Mated By Fate by Christa Wick
Chapter Thirty-One
Esme wokein a room she didn't know by sight.
Her nose told her Denver had frequented it, but not recently. She stretched, her muscles as sore as when she'd woken up after her own kidnapping.
Her head felt like someone had taken a hammer to it.
Cautiously, she reached up and touched her scalp, her fingers gently exploring to make sure no one had actually hammered her skull.
Finding no damage, she tried to focus her thoughts. They refused to coalesce.
She had no idea where she was or how she had arrived. She searched for the last memory she could capture and hold, made sense of it as best she could.
An eagle holding a cub.
Blood.
Black snakes writhing…
She brought her hands to her face, trying to block the images in her mind. If she didn't know better, she'd think someone had placed a forgetting spell on her.
And, actually, she didn't know better, did she? She knew who she was and what she was, could pluck random names and details from her head, but not the when, where, and what-the-hell-happened that she actually needed.
Find Lana.
Yes, she nodded then stopped the motion as fresh pain spiked through her head. She could trust the latent. They were friends. Lana would help her figure out what was wrong.
But how could she find Lana?
Sit up, first.
Right. Do that. Sit up.
She tried, fell back. Her chest threatened to collapse when she tried to lift up again. Some immense weight pressed down on her trunk, something she couldn't see. She tested her arms and legs. They were free to move. The problem wasn't medical. Magic pinned her down.
Should she scream?
Could she scream?
Can't scream if you can't breathe.
Relaxing into the mattress, she tried to speak.
"Esme Stone."
She snorted at her success, the words chosen because her vocabulary felt as compressed as her torso. Words played through her head, but her tongue remained thick and stupid.
Closing her eyes, she stretched out her other senses. There were no voices, no sound except for a slight ringing in her ears. Looking for more clues, she carefully turned her head and let her gaze travel around the room as she listened.
It looked like a man cave—or, more accurately, a shifter's den. The surface beneath her was an oversized leather couch with thick layers of fur for extra padding. No television, just overflowing bookshelves.
Drawing as deep a breath as the weight pushing down on her would allow, Esme ran through the detectable scents. Denver at the front, every surface saturated with his honey-dipped fragrance.
The ghost of his presence calmed her. She inhaled again to find traces of Lana and Seth.
The most recent scent laid down among the furnishings belonged to her mother.
Esme sighed. She was safe. Someone would return soon and tell her what was going on. Now that she was awake, she could assist in healing both her mind and body. She closed her eyes, slowly drifting toward sleep until the door creaked.
Footsteps brushed across the carpeted floor. Someone's small body indented the edge of the middle couch cushion. Esme knew without opening her eyes that the visitor was Camille, her mother’s scent hiding beneath a fresh mix of healing herbs.
The woman brought a cool hand to Esme's cheek then brushed a tangle of curls behind Esme's ear. It felt nice to have her mother do that. Particularly since Esme couldn't remember a time when her mother had ever done so.
Even more surprising, Camille's hand returned to stroke her cheek. Esme almost said something to let Camille know she was awake. But the thought that her mother would be embarrassed and would instantly turn cold stopped her.
She relaxed into the moment, knowing all too well the cold lecture her mother would deliver once she realized Esme was conscious.
As Esme drifted back toward sleep, Camille began to chant. The slow curling rhyme wrapped itself around Esme's thoughts, gently blanketing them, her mind's ability to discern their meaning snuffed out one word at a time.
"Stop!" Esme shot an arm out, knocking Camille back.
