Her heart squeezed, an unseen hand wringing droplets of blood from it as pain shot through her.

She pictured the twinkle in Tyr’s eye, his wry smile, his fingers as they clasped her hips, his bright teeth grazing her throat, the warmth of his arms as he’d held her in her crumbling shack only a few nights prior.

Water lined her eyes as she shook her head, face a mix between a smile at a joke she didn’t understand and deep lines of concern.

“I mean it,” Dwyn said, only pity in the outer edges of her voice. “You know how fae fall ill and sometimes die after using their secondary powers?”

Ophir didn’t attempt to hide her confusion as she stared at Dwyn.

Dwyn nodded as she said, “That’s because a secondary power, and rarely, a tertiary power, is just one they’ve learned to access by borrowing against their blood. My only power is water. The others are ones I borrow. Your only power is fire. Manifestation is one you borrow from your people.”

Ophir sucked in a breath as if to scoff, but no sound came out. She stared at Dwyn for a long while before asking, “If that’s true, why aren’t people dropping dead around me?”

Dwyn smiled understandingly. “You’re borrowing against hundreds of thousands—millions, even.

Drops here, heartbeats there. You channel the love of your people.

What I do is a lot grittier and more direct.

It can be learned. It can be taught. And I thought you should know.

This is who you’ve shared your bed with.

I use blood magic, and Tyr pursued it. It’s why he followed me here from Sulgrave.

I was the only member of the Pact who’d made the breakthrough, and I was his best chance at ascending, even if he hated me. ”

“No.”

Dwyn continued, “I said more than I meant to. He learned what he needed.”

“No,” Ophir insisted. She scrunched her nose against the throb that banged against the inside of her skull. She shook her head hard again, despite her brain attempting to escape through her temples. “No, Tyr wouldn’t. He wouldn’t just leave me. He…”

Dwyn said nothing as she looked on with large, pitying eyes.

Another damp cloud entered the room, filling the space as it had in the days following their escape.

Ophir hated the sympathy etched into every line of Dwyn’s perfect porcelain face.

Her lower lip lifted, pressed into a gentle, compassionate pout.

It was one of the kindest faces she’d ever offered Ophir.

She could have sworn she heard the moment her heart splintered. It was the loud, high pop of a lake in the depths of winter as the surface cracked. Her fingers dug into her chest with bruising strength.

Dwyn stood and crossed the room in several swift steps.

She crawled over Sedit, ignoring his protesting grunts as she wrapped her arms around Ophir.

Ophir attempted to reject the kindness, pushing away, shaking her head, rebuffing, refusing, begging; then, piece by piece, her rebuttals turned to tears.

“I’m so sorry,” Dwyn murmured into her hair.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Ophir said between gasps, water spilling down her face. “He said…he…I…”

“I fucking hate him,” Dwyn said, “but I never wanted him to hurt you.”

Ophir folded herself into the hug, collapsing against the warmth of Dwyn’s chest as she heaved out her tears.

The throbs of her headache matched the timing of her racking sobs.

Her tears pulled in and out until Sedit was equally upset and mewling beside her, neither canine nor feline, just beyond the curtain of Dwyn’s hair.

Hatred wasn’t the emotion running its hands over her as her shoulders shook. Her heart chipped and crumbled as raw, unfiltered pain drove into her. It buried itself in her chest until nothing remained. “Why?”

“Shh.” Dwyn stroked her hair, pulling her in close.

“It can’t… I don’t believe…”

“I’m so sorry, Firi. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t want you to hurt.”

Somewhere between her gasping sobs and throbbing headache, she knew the words weren’t quite right, but she neither knew nor cared why.

She nestled her face into the column of Dwyn’s neck until her vision was as dark as the rosemary-scented cloud of her hair.

Maybe the pain was too heavy to carry, or Dwyn’s soft, rhythmic touches were too soothing.

Maybe the world was too cold and hard to face.

Before she realized what had happened, Ophir had cried herself to sleep.