Dark Flame (The Immortals #4)(9)

Any earlier is a risk I can’t take.

Ever since the dreams began, I can’t trust myself.

The first night I woke in that cold, clammy sweat with images of Roman still dancing in my head, I was sure it was just a result of the horrible night that I’d had—learning the truth about Jude—turning Haven by giving her the juice. But the fact that they’ve returned every night since, the fact that he intrudes not just in my night dreams but in my daydreams as well, the fact that they’re accompanied by this weird, foreign pulse that’s constantly strumming inside me—well, it’s pretty much convinced me that Romy and Rayne are right.

Despite my feeling perfectly fine just after the spell was complete, later, when everything began to unravel, it became pretty clear that the damage I’d done was nothing short of major.

Instead of binding Roman to me—I bound myself to him.

Instead of him seeking me out in order to do my bidding—I’m shamelessly, hopelessly, seeking him.

Which is something Damen can never know. No one can know. Not only does it prove his earlier warning about the downside of magick, insisting that it’s nothing to be toyed with, and that amateurs who immerse themselves too quickly often wind up in way over their heads—it may be the end of his patience with me.

It may be that last and final straw.

I take a deep breath and sink even lower, enjoying the way the water laps at my chin, as I soak up all the healing energies that the stones and herbs are meant to provide, knowing it’s just a matter of time before I rid myself of this unholy obsession and put everything right. And when the water begins to cool, I scrub every square inch of skin, hoping to wash away this new tainted version of me in order to recover the old, then I climb out of the bath and straight into my white silk hooded robe. Tying the sash snugly as I head back into my closet and reach for my athame. The same one Romy and Rayne criticized, claiming it was too sharp, that its intent should be to cut energy not matter, that I’d made it all wrong—urging me to burn it, melt it down to a stub of metal, and hand it over to them so they could complete the banishing ritual, not trusting such a complex task to a misguided novice like me.

And though I agreed to burn it before them, running the blade through the flame again and again in a sort of magical sanctification, I shrugged off the rest of their plan, convinced they were just seizing the chance to make an even bigger fool of me. I mean, if the real problem, as they claimed, was my weaving a spell on the night of the dark moon, then what difference could a simple knife make?

But this time around, just to make sure, I add a few additional stones to its handle, adorning it with Apache’s tear for protection and luck (which the twins are convinced I’ll need plenty of), bloodstone for courage, strength, and victory (always a good combination), and turquoise for healing and strengthening of the chakras (apparently my throat chakra, the center of discernment, has always been a problem for me). Then sprinkling the blade with a handful of salt before running it through the flame of three white tapers, I call upon the elements of fire, air, water, and earth, to cast away all dark and allow only light—to push out all evil and summon the good. Repeating the chant three times before calling on the highest of magical powers to see that it’s done. This time sure that I’m calling on the right magical powers—summoning the goddess instead of Hecate, the three-headed, snake-haired, queen of the underworld.

Cleansing the space as I walk three times around it, incense held high in one hand, athame in the other, pulling up the magick circle by visualizing a white light flowing through me. Starting at the top of my head and working its way through my body, down my arm, out the athame, and into the floor. Weaving and curving and circling around and around, encouraging thin strands of the brightest white light to entwine and grow and reach ever higher until joining as one. Until I’m wrapped in a silvery cocoon, a complex web of the brightest, most shimmering light, that completely seals me in.

I kneel on the floor of my clean, sacred space, left hand held before me as I trace the blade down the length of my lifeline, sucking in a sharp intake of breath as I plunge the tip deep into my flesh and a great swell of blood rushes out. Closing my eyes and quickly manifesting Roman sitting cross-legged before me, tempting me with his irresistible, deep blue gaze and wide inviting smile. Struggling to get past his mesmerizing beauty, his undeniable allure, and straight to the blood-soaked cord tied snug at his neck.

A cord soaked with my blood.

The same cord I placed there last Thursday night when I created a similar ritual—one that seemed to work until everything went tragically wrong. But this time, everything is different. My intent is different. I want my blood back. I intend to unbind myself.

Hurrying through the chant before he can fade, singing:




With this knot that I untie

Banish this magick before thine eye

Where once this cord was bound and tight

I now reverse it to set things right

Your hold no longer potent, now loosed on me

I unbind this cord and set myself free

Let it harm none as I send it away

This very change to take hold today

This is my will, my word, my wish—so mote it be!





Squinting against the gale force wind that whirls through my circle, pushing the walls of my web to their limits as a flash of lightning strikes and thunder cracks loud overhead. My right palm raised, open, ready—my gaze locked on his as I mentally loosen the knot at his neck and summon the blood back to me.