Page 70 of The Shadowed Oracle (The Bonded Worlds #1)

“But first,” Enitha said, moving closer to the three prisoners. “I will ruin your friends.” She held her hands out to her sides, conjuring a black, smoky substance from her palms. Like a thick, poisonous fog, roiling and bubbling within inches of her friends.

Ingrid flinched at the sight. “Don’t fucking touch them!”

But Enitha wasn’t satisfied.

“Go on.” Her voice was so deep it hardly sounded like her anymore.

“One more insult! Go on! Just one more comment and I’ll send your friends to the deepest depths of nothingness.

Go on.” Her teeth gnashed, snarling. “You understand my words, Earth-born? Do you know of what I can do? I’ll tether them, keep them ensnared, trapped between worlds.

One more word from you and I’ll subject your friends to a fate far worse than death. ”

Still covered in that black smoke, Enitha turned her nose up, smiling.

“You must’ve seen the crypt when you made your way here.

Yes, of course you did. How could you miss it?

I made sure no one would miss it. My subjects need a reminder.

When they come to collect my dirty clothing, to dress me, brush my hair, rub my feet or clean up my filthy tableware—I want them to be reminded.

I want them to remember what happens when someone wrongs me.

You’ll not only be torn to pieces, slowly.

You’ll be cursed to roam between worlds without a body or soul.

Never to ascend to the beyond. Never to find peace. Only endure more servitude.”

Ingrid slumped where she stood.

When she’d passed the crypt, lingering on the symbols, she had been right. They were identical to ones she’d seen on Earth, on the bodies of the victims.

It was a curse. A curse within the symbols that chained the dead.

Damning them to become Shade-slaves. Undead servants.

That was why some of the murdered world-walkers on Earth had been marked.

Makkar was creating another army. An army of Shades, bound to him by dark magic.

He wasn’t just sacrificing them to cure the scourge.

He was doing it for himself. For his armies.

“Your friends,” Enitha said. “They will suffer the same fate as that spoiled whore who tried to steal away my Horace. And then they will suffer again. And again. And again. Until all they can remember is suffering. They will come to rely on it. Need it. Because that’s all they’ll know.

They won’t know you. They won’t know your love.

Or your friendship. They will only know suff?—”

Enitha was cut short.

Everything and everyone on the dock moved too rapidly to make sense of.

In all of Ingrid’s planning, all her angles, even she didn’t see it coming.

Because it was she who made the move. She’d lost any semblance of control she clung to—thoughtless, not breathing—and broke into a full sprint toward Enitha with her dagger waving wildly at her side.

She barely had time to regret it.

As if she’d been hit by an invisible brick wall, she was restrained, chained to something or someone before she could fully understand what she’d done. What she’d caused with her senseless, useless attack.

“Lovely,” Enitha hissed. “I will enjoy this.”

The queen’s face filled with nauseating glee as she followed through with her threat. Just a simple wave of her hand. That was all it took. Gesturing with the hand wielding that black magic, and suddenly Callinora awoke from her cloudy haze.

At first, the princess looked relieved, like she’d come up for air after being held underwater for a lifetime. But slowly, she sank back into it. Back into the deep darkness that Enitha had promised.

“Stop this!” Veston called out. “Stop at once!”

His pleas went unanswered.

Gasping, writhing, clawing at her restraints, Callinora screamed until the vessels in her eyes burst. She struggled and retched and shrieked. Cried and groaned and begged.

The binding symbols. Enitha was burning them into the princess’s chest, her neck, her arms, her face. Even from where she stood, Ingrid could smell the flesh scorching. Hear the markings going deeper and deeper into the skin.

Bile rose in her throat, and now she too was tossing her body recklessly, trying to break free of whatever held her.

“Don’t move,” a voice droned directly into her ear.

Ingrid looked down at herself. Her arms had been pinned behind her. She was no longer on her feet. Slowly coming out of her rage-induced stupor, she made out a forearm squeezing her around her waist.

Sylan. The bastard prince had subdued her with only one arm, and without breaking a sweat. Tyla had said he was fast, but Ingrid hadn’t even registered his movements. Like he’d vanished and reappeared behind her within the same millisecond.

“Same goes for you,” Sylan barked at Tyla and Veston. “Do. Not. Move.” Turning his sights on the Magus Queen, he added. “It’s over. Take your prisoners. And I take mine.”

“Is that a command?” Enitha scoffed. “In my own kingdom?”

Sylan vibrated with amusement. “Yes,” he said plainly.

Enitha stilled. Her hands lowered to her side, that roiling black power fading. The only pride she kept was in her upright posture, feigning indifference as she said, “Very well. I was growing bored of this anyway. The arena is being prepared as we speak.”

Sylan didn’t make a sound as his hands slithered down Ingrid and tightened at her waist. With a fluid upward pull, he threw her over his shoulder and carried her away. Away from Tyla, away from Veston, past her spellbound and unresponsive friends, and finally onto the anchored ship’s ramp.

Ingrid had no voice left to scream in protest. No hope left to fight. No sense left to scheme. All she had was desperation.

“Let me stay,” she said quietly, defeated. “If my friends are going to die, I want to be with them as it happens.”

Sylan slowed at the top of the slipway. “Did you say something, Oracle?”

“Let me stay,” she repeated.

Bending forward, Sylan slid her off his shoulders and planted her on the wooden planks, just inches from the ship that would take them back out into the Jemii Sea. To Hydor. To Makkar.

“Why?” Sylan asked. There was no hint of anger or confusion, only base curiosity.

“Yes, do tell us!” Enitha beckoned. “So eager to see your friends in pieces?”

Ingrid wondered at that. What was her goal?

Her plan? She hadn’t had time to think about it.

Why did leaving them now seem so wrong? So horrid?

When the most likely outcome was watching them die violently, unjustly.

It would be another memory added to the long, ghastly list. One that would haunt her all the way to her own inevitable end.

She looked to Tyla first, seeing a fire in her eyes, evidence she’d fight until she could fight no more.

If there was a sliver of an opening, she’d cut off her limbs to fit through.

Then she looked to Dean, to Raidinn, to the disfigured but still conscious Callinora.

In that condition, they’d all be helpless.

Yet after all she’d seen from Enitha, she doubted they’d be put at such a disadvantage when the time came to be put on the stage. In the arena.

Entertainment. That was what this usurper queen sought, and a half-slumbering soldier was about as enthralling as a corpse.

“They risked everything for me,” Ingrid said flatly.

“The least I can do is be present at the end.” She craned her neck upward to meet Sylan’s puzzled eyes.

“I won’t fight you. Whatever it is Makkar wants from me.

If he wants my power. My allegiance. My death.

If you let me stay with my friends, I will obey. Please.”

Sylan’s face was stone, golden eyes fixed on Ingrid’s, like he was trying to find something buried within.

“Swear to me.” Even the sea seemed to still, quieting so Sylan’s answer could be heard clearly. “Swear it,” he said again. “Swear your loyalty to me.”

Ingrid didn’t hesitate. “I swear.”

“Louder. So even your reposed friends can hear it.”

“I swear. I swear!” A sob worked its way from her stomach to the very center of her chest. And all at once, her anger, her fear, her hatred and her remaining hope came pouring out of her. “I swear my loyalty to you, Prince Sylan. You murderous, psychotic fucking bastard! I swear!”

“Good. Together then.” He held out his hand, waiting for Ingrid to take it.

And she did.