Page 13 of The Immortal’s Mark

Charmian turns to leave, her gaze flicking to me once more. This time, there’s no mistaking the glimmer of a smile touching her lips.

You see me, don’t you? I think.

Of course, I do, child, her musical voice rolls through my mind.

My pulse kicks hard, and I stifle my gasp as she strolls past.

Her smile grows, but she doesn’t speak into my mind again.

The moment Charmian disappears through the doorway behind me, the world begins to thin around the edges.

Colors leach from the room, and the polished cherry wood fades into shadow. I look back at the Immortals, and my gaze focuses on Des.

It’s been days since I’ve seen him…weeks since he told me he cared about me after Alex went to warn Thane about my vision with Bella and Adir.

I’ve wanted to ask him about that night so many times, but there’s never been a good time.

I rarely see him, and when I do, we are never alone.

I trace his troubled features, lined with something heavier than fear.

My arm extends, my hand reaching out with the undeniable urge to console him, when the world tilts.

Des’s vivid eyes snap to mine right before I’m yanked into the dark.

3

DARCIE

My morning starts with a blistering headache.

The pain isn’t unfamiliar. In fact, it’s the norm these days. Ever since I started to practice using magic, my brain has been the muscle that fatigues from all the exertion.

I'm exhausted.

I need a break.

Unfortunately, there’s no time for rest in the middle of an Immortal rebellion.

Sweat slicks my palms, and my lungs burn as I stand on the makeshift training field the Immortals created for me, swinging a practice blade that’s at least half my body weight.

Trying to strike a stuffed dummy hanging from a wooden pillar isn’t as difficult as trying to conjure balls of light with my bare hands, but it’s still physically demanding.

“You’re gripping the sword wrong,” Alex calls from behind me. “Again.”

I glare over my shoulder. “Good morning to you, too.”

The vampire steps into the light, the wind catching the dark edges of a coat that doesn’t belong in Greece’s mild winter weather.

My ex-boss’s eyes track the blade as I swing at the straw dummy’s neck. The pommel slips from my fingers.

I mutter a curse and pick up the weapon, readjusting my grip.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

“Do I not look all right?” I take another swing. This time, I tighten my grip as I strike the dummy’s torso.

“No, you don’t.”