Page 89 of The Shadowed Oracle (The Bonded Worlds #1)

Chapter Forty-Seven

Her body was no longer hers to control, sucked into another void, another endless expanse where the past and her present became indistinguishable from one another.

“Ingrid?’ Dean called out, “ Ingrid!? ”

But he couldn’t reach her.

The vision had an unescapable hold on her.

As it was in the face of Enitha’s Hydra form, the visions offered themselves up to Ingrid.

But this time she refused, trying desperately to return, to stave off the ill-timed vision for just a little longer.

She begged the magic coursing through her.

She thrashed internally, slamming herself against the walls of her power.

No , she said, not now .

Why now?

And there was no clear answer, no voice given to the magic that flowed within her, but there was something . Some disembodied nudge from beyond, urging her, guiding her, ordering her to go with it.

She had no choice.

Whether this was a sign of things to come, what her magic would demand, or a consequence of her inexperience, it was clear that an Oracle’s abilities didn’t strictly come from within. It had rules to adhere to. Limitations and obligations beyond simple recharging.

Weightless, she hovered over the never-ending, timeless void. She could no longer hear Dean or the sea outside the ship’s cabin. She was fully immersed in the past, drifting down a tunnel until she saw a light ahead.

It grew larger, and slowly her surroundings became familiar.

She was in her hometown. On the outskirts, in a forest not far from Dean’s cabin.

Wind gusts felt real against her cheek, and she floated along a dirt road until she came to a clearing, an almost perfect circle of uncut wild grass surrounded by enormous redwoods.

A figure emerged from the brush.

Then another.

The sight, the magic, the vision—whatever it was—nudged Ingrid again, pushing her closer.

The first figure was a male. A familiar male with long hair and a thick beard that came to a point at the end.

Scars littered his hands, his forearms, but it wasn’t until she glimpsed his eyes that she knew.

It was Karis. In the dark, the strange grey-blonde hair color registered differently.

But it was him. The same male she’d seen in one of her earliest visions, back on Earth, that first night in Dean’s fortress.

She moved closer to him, dropping to the soil and feeling a phantom sensation tickling her toes where grass should’ve been.

She was just inches from Karis, and feet from the second figure—another male.

He was tall, just as tall as Karis, with a similar build, but wearing a hood draped so far over his head it was impossible to make out any distinguishable features.

She watched the second male as he drew closer to Karis. Felt the darkness inhabiting him. Heard the pounding of his heart as he unsheathed a knife from his belt.

This was the night, she realized.

The night it ended for Karis.

Ingrid screamed out to him in warning, but no sound emitted. She knew better, knew this had already happened. But she had to try. Had to explore the depths of her power while she was there.

She hung at Karis’s side, imploring him with a mental push of her own.

Run.

Karis didn’t move. His eyes were sunken in, darkened by exhaustion or something worse.

It appeared to be an effort for him to even stand, though his posture was forcibly upright.

Something was wrong. Something was so terribly, terribly wrong.

He wasn’t fighting back. Wasn’t armed. Wasn’t doing anything to stop it.

His mouth opened, and the words that fell from it cut through time and space with piercing poetry.

“In unrest, I find my beloved Ealis wayward in the fight for dominion. Those souls gifted everlasting life have, in time, coveted death. Praised it. Hungered for it. A blessed Viator will be envied, hunted, but not worshipped. For true power now lies in the reforging of oneself as a God. And to become truly immortal, one must rule in the afterlife. Make followers of your enemies. Populate the spirit realm with those you’ve conquered.

A foolish Viator seeks this power in numbers.

Yet, a blessed Viator on his own, content in their wielding, may harness unimaginable gifts.

The Mother spreading her love to many is rich in company.

The Mother giving all her love to one chosen child is blissful in preoccupation.

Lest we forget to rejoice in the Mother’s love, for it is a blessing to be held at all. ”

Ingrid knew the last few lines. She’d heard them before, but couldn’t place them. Had she seen the line in one of Callinora’s books? Had Tyla or Dean recited it to her?

She felt the answer right there at the front of her mind, but her mind was not totally her own in that moment. The sight forced her to hone in on the scene before her. On Karis.

She reached out for the elder Oracle once more, but she could only watch as the second male shakily approached Karis, lifting the knife, hesitating long enough for Ingrid to notice an odd engraving on the blade.

A kingdom’s sigil? One of Makkar’s cursed symbols? Ingrid fixated on it until the last moment.

To the very last seconds of Karis’s long, storied life.

The blade drove down into the Oracle’s back.

“Forgive me,” Karis said, and fell to his knees.

Ingrid felt the air being siphoned from her. She lurched, stumbled, her feet swept from under her as she was pulled back with a force so charged that her eyesight failed her.

Her ears rang with the hum of an earthquake, the darkness somehow grew blacker, and through the void she went. Falling, tumbling, spinning until she was brought to a halt that turned her stomach, and she was again floating in a familiar place.

The street outside her old home. The building she’d return to night after night, stiff and smelling of alcohol from work, to hide away and suffer in solitude.

She looked up to the sixth floor, to her apartment, her cold and lonely isolation.

The light was on, and a flicker of a shadow danced on the barren wall.

It was her, but not her. She was again struck by just how quickly her world had become two worlds.

How swiftly her life had changed, leaving this old one unrecognizable.

Though the scene’s stimulus ended there.

There was nothing but an empty road and deafening silence all around her.

She rounded, panning the landscape for any onlookers, but only found one singular car parked on the street.

It was a plain thing, off-white and boxy, so inconspicuous it reeked of mischief the longer you looked at it.

Ingrid moved closer. The tint made it impossible to see a face, but as she approached the driver’s side, she noticed the window was slightly cracked. She moved closer, lowered her head to peek inside, feeling the threads of her magic connecting moments.

Her power brought her to that forest first, so when she found the same hooded male slouched over a lit-up screen from an old phone, she would know. This was her tormentor. Her dark shadow, at the very moment he’d sent her that first message.

The one that had started this all, and Karis’s killer—they were one and the same.

She stared intensely at the cloaked man, silently luring him to raise his chin and show himself, to look up at the window, up to her—or rather, the her from the past. It was only a matter of time, she thought. A stalker, after all, wasn’t much of a stalker if he didn’t watch his prey.

So she waited.

And waited.

And waited.

But the stranger just sat there, hunched in the black leather seat.

If she didn’t know better, she’d have thought he was asleep.

Bored, even. The only move he made was to grip the knife, the same knife he’d used to kill Karis.

It was more visible now, and Ingrid could read the marking on it clearly: G.C.

Initials . A clue to his identity. If the blade wasn’t stolen, this might’ve been the only piece she needed to find him, to track him down and make him pay for what he’d done.

She glared at the knife, the carved letters, then back to the shadowed visage, waiting for him to show himself.

But the vision had other plans.

Ingrid bent nearly in half as her power pulled her from behind at the waist, whisking her off again.

The wait wasn’t long. The void appeared and disappeared in seconds, and she found herself again in front of a familiar building on Earth, standing directly next to that same car. It was as if she’d been teleported alongside it, alongside her hooded hunter. Only the surroundings had changed.

The lights of The Boneyard glistened in the cloudless night. Patrons packed the patio and spilled out into the waiting area outside the entrance, chatting and smoking before their table was ready. Ingrid cut through the crowd with her eyes, but couldn’t find Franky or herself.

She looked back at the car. The window was no longer cracked.

All she could see was a rough outline of the male and a light from the dashboard.

Ingrid moved in as closely as the vision would allow.

The light, however, was the only thing she could make out.

It was so big and bright that it couldn’t have been the radio or the information system screen.

It was a computer, mounted over the passenger airbag.

The light from it flickered, fading in and out.

The magic allowed her to lean in, but the hold it had on her previously caused Ingrid to anticipate more resistance.

She flung herself at it, slamming against a wall of unseen energy where the car window should’ve been.

She threw her hands to her face like she was about to sneeze, rubbing at the strange sensation lingering on her nose.

Really? She cast the question into the sky. I can traverse time, but not car windows?

What good were these visions if she couldn’t go where she pleased? See what she needed to see?