Page 48 of Hellbound

Ksenia scanned indexes and searched the footnotes of half a dozen more volumes when finally, in a book titled Heretical Practices, she found the first mention.

But it wasn’t directly about Vornaya in name. Ksenia traced the words with her index finger as she read aloud softly. “The liminal ones—gods of thresholds, transitions, and spaces between…These deities were said to govern doorways, births, deaths, and all manner of boundary-crossing. Their followers believed they held power over transitions—including the one from life to death. This was deemed heretical thought, claiming only The Six held divine authority over mortal souls...”

Her blood turned to ice in her heart as she reached the final paragraphs.

The Hand that Gives, The Hand that Takes. Those at the brink of death claimed to see her as a woman in a hooded cloak offering second chances, doors reopened that fate had closed. But every agreement came with a price, and the price always devolved into madness.

She went on to read that all of the gods came from men. Beings who had suffered a trial or tribulation became known for what they were and grew from a small seed of power into flourishing members of the pantheon, albeit not the main ones, through followers, shrines, and the sacrifices they provided.

Ksenia scrubbed the heel of her hand into her eyes until stars spotted behind her lids.

When she blinked them open, the shadowed statue in the alcove before her shifted.

Her hand flew to Caromir.

“Tired of the dinner conversation, already?” Bohdan’s voice was silky, but it cut through the frigid draft.

She cursed as she flinched; a decade of evasion trained that into her.

And from the moment she had encountered him in the forest, it had been reinforced that she was in the presence of someone dangerous. He was power and control incarnate.

Had it not been for her bondsense, she wouldn’t have known he was in the armory last night.

Had it not been for Petra, he would’ve killed her.

His gaze traced the stiff line of her shoulders with barely contained mirth, a smug smile slipping to his full lips.

She swallowed thickly, her ruby choker bobbing, and his eyes caught the sparkle of the jewels.

Ksenia feigned a nonchalant shrug. She clapped the tome in her hands shut, sending a plume of dust into her face, and coughed tactfully.

“Religious texts? I didn’t take you to be a devout woman, Senka.”

“My clientele routinely commissions me for religious jewelry and figurines,” she lied smoothly, slotting the book into the crook of her arm and taking off in a brisk walk.

The soft click of his boots brought him closer. “That doesn’t belong to you.”

Tension snapped down her spine.

“Varka said I was allowed to borrow whatever I wanted. There’s little else to do before the trials.”

She kept her pace even, but her shoulders tightened with every step.

At the edge of her periphery, the family tree begged a question.

“Why isn’t your name on the tapestry?”

That stopped his pursuit.

“The matriarch decides who belongs and who doesn’t.”

Ksenia turned to face him, letting his answer hang in the air. He hooked his hand into the pocket of his slacks and tipped back on his heels.

“You should know something about Varka and my family, though.” His calm voice stiffened her neck. “She gave you that golden token as entry to the trials, but it’s a death sentence for all except the winner. And I’ve gone many years without a Sevrant.”

He slunk closer till she could feel the heat rising from his body and added, “Leave now, while you still can.”

She tilted her face up at him. His gaze was half-lidded—mocking her.