Shift.
The ritual seethes around me, tearing at me. Pain blossoms in my chest. Please. Pleeeease. I don’t understand. I don’t understand!
Shift.
Giovanni places the small cakes one at a time before me, counting. His eyes twinkle, and I cannot concentrate on the numbers. He will surely think me a silly little thing if I cannot even learn to count to ten in Italian. Uno. Due. Tre. Quattro. He touches the back of my hand and smiles. I am undone!
Shift.
Cakes. Cakes. A statue. Birthday cake. Tessa grinning.
Pancakes. Lots of pancakes at Lake o’ Butter. Jill eating pancakes across the table. Dear One. Cinque. Sei. Sette. Jill. Jill. Otto. Nove. Dieci. Ryan laughing next to me, and Zack rolling his eyes.
Through the maelstrom of memories I became distantly aware of my own whimpering and an increasing grip on my head. My breath hissed through my teeth, and I struggled to focus on the statue as just that—a statue. These weren’t my memories. The dreams, the déjà vu, all this…This wasn’t from me. I was not Elinor.
My hands clenched and unclenched as I called up and galvanized my own memories: My mother and father, growing up with Tessa, learning to summon, graduating from the police academy, my first pursuit on foot, the first time I had sex, crawfish and beer, becoming a detective, the pride of putting bad guys in jail, the first time I got punched by a suspect and how I put him in handcuffs, becoming friends with Jill, giggling over reality TV, Christmases and birthdays, Ryan’s quick smile and Zack’s laugh, Eilahn and Fuzzykins…
My breath slowed as the chaos of intruder memories subsided. I felt the lord behind me, hands still on my head, and I knew in that instant that not only was he deeply reading my thoughts, but also that he was poised to snap my neck depending on his assessment of me.
“Please don’t kill me,” I said, voice calm and quiet.
His grip eased ever so slightly, though he didn’t release me. “Why?”
I didn’t hesitate with my reply. “Because I matter.”
He held the grip for another three heartbeats, then withdrew his hands and dissipated the strand of potency from around my throat. He replaced the collar, then stepped fully away from me and returned to his former position by the window, looking out, hands behind his back. I closed my eyes for a few seconds as I processed the undeniable fact that I’d been a hair’s breadth from death. I knew without a doubt that if I’d been unable to fight my way out of that storm of memories I’d be a twitching corpse on the floor at this moment.
But why?
I wasn’t out of the woods yet, but I fully intended to take a bit of ease in this tiny victory. I scrubbed a hand over my face. “Who was she? This Elinor chick.”
He surprised me by actually answering the question. “A summoner of adequate aptitude from your seventeenth century, trained by me for a short time, then fostered by Szerain and Rhyzkahl.”
“If she was merely adequate,” I asked, frowning, “then how the hell did she damn near destroy this world?”
“That, Kara Gillian, remains clouded.” He turned back to me, shaking his head. “Something of her nature, of her essence, escalated the ritual beyond recovery, and Szerain remains mute.” His eyes narrowed with a touch of what looked like disapproval. “I know it was not within her skills as a summoner to call such power.”
I put what few pieces I had together. “I’m not this Elinor, so what’s the deal?” I knew I wasn’t some sort of reincarnation of her, but I also assumed she and I had a connection. I just didn’t know what it was.
“No, upon assessment it is clear that you are not a direct essence transfer,” he said, echoing my own thoughts. “Your innate energy signature mirrors hers, but is fully yours.” He narrowed his eyes. “But there is another piece of your essence, one that has the feel of an afterthought. This is the part that holds and generates the memories of Elinor and houses a fragment of who she is. Its encapsulation is unconventional, yet it is somehow integral to you.”
I blinked and tried to make sense of that but gave up. “I have no idea what you just said.”
He leaned toward me a smidge, not seeming at all annoyed by my cluelessness. “An energy signature is much like a fingerprint, though not utterly unique. Close matches are possible. Though, without extraordinary means, the chances of locating a specific signature are infinitesimal given the sheer number of possibilities. I can only speculate at this point. It is as though this fragment of Elinor attached to you, became a part of you, because of the energy signature match. Why or how,” he said with a shake of his head, “I do not yet know.”
The fact that he took the time to explain it obviously meant something. Too bad I had no idea what.
“Like donating a kidney,” I said, folding my arms over my chest.
Mzatal lifted an eyebrow, head tilting a bit. “Perhaps, though with a deeper influence.”
Pieces fell into place. “Ah, and that’s why I’m so popular—because I have Elinor’s magic kidney.”
Mzatal’s face shifted from the hint of curiosity to the impassive mask. This dude had zero sense of humor. “Yes, it is,” he said. “Some seek through speculation, and some through smatterings of knowledge.” His eyes were hard upon me. “You are a dangerous unknown, Kara Gillian.”
I lifted my chin, mouth tight. “And dangerous things are either used, destroyed, or—” I thought of my bare feet and black shift and obvious prisoner status. “—contained.”
“Unless the unknown becomes known,” he said. “Then the possibilities shift.”
And how the hell was I supposed to make the unknown known in a way that would keep me alive and whole? I sighed inwardly. Right now I wanted coffee and real food, in that order. Might as well wish for a personal visit from Santa Claus while you’re at it, I chided myself.
He approached me, intense and coiled and calm as he reached and gripped my chin in his hand. His eyes were like ancient pale grey flint shot with silver. A palpable potency radiated from him that sent goosebumps skimming over me. “What is your heart’s desire?” he asked, as if my life depended on my answer.
And it most likely did. I returned his gaze as steadily as I could. “To reach my full potential.”
He held my chin for several long heartbeats before releasing it, only to seize my left wrist and pull my arm forward. I clenched my teeth as he dropped his eyes to Rhyzkahl’s mark and laid a hand over it. He went utterly still for a moment, then drew a deep breath and brought his gaze up to mine.
When the lord spoke it was as if he forced the words out through gritted teeth, though his face betrayed no tension. “This mark does nothing to further that desire. Nor does it serve my purposes for you to bear it.” Mzatal released my wrist and clasped his hands behind his back. “I will remove Rhyzkahl’s stigma and determine what possibilities unfold,” he said with icy conviction.
I shook my head in denial at the thought of having the mark removed, an unnamed dread stilling my breath. “Use, destroy, or contain?”
The lord lowered his head. “Your parameters. Use is preferable. Destruction, if use is impractical or impossible. I choose not to maintain a prisoner,” he said with a smile that held no comfort.
My throat tightened, and my mouth felt full of sand. As he’d promised, he made the decisions on how I was to live or how I was to die. “And what sort of use would you make of me?”
Mzatal looked upon me as though seeking to determine some unknown. “The destruction aspect is far simpler. Slay and then disperse the essence.” He paused. “Use depends upon what remains of you when I remove the stigma,” he said, eyes dropping to the mark.