Broken Bonds (Lizzie Grace 3)

I shook my head and climbed slowly to my feet. Pain flickered through my brain, the first stab of the tsunami yet to come.

Aiden rose with me, one hand hovering near my elbow, ready to catch me should I tumble. I gave him a quick smile. “I’m fine, Aiden. Really. I just need to sleep.”

“Is Belle on the way?”

I nodded. “I’ll wait for her near your truck. Ashworth, do you want a lift anywhere?”

He hesitated, and then shook his head. “I’d better stay here, just in case.”

I nodded, lightly touched Aiden’s arm, and then walked out of there as quickly as I was able. Once outside, I sucked in several deep breaths to wash the scent of death and blood from my lungs. The smell lingered on my clothes and filled my nostrils at every breath, but there was little I could do about that right now except ignore it.

Once I’d trudged up the hill, I grabbed a muesli bar then sat on the hood of his truck and munched on it as I waited for Belle.

She arrived twenty minutes later. Once I’d climbed in and buckled up, she handed me a two-cup-sized drink container that smelled a little less like a swamp than her usual concoctions.

“Thought your stomach might be dodgy, so added extra cinnamon and ginger to override the less pleasant aromas.”

“Thanks.” I still sipped it warily, but it was, in fact, quite drinkable—at least as far as potions went, anyway.

It was dark by the time we arrived back home, and the deep headache that came with reading the dead had well and truly settled in. I trudged up the stairs, stripped off, and all but fell into bed.

And didn’t stir until the next morning.

The rattle of china and the bright chatter of many voices told me it was late enough for the café to be open. I glanced across at the clock and saw it was nearly ten. I had a quick, hot shower to wash the lingering scents from my skin then got dressed and headed down to help out in the café. We were flat out serving for the next couple of hours, but once it started to ease off, I went into the kitchen to help Frank—who was both our kitchen hand and dishwasher—get through the mountain of dishes.

It was close to five by the time Belle and I finally got a chance to sit down and relax. I took a sip of my hot chocolate—which, as usual, had lashings of cream and marshmallows—and then said, “I wonder if your gran’s books have anything about soul transferring?”

“As it happens, I wondered the same thing, and was looking it up last night while you slumbered rather noisily.”

I raised my eyebrows. “I snored?”

“Loudly. I hope Aiden has earplugs.”

I snorted—not a bright move given I was also in the process of taking another sip of my chocolate. As cream went flying, I swiped a hand across my nose and then licked it off my fingers. “The way things are going, it won’t matter. I’ll be over the weariness by the time we get another chance to hit the sheets.”

She raised an eyebrow, her silvery eyes gleaming with amusement. “I was under the impression that the good times were happening everywhere but between the sheets.”

I tried to slap her arm in mock outrage but she quickly leaned away from the blow and laughed. “I found what amounts to little more than a side note in a book about witches who are turned by darker magics.”

“Just one book?” I said, surprised. “I would have thought—given how detailed her knowledge was about dark spirits and dark forces—that she’d have more than one on dark witches.”

“Except that the HIC don’t really share information about heretics, even amongst the bluebloods,” Belle said. “So it’s not really surprising that someone like Gran—a lower-class Sarr witch—would only be able to glean snippets. She was a first-rate compiler but even she had limits.”

“Have you had much of a chance to read through it?”

She nodded. “It says that those who are powerful enough—and who have a strong enough connection with whatever dark spirits they’ve entered into a pact with—can extend their lives by transferring their soul into the body of another. The cost of this is paid by the soul of the body’s original owner, which is taken by the dark spirits. And that makes me wonder if George Sarr knew what exactly was involved in becoming a dark master’s apprentice.”

“Why?” I grabbed a teaspoon and scooped up a semi-melted blob of marshmallow.

“Firstly,” she said, “apprentices apparently have to swear in blood to their master, which binds them to their dark witch’s command. They are subsequently marked, with each dark master having their own brand. It’s a means of warning other powerful dark witches not to encroach.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Why would that be a problem?”

Belle shrugged. “Maybe suitable dark witch apprentices are few and far between.”

“Maybe.” I scooped up the rest of the marshmallow and then said, “I’m guessing the two knife cuts on George’s cheek was Jonathan’s brand?”

“I’d presume so. Gran said it was usually in a very visible spot such as the face.” She leaned forward and crossed her arms on the table. “The second thing is the fact that a soul transfer can only happen between a master and his apprentice. It’s apparently the one reason so few masters have an apprentice.”