Sacrifice

by Sadie Moss

But I know it won’t. Even when they’re not physically touching me, I can still feel them.

  How is one supposed to avoid that?

  We’re walking down a side street, having just left the butcher’s, when Callum points out a group congregated near the well in the center of the courtyard. Four or five men are circled up, all of them armed with swords similar to the ones my companions carry.

  “I need to speak with Lucius,” he says.

  “Lucius?” I look to Echo, who’s usually the most likely to answer my questions.

  “He’s a messenger for Kaius. Like us,” Echo adds, as if I needed that extra bit of explanation.

  “Stay here.” Just like he did before they went to the palace that day, Callum takes my arms and bodily steers me toward the brick facade of a blacksmith’s shop. “We’ll only be a minute.”

  He lets go of me, but I can still feel the pressure of his fingers on my skin. I cross my arms and keep my thoughts to myself, because if he manhandles me like a piece of furniture one more time, there’s a good chance I’ll attack him.

  The only problem is, once I’m touching him, I have no idea what kind of attack it will turn into.

  Better not to risk it at all.

  As Callum, Echo, and Paris approach the other men, I stand near the blacksmith’s shop, feeling the heat of the forge at my back and trying to stay out of the way of passing foot traffic. I brush away a tendril of hair that sticks to the back of my neck as I watch one of the messengers in the group, a man with a stocky build and a silvery black mane, greet my companions.

  The unfamiliar messenger steps away from his group as my men approach. As he does, a face I recognize appears from behind him.

  Violet.

  She waves eagerly, then darts around the distracted man to race toward me, her dark hair flying.

  “Violet!” I step forward as she approaches, surprised by how happy I am to see her.

  She wraps me in a hug. “Sage! It’s so good to see you.”

  Her embrace feels like a warm wind after a cold, hard winter. I squeeze her back, noticing the curious glance Paris shoots my way. He seems surprised that she and I have become such good friends already, but intense circumstances have a way of bonding people almost as much as time does. And the past several days have been nothing if not intense.

  “How are you?” the petite soul asks as she steps back. She has a large satchel hanging over her shoulder, and I wonder if the messenger she serves has made her carry the goods he bought at the market. Callum, Paris, and Echo wouldn’t let me carry a thing, despite the fact that I offered several times.

  It’s so strange. Sometimes they treat me like a burden and other times they treat me like a princess. It’s as if they can’t decide what I am.

  “I’m all right. Settling in as best I can. Is that man your master?” I lower my voice a little and jerk my chin toward the broad-shouldered man now deep in conversation with my messengers.

  Violet glances in his direction and nods. I don’t see distaste or fear in her expression, but I don’t see the barely suppressed desire that seems to fill me every time I look at one of my messengers either.

  That’s probably because her soul isn’t bound to his, I remind myself bitterly. She’s free to go about her afterlife without the constant aching pull inside her drawing her toward the missing pieces of herself.

  “Yes. That’s Lucius. In the flesh.” Violet looks around surreptitiously, then lowers her voice. “Have you had any luck reaching your family in the human realm?”

  Grimacing, I shake my head. “I’ve tried to find a way, but nothing has worked so far.”

  I remember Callum’s warning, and don’t tell her how I attempted using magic to do it. She won’t be able to give me advice, since my messengers seemed adamant that no human soul has ever been granted access to the weave before. She won’t know how to use magic to breach the veil between worlds.

  “I’ve been thinking about you since our first meeting,” Violet says, angling her back to the men. The movement is subtle, but I know she’s doing it so that none of them can pick out her words—and that’s enough to make me lean in closer, interest burning through me. “There are portals to the human world that exist in this one. It’s how the messengers are able to travel back and forth between realms.”

  “Portals like… doorways?”

  She nods enthusiastically, and I wonder just how dull her existence here has been to make her so enthusiastic about helping a girl she hardly knows. Not that I’m complaining. I need every friend I can get in this realm.

  “Yes, just like doorways,” she says in a hushed voice. “On one side, they open into the earthly realm, and on the other, they open into the afterworld. The problem is, they only exist in the no-man’s-lands that border each god’s territory—like the Unclaimed Expanse, the place where your messengers found you. So it’s not exactly safe to try to reach them.”

  We’re interrupted by the return of my companions, and a thrill of happiness turns my cheeks warm as Echo greets me and Paris lays a hand on my lower back. Even Callum’s stoic expression makes my heart do a strange, conflicted flip inside me.

  Violet gives me another hug. “We’ll talk again soon, all right?”

  I nod, her hair tickling my face. Then she pulls away and hurries back to her master, hitching her satchel higher on her shoulder.

  She’s gone before I have a chance to ask the question now burning in my mind. Why are the no-man’s-lands so dangerous?

  I had no idea that travel between the realms was even possible, and a wave of giddy joy fills me at the thought I might be able to return to my village.

  But… could I do that? What if returning to the human realm undoes my sacrifice? Renders it null and void?

  I could never do that to my village and my family. I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if my desire to see them again reversed their fortune and caused Zelus to turn his back on them once more.

  My thoughts are interrupted when Echo sidles up beside me. He picks up a few of the parcels they left with me while they went to speak to Lucius, tossing one to Paris. Then he nudges me with his shoulder, jerking his chin in the direction of their dwelling.

  “Come on, little soul. Let’s go home.”

  17

  Life settles into a routine over the next few days. I cook every meal at Paris’s side, and I make it a point to stay out of Callum’s way.

  I also continue to train with Echo on the weave, learning how to control my connection in small, halting steps. Though I’m making steady progress overall, I still have accidents where I seem to trip over the lines of the weave. It’s hard to be so in tune with the cords all the time, but when I let my awareness of the weave slide is when I farse things up. The weave has become the fifth member of our household, and it’s just as much a pain in my ass as the other three can be.

  Late one evening, I’m restless with pent-up energy. The men have been busy doing business for Kaius every day for the past three days, leaving me with only a stack of books and solitude for company. I’ve been reading voraciously, but I can’t look at another page of text tonight, nor can I sit on my bed like an invalid. Lacking any other option, I decide to walk around the house and work out some of this anxious energy.

  Callum, Echo, and Paris returned from their mission an hour ago, but they’ve been sequestered in their shared study since they returned. The door is still closed, though I can’t hear any voices behind the thick wood. I pass through the living room and dining room, both of which are dark. I circle through the kitchen and into the long hallway behind it.

  I’ve explored the second floor a bit and found several guest rooms apart from mine, but I’ve yet to really venture down this hallway, since I don’t exactly have reason to be in any of the men’s bedrooms. The setup is identical to the main hallway upstairs, stretching toward the back of the house and lined with several closed doors. The first door is closed and locked, but to my surprise, I see a slant of light spilling from a cra
ck in the other bedroom door.

  Adrenaline races through me now—finally, something new to look at, somewhere new to go. I know it isn’t a great idea to snoop, but after all, the rest of my eternity is to take place in this house. Why shouldn’t I know everything about it?

  I step into the small sliver of light and reach for the door to push it open the rest of the way. But I freeze almost immediately, my body tensing as I realize the room isn’t empty. I can feel his presence even before I see the man inside.

  Callum stands on the opposite side of the room, his back angled toward me.

  And he’s not wearing a stitch of clothing.

  His broad shoulders and back are beaded with droplets of water, and his shoulder-length brown hair drips with it. He must’ve just bathed; his tan skin is still slightly flushed from the heat of the water.

  My heart jumps in my chest and then takes off like a jackrabbit, beating so hard and fast I’m sure he must be able to hear the rapid pounding. I’ve come to suspect that the men can’t feel my proximity quite the same way I can feel theirs, so I don’t think he’s noticed me.

  I have a chance to run. To flee back down the hall before he realizes I’m here.

  But my feet refuse to move. My entire body is held in place as surely as it was when Paris put the binding spell on me the first day I encountered the messengers.

  I can’t tear my gaze away from the sight before me.

  It’s wrong, I know it’s wrong to stare at him like this. To drink in the sight of his firm, muscled ass as it flexes, and the thick lines of his thighs and calves as he steps toward a mirror set against the far wall. He gazes at his reflection for a moment, running a hand through his wet hair and causing more droplets to spill down over his shoulder.

  He looks… tortured. Haggard, almost. Like something is eating away at him from the inside, sapping his strength.

  It tugs at my soul, and if my body weren’t still locked in place, there’s a chance I would do something as foolish and insane as push the door open and step inside to try to comfort him. It physically pains me to see him like this, to witness him in any kind of pain.

  Resting one hand on the upper corner of the large, oval mirror that sits in a gilded gold frame, he stares into the polished glass. For a moment, he meets his own gaze in the reflection, and a low, angry noise spills from his lips.

  “Callum, you fool,” he mutters.

  I don’t know what he means by that. I don’t know why he sounds so angry, so disappointed in himself.

  Then his other hand moves. The one on the mirror remains braced on the frame, but his free hand disappears from view as he reaches around to the front of his body at waist height. His arm moves in rhythmic pulls, the muscles of his forearm bunching and bulging, and I almost let out a surprised gasp as I realize what he’s going.

  He’s… touching himself.

  The sound of flesh on flesh reaches my ears, and my core clenches hard in response, every nerve ending in my body lighting up like a shower of sparks.

  He’s pleasuring himself. Naked. Wet. His head slightly bent and small groans of satisfaction falling from his lips.

  Holy farse. I shouldn’t be seeing this. I shouldn’t be watching.

  But still, I don’t move.

  And then, as his grip on the mirror shifts slightly, his fingertips tapping out a pattern on the frame, I can’t even breathe.

  Because the image in the mirror shifts. The reflection of Callum’s room fades, and in its place, a picture of me comes into view.

  By some magic, he’s called up an image of me asleep in my bed. Moonlight drapes over me from the open window, illuminating that I’ve kicked off the covers during the night. My nightdress has become tangled around me in my sleep, exposing my thighs, while the low neckline has dragged even lower so that my modest breasts are spilling over the top.

  The room around my sleeping form is in disarray, and I realize with a start that this is an image from the first night I spent here, when Callum watched over me as I slept.

  He never touched me that night. He never even came near the bed.

  But now, he’s watching… what? A memory of that night? And touching himself.

  He’s looking at my picture and pleasuring himself.

  I finally lurch into motion, stepping back deeper into the shadows of the hallway, but I still don’t leave. My breasts feel heavy and full, my nipples hard and so tender that the soft scrape of the fabric of my dress makes my breath hitch. Wetness gathers between my thighs, and I have an overwhelming urge to put my hand there, to rub against the sweet, ravenous ache until it disappears, swallowed up in a starburst of pleasure.

  I know I should walk away. But I’m riveted by the way the muscles in his arm flex as he pulls at himself.

  I lean against the door frame, my breath coming faster the longer I watch him. Need pools between my legs, as if my body is telling me that magnificent part of him belongs somewhere much sweeter than inside his palm.

  He doesn’t last long. Given the harsh, low sounds that rumble in his chest, I don’t think he can last long. He leans forward, bracing himself against the mirror as he pumps faster. His breath catches on a grunt, but his dark gaze never moves from the picture of me.

  Then he tosses his head back and groans, a velvet sound that slides from deep within him. Two more harsh strokes, and he’s finished.

  I leap away from the door, all the nerve endings in my body erupting into flames. Horrified that I stood there and watched the whole thing—and enjoyed watching—I run as quickly and lightly as I can back to my room.

  My mind is still reeling, my body still flushed with arousal, as I shut my bedroom door and press my back against it. I cross to the washroom and lean over the water basin to splash ice cold water on my face and neck. I’m surprised it doesn’t turn to steam.

  I’m burning up. I’m made of fire.

  And I can’t help it. Without conscious direction or permission from me, my body moves. One hand gathers the fabric of my dress, lifting it toward my waist, while the other delves between my legs, finding the spot that aches for attention. The little bundle of nerves is swollen and hard, and so sensitive that a low cry bursts from my lips the second I touch it.

  Relief flows through me, along with an even more desperate sort of need, and my fingers are a blur as they rub my clit, my teeth clamping down on my bottom lip to keep more noises from spilling out of my mouth.

  Then the tension in me breaks, and stars explode in my vision.

  I nearly fall over, reaching out at the last second to brace myself as my knees give out, buckling from the onslaught of sensation as my whole body sings with pleasure. My fingers keep moving, drawing out every last bit of my orgasm until I feel limp and wrung out.

  Breath rushes back into my lungs. I’m panting hard as if I’ve just fought a bear, my heartbeat a heavy, dull thud between my ribs.

  Holy farse. What just happened?

  You watched Callum pleasure himself, and the sight of it drove you so mad that you rushed back to your room and did the same, the functional part of my brain tells me. You fool.

  My hand shakes as I reach for a cloth. I splash more water on my face and then pat it dry, my mind beginning to clear from the haze of desire. And as it does, I realize something. That image of me in the mirror wasn’t fabricated—I’m sure of it now. I definitely wore that nightdress the night I had my little “mishap” with magic and Callum watched over me as I slept. I flush hot all over again thinking of him standing in the doorway, seeing me like that.

  But now that I’m thinking straight, that’s not what gives me pause.

  He conjured that image with the weave, whether he plucked it from his own memories or used magic to turn back time. Whatever the case, he was using the mirror as a conduit to view other people.

  Other rooms.

  Why not other realms too?

  I can’t let go of the thought that maybe I can use Callum’s mirror to see my family. It would be easier and s
afer than trying to return to earth, risking whatever dangers lurk in the Unclaimed Expanse to search for a portal.

  I have to at least try.

  But I also have to be smart about it. The men have never banned me from stepping foot in certain parts of the house, but I have no doubt that Callum won’t take kindly to discovering me poking around in his room. So I wait to make my move until all three men are deep in the midst of their physical training in the courtyard the next afternoon.

  Stealing past the back door, I verify that they don’t appear to be anywhere near a break in their sparring. They’re heartbreakingly beautiful, skin glistening in the sunshine, wielding their training weapons as if they’re gods of war. Which I suppose they almost are, based on what Echo told me about fighting battles for Kaius.

  I briefly consider abandoning my subterfuge and just watching them train for the rest of the day. But I know that’s not an option. Even though Callum will probably kill me if he finds out what my intentions are, I’m doing this.

  When I arrive at the surly warrior’s bedroom door, I’m not surprised to find it locked. Although they haven’t banned me from exploring, all three of the men are incredibly secretive, as if I’m going to invade their lives and learn all their secrets.

  I anticipated this, though, and I’m prepared for it.

  Thank Zelus for my well stocked washroom, I think, brandishing a hair pin. It’s still an ingrained habit to offer up prayers to Zelus, although I never utter them aloud anymore.

  In theory, breaking into Callum’s room should be easy. But the reality is quite another thing, and several long minutes pass as I dig around inside the lock, trying blindly to find the mechanism. Finally, I sit back on my heels and let out an irritated huff, glaring at the useless hair pin.

  I shove it back into my blond tresses for safekeeping, then regard the door again. What are the chances I could control my power enough to use the weave for this? I’ve finally reached a point where I don’t have to move about the yard to connect with it correctly, and I’m succeeding more often than I’m failing—other than the odd mishap or two.