Page 46 of Destined to the Lycan (The Shadow Realms #3)

“Ranael cannot cure her,” I blurted out.

The Weaver took on an unimpressed expression. “Hello to you, too, Remus Beltaine. Won’t you have a seat?”

She gestured with her right hand towards something to my right, her razor-sharp nails gleaming under the lighting—although claws would probably be a more accurate description.

I jumped at the grinding sound coming from behind me and spun around to see a chair I hadn’t noticed by the door gliding on the floor. Moved by an invisible hand, it stopped in front of the table, facing Cliona.

Although I could have used the rest, I lifted my chin defiantly and recklessly took on a harsh tone to demand a response.

“I don’t want to sit,” I said sternly. “I want answers.”

All amusement immediately faded from the Weaver, and she gave me a menacing look that almost made me tremble.

“Sit. Down,” she commanded through her teeth in the low, almost whispered voice that implied excruciating pain awaited us if we foolishly failed to comply with an order.

I swallowed hard and quietly obeyed. Beyond the fact that I hadn’t nearly killed myself running here only to be reduced to cinders by being stubborn over such a simple request, I also realized that pissing off the person whose help I desperately needed wasn’t a bright idea.

To my shame, I had to admit that getting off my feet in my still weakened state felt rather amazing.

“Good boy,” Cliona said, her ageless features softening back to that taunting expression. “I’d offer you some clothes, but as you will be leaving shortly, it would only be a waste of time.”

I squirmed in my seat as her purple gaze glided over me. Once more, it was devoid of any lurid undertone. I felt more like a weird animal being ogled at a local freak show fair. The wretched female clearly enjoyed making me uncomfortable.

“You arrived here much faster than anticipated,” she continued. “Well done!”

This time, the mix of approval and admiration audible in her voice and expression as she spoke those words touched me. With a certainty I couldn’t explain, I believed the Weaver was rather stingy with praise.

“Time is of the essence,” I mumbled.

“It is,” she acquiesced. “But you must be parched.”

Without waiting for my response, she gracefully rose from her seat—which turned out to be a cushioned stool—and walked to the right side of the room, which had an impressive array of potions, herbs, and various paraphernalia anyone versed in the occult would kill for.

Her long silver white hair plaited into a single braid gently swayed behind her, the tip almost brushing the wooden floor.

She grabbed a pitcher containing a clear liquid with a very pale purplish tinge and poured a generous portion into a tall glass.

“I’m fine,” I said nervously.

Yes, I was beyond parched. But I had heard so many disturbing stories about the Weaver. Who knew what type of magic concoction she was serving me?

She returned, her steps completely silent as if she was gliding over the floor rather than actually walking.

The only sound audible in the room was the soft rustling of the golden beige fabric of her floor-length dress.

It had a slightly medieval flavor to it with the long sleeves, narrow waist, and fluffy fur around the collar and wrists.

Cliona resumed her seat across the table from me and gave the glass a little push in my direction. My stomach knotted when the glass slid on its own the remaining distance in a way that clearly indicated telekinetic energy propelled it forward.

When a couple of seconds passed without me reaching for it, my hostess’ expression hardened again.

“It is extremely rude to refuse the hospitality offered,” she said in a cold voice that had my anxiety going up another notch.

My tongue burned with the urge to tell her that coercing someone into doing something they didn’t want to was even more rude and poor hospitality.

But once more, I reminded myself that alienating her would gain me nothing and only further delay obtaining the answers I desperately needed.

Although I had just met her for the first time, I could tell there would be no changing her mind.

She wouldn’t help me until I complied with her demands.

Bracing for what might follow, I reached for the glass and drank.

My eyes nearly popped out of my head as a powerful moan rose from my throat.

Whatever this liquid contained, its taste was divine.

The glass was at room temperature in my hand, but the concoction I was drinking was perfectly cool and refreshing.

Each gulp felt like the lights of the gods themselves were flowing through my veins, soothing each aching muscles, rejuvenating me, and infusing my body with a level of energy I could not recall ever possessing.

Too soon, I emptied the glass. Feeling bereft, I put it down on the table, wishing I could get a second serving.

I licked my lips to catch any drop that might linger there.

A soft chuckle had me glancing back at the Weaver.

My cheeks burned with mortification as I locked eyes with her.

I scrunched my face at her smug expression laced with blatant mockery.

“Isn’t it better?” she asked, tauntingly.

“Yes, thank you,” I mumbled.

To my surprise, instead of launching into some sermon about being less paranoid, Cliona switched back to the topic that truly mattered to me.

“Little Amara did very well on this mission,” the Weaver said pensively. “You both did.”

“She’s dying!” I exclaimed.

“She is,” the Weaver concurred in a factual manner. “And she will.”

“WHAT?!” I exclaimed, leaning forward in shock and disbelief.

“It was always inevitable,” she replied with a shrug.

I gaped at her in anger and confusion. “You said she would live once she received the cure!”

“I said she might live if she receives the cure,” Cliona corrected. “But first, she must die and be reborn. No one can survive Ranael’s poison. It always kills the infected. You better than anyone knows this.”

My mind reeled. A part of me had always known my mate wouldn’t be able to survive the poison.

Everyone had known, which was why the others refused to escort her on that adventure.

I had deluded myself into thinking that somehow it would work out because I needed to believe she would be okay, and that I wouldn’t lose her.

The dark truth that lurked in the back of my head ever since Lyall told me that Ranael couldn’t cure Amara attempted to rear its head again.

But I silenced it. I didn’t want to acknowledge the reality that the Weaver would soon force me to face.

“But how will she be reborn?” I asked.

The disappointed look she gave me struck me hard. She knew exactly what I was doing, but I wasn’t ready. I would never be ready for this…

“Amara will be reborn as your perfect mate, of course,” she replied with a hint of irritation. “She’s your Twin Flame. It is natural that you should bring her back from death.”

“…bring her back from death…”

I felt myself pale as those words replayed in my mind.

For some stupid reason, I’d assumed that the Weaver would teach me some sort of ritual that would enhance my regeneration abilities, and that my bite would kick her heart back into action.

But there was only one way for one such as I to bring back someone from death.

“You want my werewolf to bite her?!” I exclaimed, jumping to my feet.

Unfazed, she gave me an almost bored expression. “It’s the only way.”

“Amara will be cursed! What the hell kind of life would that be for her?! I will never do this to my mate!” I shouted.

The Weaver waved a dismissive hand. “She will not be cursed. Sit down, and I will explain.”

“But—”

“Sit down, Remus. You’re wasting my time… and my patience,” Cliona said sternly, before casting a meaningful glance at the chair.

I let myself drop back into my chair, back painfully stiff with tension as I tried to make sense of her words. How could Amara not be cursed? A werewolf’s bite was unforgiving.

“Amarah will not be cursed because you will turn her with love,” the Weaver explained in that annoyingly slow and over articulated fashion one did with a particularly difficult child.

“But still with a curse!” I challenged.

She shook her head. “The werewolf curse is merely a poison in your veins. A virus if you like. Just like it did with the poison that was killing your mate, Ranael’s venom will attack the virus that makes your werewolf rabid whenever the moon rises.

Those toxins will fight and neutralize each other but kill her at the same time. ”

“But if they neutralize each other, how will Amara be reborn?” I argued.

“The venom will only attack the werewolf virus. It will not touch the regeneration part of it. The metamorphosis causes the host’s body to create the right antibodies. As she turns, she will produce antibodies that will make her immune to both the werewolf’s rage virus, and Ranael’s poison.”

I absentmindedly nodded at her words. Not being overly versed in medical sciences, I couldn’t really challenge what she said. Based on what vague understanding I had of it all, her statements seemed plausible.

“And once you bond with her, you will exchange fluids,” the Weaver continued.

“Your bite will not affect her, but hers will cure you of the full moon rage and cleanse your blood of Ranael’s poison.

You will still be able to inject it through your fangs, but it will now be deliberate and by choice, no longer by accident. ”

I stared at her in shock, robbed of words. Strangely, instead of feeling elated by her words, an irrational anger surged through me.

“You knew all along how to cure me. And yet, you let me spend years in misery. Why wouldn’t you see me all these times I came calling at your gates?” I demanded.

She shrugged. “Beyond the fact that I do not owe you my assistance, it also wasn’t the right time. Your Flame wasn’t sick yet.”