Page 53 of The Immortal’s Mark

My entire body shivers as my blood runs cold.

They were in my head…

Those cloaked people were In. My. Head.

One of them attacked me!

Gregory’s grip tightens, and he pulls me back against his firm chest.

I don’t move.

I don’t speak.

I refuse to get caught before learning about the mysterious clan who saved my life—the same clan who allegedly infiltrated my mind.

Eshe watches me with concern, clearly wanting to ask what has me so frightened. I can only shake my head.

Still secured in Gregory’s arms, my pupils follow the cloaked figures.

They stop just behind Charmian. Then the entourage lowers to the ground in the most deferential greeting I have seen the Immortal brothers receive.

Charmian holds out her hand, signaling for her offspring to remain in the suppliant position, as she says, “Before you are the leading seven of Nightsbane, the most powerful clan of my offspring.”

“Master Ben.” The lead cloak rises in response to Charmian’s call. “Is the warlock responsible for the girl’s healing?”

The warlock lowers his deep hood and reveals an ordinary head of close-cropped brown hair.

Knowing I cannot step away from Gregory and hope to remain standing, I have to content myself with stretching my neck forward to try and get a better view of the man. Without the eerie darkness and soundless sweeps of his cloak, he does not seem so frightening.

Lome steps forward. “Thank you, Master Ben. We appreciate all you have done to ensure our guest’s recovery.”

The warlock bows at the waist. “We help our own. I regret we were not here to assist the girl sooner.”

“How did you know where she was?” Des doesn’t hide his suspicion from his tone. “Or that she was in trouble?”

Master Ben looks at Charmian.

The Immortal gives him a quick nod before he turns to face the cloaked figures still crouched behind him.

He flicks his wrist, and one of the two hooded figures located at the front of the formation stands with grace.

“Mistress Jennifer only recently returned to her position within Nightsbane. It was she,” Master Ben tells Des, “who became aware of the girl’s ailment.”

Des turns his assessing gaze to the cloaked woman. “And how did you become privy to such information, Mistress Jennifer?”

Every line of his body is taut, a coiled spring ready to unleash if she says anything he believes compromises my safety.

My stomach twists.

The woman remains silent.

Master Ben’s jaw twitches. “Jennifer, remove your hood.”

The witch, Jennifer, does not move.

For a second, I think she intends not to heed the instruction. Then the sleeves of her cloak slide down thin arms as she lifts her hands.

Grabbing the edges of her hood, she lowers the obstructing cover to reveal a bright, blonde ponytail. Her back is straight as she meets Des’ gaze.