Page 21 of The Immortal’s Mark

“They will always question my loyalty. And now that Adir has escaped, and his accomplices have yet to be found, I need to ensure the Originals trust me now more than ever.”

I pinch my lips together. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. We all have roles to play in the game the rebellion has started, and I am determined to excel at mine.” The recliner rocks back as he stands. “With that, I take my leave. I’ll find you in the morning for your next training session.”

I watch him go, unable to dislodge the sinking sensation in my gut that tells me something bad is coming…

Something that will be out of Alex’s and the Originals’ control…

5

DARCIE

I never do get to train the next day.

The night passes with my mind caught in the trappings of another vision. Another irrelevant vision.

Back when they first began, the peeks into situations and conversations halfway across the world revealed snippets of information pertaining to Adir, the rebellion, and my connection to Des.

Now? They’re nonsense.

I don’t care to listen to the Immortals’ cook agonizing over which side dishes to serve with my evening meals. Or watch a maid sneakily clean my room when I’m out at the training yard, trying but failing to master the powers manifesting in my veins.

The visions that have been ruining my sleep for days on end are useless. My once enlightening gift has been downgraded to bland reality TV.

I try to sit up, but the room tilts, and my stomach protests so hard I fall back against the pillow with a groan.

“I thought this was over,” I whisper to no one, squeezing my eyes shut.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The pounding in my head syncs with the sound. I squeeze my eyes closed.

“Come in,” I croak.

The door swings open.

“Good morning, Sunsh—Darcie?” Concern tears through Alex’s voice.

A gust of air hits me a second before his voice hovers over me. “What’s wrong?”

I crack an eyelid, fisting my hands in the twisted sheets when a jolt of pain lances through my head.

“I had another vision,” I rasp. My throat scrapes raw, as if I’d been screaming. Maybe I was.

He mutters a curse.

Cool fingers brush my forehead. “You don’t have a fever.”

“That’s good,” I manage. “Help me sit up?”

He hesitates for only a heartbeat before sliding an arm behind my shoulders. I can’t suppress my pained moan as he guides me upright until I’m propped against the carved headboard.

“Better?” His hand hovers near my shoulder like he’s afraid I’ll topple.

“Define better.” My voice comes out thin.

He sits on the edge of the bed instead of stepping back, the weight dipping the mattress. “How long have your visions affected you this way?”