Burnt Devotion (Imdalind, #5)(85)

The space I knew I could recognize even if it wasn’t familiar.

This cathedral was one I had only heard tell of—the massive holy place that stood in the center of Prague. And now I was here.

I’m here, too.

So is Ilyan…

You should kill them…

No.

Kill them all.

“No.” The word was calm as I stared at the ceiling, listening to the voice that had once been so loud and sure and was now distanced and fragmented, like the transmission was broken.

No.

Like the receiver had been removed.

The shard had been removed.

You can never escape me.

I think I already have, Father.

He yelled in anger at my reply, but the sound was distanced, my mind almost peaceful. It was like waking up from a deep sleep and having everything around me be new. Even if the voices were still there, they only seemed like a distanced memory now.

My hand shook as I lifted it to my chest, my fingers fluttering against my bare chest as they trailed toward my heart, toward the dozens of scars that had been cut through the skin straight to my heart. Straight to that battered, beating thing my father had used to control me and everyone around me for so long.

For the first time, right in that moment, I had regained control. My heart was mine once again.

Not completely. Not quite.

I couldn’t help smiling at the faint taunt, my heart not even so much as twisting in response.

Everything had changed.

The pain that had been there for so long was no longer an ache. The heaving agony of what he had forced me to endure was no longer a torture.

The voices were still there, but the sound was distant and easily forgotten. Although the madness was still pulling at my gut in all the wrong ways, something had changed.

The remote control they had instilled in me was no longer controlling my every move.

I pressed my hand against my chest, as if waiting for the sign that it was still there; however, it was nothing more than the heaving beat that promised me I was still alive.

Suddenly, the large stone archways that hung above me did not seem so old. The stone seemed brighter, the red hue of the sky giving everything a glistening, rosy glow.

You are still right where I want you.

Strangely, I didn’t care.

“It’s the St. Vitus Cathedral.” I had only heard the depth of his kind voice once or twice, but even now, in the strange place, it filled me with the same calm it had before.

I turned toward Dramin’s voice. On instinct, I almost expected the old man to be sitting beside me, drinking out of one of those ugly mugs. However, there was nothing, only the cavernous space of what had obviously been a dorm.

I would have expected pews; instead, there were rows and rows of the same beds. White wrought iron frames and sagging mattresses made up with over-washed crisp sheets. It was like something I had seen in a million movies.

An orphan grew up in some church setting, only to be inducted into some bizarre adventure. There was a book one of my nannies would have read me about that. Something along the lines of girls and lines and a tiger with bathroom issues.

I couldn’t remember.

The beds lined either side of the large hall, stacked one after another like dominos. Most of them were empty, with the exception of one a few feet away on my left where a small, dark-haired boy lay. Another was on the other side where my brother lay sleeping as if he was dead. The image was a weird jolt to my spine, one that probably would have grown into a panic if it wasn’t for Dramin who sat in the bed beside him, looking as unconcerned as though Thom was sleeping. I hoped that was the case.

Dramin was propped up against piles of pillows as if he could no longer support himself. Then again, judging by the bandages that were taped to his neck, I was sure he couldn’t.

I had only seen Dramin once before, and then I had been so bogged down by my demons I hadn’t really seen him. Not really. I had only seen the shadows of my subconscious. I had only seen the mutated reality that had been handed to me.

Now, looking at him from across the brightly lit hall, his face beaming with a positivity I didn’t think was possible given the situation, I couldn’t help seeing him. It was like someone had taken Sain, taught him to laugh at a young age, and then wiped the irritation out of his brow with a damp cloth.

Something about the man was intriguing, like family I didn’t know I had had.

“Excuse me?” I could barely get the words out.

“St. Vitus,” he said without looking at me, his focus up toward the ornate architecture that hung above us. “I knew you were wondering, so I am answering. Also, you were brought here by Ilyan. Wynifred had to put you under after your little … shall we say, episode?”

Episode, he says. If only they knew what you are really capable of.

If only they knew I created you to kill them.

To kill all of them.

No.

It was one word, and I twitched as I attempted to push him out of my mind, but my reaction was more than that. It was something that, while it might have gone unnoticed by Dramin, meant the world to me.

I stared at him as if he was some sort of psychic, but he only smiled, lifting his ugly mug to me with a chuckle. It’s not like he needed to say anymore. I had been around Sain enough over the past few months to know how a Drak’s mind worked.

So have I, son, so have I.

And I know more than you ever will.