Page 39 of Bartered by the Shadow Prince (Bargain with the Shadow Prince #3)

Prophecy

ELOISE

F aster than I can register his alarm, Damien’s mug hits the table beside him and his hand cradles the back of my neck.

All I can see is him as he presses his other hand to my chest and slowly lowers me back onto the cot.

Although his face is stern and his skin still pale from blood loss, the corners of his eyes and mouth remain impassive as he says, “Not now, little bird. You need to bathe, and rest. I brought your pack with your clothes.”

All at once, I remember the crust of blood on my skin and the uncomfortable dress.

This conversation isn’t finished, and I know he’s distracting me because talk about my descending into the Darklands makes him uncomfortable.

But he has a point. I’ll need my strength to do what I have to do. “You’re right. This can wait.”

He kisses me gently, in a restrained way, as if he might shatter me with his lips if he unleashed his true feelings. After another goblet of stag’s blood, Catarina shows me to a bathhouse which is inside a separate cottage in the little village.

Humidity wraps around me like a wet blanket the moment I walk through the door. It’s a refreshing change from the biting cold and snow-covered landscape of Dimhollow. Even Catarina’s cozy cottage does not hold the balmy heat of this place. I can’t hold back from exclaiming, “Oh, it’s warm!”

“It’s fed by a hot spring. The steam off the water keeps this cottage blissfully warm all year-round.”

Every muscle and joint in my body seems to ache in unison, begging for the healing heat of these waters. “I can’t wait to try the bath.”

“There’s a private changing room through there.” Catarina gestures toward a row of curtains to our right. “We wash before we soak. I’ll meet you in the spring.”

“I, uh, don’t have a bathing suit.”

Catarina’s thick brows arch. “What’s a bathing suit?”

“When in Rome,” I murmur. I tell her not to worry about it and that I’ll meet her in the pool. Ducking inside one of the rooms, I find a waterfall dribbling down one wall and disappearing into porous stone.

I remove the horrible purple dress, wishing I could burn it, and step into the gentle flow.

All I can do is hum in appreciation when I find the water warm.

It sweeps layers of blood and grime from me, its waters swirling red around the drain in the floor.

I find a rosemary-and-mint scented bar of soap in a basket and lather myself from head to toe.

There’s so much dried blood in my red curls, I have to work my fingers through the hardened clumps.

When the water finally runs clear, I wrap one of the fluffy white towels from the basket around myself and transition to the large common bath. I’m the only one there. Catarina must still be showering. I cast my towel aside and descend the steps into the warm water.

Heat soaks into my sore muscles, and I lay my head on a nest of my arms at the edge of the pool, sensing the healing qualities of the water immediately. Places along my back that felt raw and stiff, soften and relax. I blow out a deep, relieved breath. I’m safe. I’m warm. I’m fed.

And I’m alone.

My eyes burn, pressure building until tears break loose and flow unfettered into the water.

I let them come, sobbing freely against my arms. I’ve always been the type of person who can force my way through something or endure any trauma.

I don’t get emotional until afterward, when I’m somewhere safe.

I didn’t cry when my grandmother died until she was in the ground and I’d given her the funeral and burial she’d wanted and deserved.

I didn’t cry when Tony beat me or threatened me.

I didn’t cry when I was forced to be a blood whore in Night Haven to be close enough to the queen to save Damien.

It’s like I can’t let go until after I am beyond whatever stressful event has occurred.

But eventually, I do cry. I cried so hard that I could barely breathe after each of those instances. I cried like I was the sky, finally breaking a long drought. I cried then how I cry now, with huge, cleansing sobs. Tears pour out of me like rain.

The pain of Adril beating me was one thing.

He split my skin with every strike of the cane.

The humiliation of him removing my dress and seeing almost every part of me was another.

Every minute in that room was physical and psychological torture that seemed endlessness.

I believed Damien would come for me, and he did, but there were days, starving in the dungeon, hours hanging in the archway, that I wondered if he was captured or was even still alive.

While our mating bond assured me he wouldn’t intentionally abandon me, I did not trust fate.

I pictured him falling through that dark portal when Valeska stole him from me only a few months ago.

My mind replayed that scene a hundred times while I was in Adril’s clutches.

My heart told me if Damien could have come, he would have.

I hung in that archway, the sting turning into agony, turning into barely conscious horror as my blood pooled around my feet, and I accepted that torture might be the last thing I ever felt. I almost lost hope.

Now, as I let it all out and my tears soak into my arms, my hair, the water, all I feel is grateful that I’m here, that I’m still me, that both Damien and I are still alive.

“You’re the dragon,” Catarina says, the rich timbre of her voice rippling across the pool.

I wipe under my eyes and turn to see the witch descending the stairs.

She’s tamed her normally unruly hair into a braid and coiled it at the top of her head.

Her chocolate-brown eyes drill into me with such intensity that between that and her nakedness, I have to gather myself to realize what she’s referring to.

“Oh, you saw my tattoo. Yes, it is a dragon. A dragon and a key. It’s my family’s sigil, a mark of our power.”

Curiosity sparkles in her dark eyes. “Then you are a witch? But I saw your fangs. I saw you drink blood.”

I wipe my face again, thankful for the steam to hide my tears. “I was a witch. I lost all my power when I came to this planet. That’s what I was talking about before when I said I needed your help. I know how to get my power back. I have to walk the shadowpath.”

She swims closer to me, her expression suddenly grave. “There is something I must tell you, Eloise, something I have not even told your mate.”

I grip the wall of the pool. I’m already emotionally wrung out. All I want to do is sleep. But it sounds serious. “What is it?”

“It wasn’t unusual for my mother to see the future.

Aurora had the gift, but her foresight could be cryptic and hard to interpret.

The tide in the war had shifted back then, and it was clear that Willowgulch had the upper hand.

We witches have never taken sides. Our allegiance is hard-won, and it is to friends, not kingdoms. We are a small community but a powerful one, and we have used that power to remain isolated, neutral, and safe on this mountain.

For centuries, our people have sustained our autonomy in this way. ”

“Willowgulch has never attacked Dimhollow?” It seems almost impossible for that to be true, given they share a border.

“Oh, they have tried, but their elven flesh is so easy to freeze in our enchanted winter, and their kind does not last long against our wraiths.”

I run a finger through the warm water. “It sounds like a lovely and peaceful existence, honestly.”

“It is, which is what makes what I am about to tell you even more disturbing. On her deathbed, my mother channeled a prophecy. She said that there would come a day when Dimhollow’s defenses would fall, when we would have to flee north, where the elves could not reach us.

She said that in this time, a son of Malek would rise to defend us and to restore peace to Tenebris.

“Over time, several of our elders came to interpret her vision as referring to Brahm. After all, he was the only son of Malek left alive, and he did bring peace, even if his reign is fraught with brutality. But there was one part of my mother’s prophecy that didn’t quite fit.”

“What was that?”

“Aurora said that he would have a dragon at his side. Now, there was a dragon living in our forest. She laid an egg near the lava rivers around Mount Damocles. But if the dragon still exists, she has hidden herself deep within the mountain and never comes out. No one has seen her in centuries. Our elders insisted that the dragon was a metaphor for Nevina—after all, she is a kind of monster, is she not?”

I nod, but the back of my neck is tingling as she draws her final conclusions.

“It was never Brahm or Nevina. The son is Damien and the dragon is you. Which means Dimhollow will soon fall, and you and that mate of yours are destined to defend us and restore peace.”

I look down at my reflection in the water, considering all she’s said.

Considering the promise I made to Aurora during the trials in Night Haven, on that magical plane that both did and didn’t exist. “I think you’re right, Catarina.

But I’ll be useless to him if I don’t get my power back.

Can you help me descend to walk the shadowpath? ”

“I can,” she says. “The magic is within my grasp.”

I release a breath of relief.

“Only it’s dangerous.” She meets my eyes. “You must be stronger, Eloise, and you must have the full cooperation of your mate. It’s essential if we are to be successful.”

I frown. Something tells me the first part will be far easier than the last.