Haunted Past

Chapter 34

He wasn't sure of the time. It was late, but the door creaked open and murmuring from the other word crept into the room.

"Who's the mouse?" A deep invading voice moved through the world.

"Ailin Grish. A friend from Clearcairns, apparently."

"He has many, it seems."

Modric was here.

Orin swallowed, doing his best to pretend to be asleep. Ailin had tucked himself in around Orin. The same way they had slept together for the past week. Limbs tangled and icy hands clutching at each other's clothes. The blanket over them was heavy. Scythe had enchanted the bedding to be more comfortable. Why he'd done it for Orin as well was a mystery. Unless Scythe expected him to be entertaining Modric in the same room as his injured friend.

"He was being kind," Adma said out of the blue. The swords settled into Orin's mind with a comforting familiarity.

"Adma," Orin almost spoke out loud, mentally reaching out to the two presences. His heart fluttered as some of the anxiety in his chest lessened. His sword was back. They brushed against him. Kiryn was nothing more than growls and clicking bones, but Adma muttered words of comfort.

The talisman was on his neck again. Ailin had found it under the bed after they returned. The moment Orin had slid it back on his neck, the haze of confusion lifted and exhaustion crashed in. Devon slept on. Orin let himself fall into rest with Ailin's perfume in his nose and the clinging fingers of Scythe's powers winding around him. A shield to any magic seeking to harm him. Only Orin was not so confident that had been the intent.

"Someone cut our connection. It was, unnerving," Adma said, curling against Orin's back. Orin half in and out of sleep now. Ailin was warm in his arms, but the scent of a burning fire mixed with the dusty odour of books in the false reality.

"Is that so surprising?" Scythe's voice chuckled, both loud and distinct at the same time. "He is a charmer by nature."

"I wouldn't agree with that," Orin said, eyes flicking as he tried to open them.

He should greet Modric. Or at least acknowledge him. Lead weighed them down, spreading from his eyelids to his entire body. He sunk into water, icy cold and filling his lungs. He twisted, but hands and chains held fast. It wound up around his neck and pierced the skin of his throat. Panicking, he struggling, tearing at the vines under nails but they regrew stronger than steel and with twice as many thorns. The darkest broke as his eyes opened and he was nowhere. Black surrounded him.

"Kin should not kill kin, but I'll make an exception for you,"

Orin jerked.

That voice?

His chest exploded and blood filled his mouth. It dribbled between his teeth and down his chin. Adma hissed in his ear. Fingers pressed his flesh back together and tugging at the vines himself. Orin knew tears were running down his face. This hurt so much.

"I thought the sister's magic would keep Orin safe?" Adma said, annoyance ringing in his tone like temple bells piercing through the morning haze. "Kiryn?"

"A moment," Kiryn snapped.

What the sword was doing was a mystery, but Orin could do nothing but hanging in the vines. Flowers bloomed in the injuries, air cut off and Orin choked. Fingers trailed over his face, sharp nails digging crescent-shaped scratching in his jawline. Soft lips brushed against his ear and a touch of sick laughter burrowed into his scalp and made bile rise in his throat.