Mistress of Hours (Losian Rùin #1)

Chapter Forty-Three

E vienne felt her rage building in her soul, a death knell for those who had wronged her. These people she had loved would not continue this parasitic existence; sucking the magic from innocents, without consequence. She didn’t care if it made her a villain. She would bring the full force of her wrath against them for what they had done not just to the Tuanadair, but to her as well.

Her mind sharpened, and she focused, closing her eyes, searching for the pulsing power that rested in her core. If this horrific stone was formed of lifeblood, it was, very technically, alive. If it had moments to be stolen, she would rip those years of existence from it without a shred of remorse.

Her blood magic was constantly attuned to the stone and its wrongness, but she felt for a deeper awareness. After silent moments of concentration, she felt it. The pull of every second of energy, of life, the stone had in it. She took hold of it with her power and pulled, gently at first. Once she was sure she had a hold of it, though, she ripped at it ruthlessly.

The stone fought her the harder she pulled, and her eyes flew open as she screamed, tearing at the stone’s life force with everything she had.Flashes of the lives bound into the stone crashed through Evienne’s mind—smiles, and laughter, embraces with loved ones, sorrow, and pain, and jealousy—every human experience, exploding out of the Sangroche.

First it cracked, a deep crevice forming on its surface. Then it began to shift from red to black until the whole stone seemed to suck in every bit of light from the already dim room.

She didn’t let up, forcing her Contrapensa magic into the stone, ripping its time from it by the strength of her will.

After what felt like an eternity, the stone suddenly crumbled, pieces falling to the ground, quickly turning to a fine black dust.

Evienne panted, beads of sweat rolling down her temples as she stared at the remains; she had done it. Her heart squeezed painfully in her chest in response to her great expenditure of magic. She had stolen the life from that horrible stone just as she had that man who had attacked Cecelia all those years ago, just as she had drained that Gevaud when its jaws had been around Orion’s throat.

Now she needed to free herself, but her exhaustion weighed heavily. She already felt drained from the loss of blood, and the Sangroche had fought her for its continued existence. Despite the deep ache throbbing in her temples and the straining of her heart, she had to get loose before anyone came to check on the stone. She knew the Centrale Dellumine had a mechanism to store excess energy, which she realized now was because they siphoned more than could be channeled out into the system at once—greedy leeches. She guessed that she had a bit of time before the city mage lights actually went out, but she needed to move.

Evienne took a deep breath and sank into that sharp, logical place that her mind went in a crisis. Without movement of her arms, her blood magic should be impossible to wield; the art was built on gestures to direct the power.

But she had to try. She had managed to master the physical aspects of blood magic when so many others hadn’t; why not this, too?

Blood still leaked from her palm where it was pressed onto the silver spike. She felt the tired hum of her power, and she called to it, envisioning a tiny tendril of her magic slicing through the leather restraint around her wrist.

Nothing happened. So she closed her eyes, gathered her magic to her hand and raised her pointer finger as much as she could. The pain was blinding, but she continued breathing and curled her finger in toward her palm, again imagining a precise cut with a tiny flare of her magic.

This time, a gentle rip sounded through the silent chamber, and she looked down to find her wrist free.

With the use of her hand, freeing herself from her remaining restraints was straightforward, and she found herself unbound and standing after only a few moments. In the next breath, her magic was spearing toward the locked door, forcing its way into the mechanism. Evienne was glad now that she had never told anyone but Orion of her mastery of the physical aspects of blood magic.

Her body screamed in protest as she moved toward the door, exhaustion pulling her down. Her rage and adrenaline were the only things that kept her standing.

Evienne’s fury took her into a cold, calculated place, and she easily sent small, forceful blasts of her power at the temples of each of the guards in the antechamber. They fell to the ground, unconscious, as Evienne strode past, fighting for breath.

She made her way through the underground hallway, memories of Orion’s snow leopard form prone on the ground vivid in her mind’s eye. Her rage was a song in her soul and ice in her veins.