Read Online The Siren Series 3: Brandon (A Siren Novel) by Marata Eros - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Marata Eros
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as magical as I am. He'll know what to do. I wonder why they didn't kill him. If he can, he'll be thinking of escape too.
I frown at the feel of his energy though. Something's off.
I lift my head, my neck tight with the effort, and see I'm bound with chains. Good. Metal can be manipulated. These guys haven't done their homework. I also spy a dresser shoved in an unloved corner of whatever room I'm staying in. It’s oak.
Perfect. Oak trees have protective properties, ancient ones. The species can lend me sufficient magic if it’s old enough.
I allow the tendrils of my magic to flow over all the inert parts of the earth in my room. My magic tastes of the oak and finds it weak. It finds the iron ore in the chain and combines the two.
It's enough. Good thing I'm not Fae, or the iron would have weakened me.
It's a good day to be a witch.
The atmosphere in the small, womb-like prison thickens. My power lifts, strengthening the tether of my existence.
I feel the weight of the dust motes, their union with the air I breathe almost indistinguishable.
The chain pulses against my skin, my flesh growing hot where it touches. The dresser creaks in the corner, cracking as I steal its essence to free me from my bonds.
First one chain slides off my ankle, then the second.
Sweat trickles between my breasts as I concentrate with everything I have on my wrists.
My skin hurts as the metal heats, and I bite my lip to keep from crying out.
Finally, the last cuff sloughs off, and a shaky breath escapes me. I lunge upright, hyper-conscious of my surroundings. I glance at the dresser. Veneer and filler in a small pile are what's left of the dresser. Metal pulls lay in a dull heap of brass on the floor.
Angry whip-like marks mar my wrists and ankles.
But I'm free.
Not yet, my mind answers.
Shut the fuck up , I tell it.
I smirk, swinging my legs around to the side of the thin mattress I lie on.
I'm usually grumpy in the morning.
Or when I haven't had enough sleep. Or when I'm hungry.
I think about that. I guess I'm kinda grumpy as a regular thing.
I remember the Twinkie I didn't get to eat and silently simmer. No time to wallow in my bullshit though. The pity party will have to wait. My plan is to find Ren. Then eat.
I stand up, feel lightheaded, and sit back down. I stand more slowly. That's dumb.
I shuffle to the door and give it an experimental pull.
Locked.
Of course.
I drift to the tall, narrow window made of diamond panes in leaded caning that crisscrosses the entire sheet of old glass. Beyond that is an open field with a scattering of sparse evergreens that gradually thicken as they move into the mouth of a deep forest.
My gaze travels to the ground. I'm three stories up, like goddamned Rapunzel or something but without all the hair. Plus, I'm not blonde.
I'm getting grumpier by the second, and Ren's not around to pick on. The vamps will get up when nighttime falls, and they’ll be a big pain to deal with.
Striding to the door, I hit the surface with both palms, letting my depleted magic enter the material. It's a little like pouring creamer over something and covering it. The magic seeks any organic material it can use.
The resounding answer thrums through my fingertips like a divining rod finding an underground river.
My eyes pop open, and I move my fingers over the large metal bolts that are driven in equal distances underneath the arched wood at the top of the eight-foot door. I stand on tiptoe, feeling each hand-forged rivet.
The metal heats beneath my skin.
The wood isn’t oak, but the metal has components of silver in its forging.
Perfect.
They shake then loosen from their house of wood. A four-inch spike with a faceted head falls on the floor with a clatter, and I give an involuntary gasp. I’m so afraid to awaken the Reapers early. I don't want to deal with them if I don't need to.
Another falls. Then another.
When the tenth surrenders, the planks of wood tremble without their fasteners.
I catch
I frown at the feel of his energy though. Something's off.
I lift my head, my neck tight with the effort, and see I'm bound with chains. Good. Metal can be manipulated. These guys haven't done their homework. I also spy a dresser shoved in an unloved corner of whatever room I'm staying in. It’s oak.
Perfect. Oak trees have protective properties, ancient ones. The species can lend me sufficient magic if it’s old enough.
I allow the tendrils of my magic to flow over all the inert parts of the earth in my room. My magic tastes of the oak and finds it weak. It finds the iron ore in the chain and combines the two.
It's enough. Good thing I'm not Fae, or the iron would have weakened me.
It's a good day to be a witch.
The atmosphere in the small, womb-like prison thickens. My power lifts, strengthening the tether of my existence.
I feel the weight of the dust motes, their union with the air I breathe almost indistinguishable.
The chain pulses against my skin, my flesh growing hot where it touches. The dresser creaks in the corner, cracking as I steal its essence to free me from my bonds.
First one chain slides off my ankle, then the second.
Sweat trickles between my breasts as I concentrate with everything I have on my wrists.
My skin hurts as the metal heats, and I bite my lip to keep from crying out.
Finally, the last cuff sloughs off, and a shaky breath escapes me. I lunge upright, hyper-conscious of my surroundings. I glance at the dresser. Veneer and filler in a small pile are what's left of the dresser. Metal pulls lay in a dull heap of brass on the floor.
Angry whip-like marks mar my wrists and ankles.
But I'm free.
Not yet, my mind answers.
Shut the fuck up , I tell it.
I smirk, swinging my legs around to the side of the thin mattress I lie on.
I'm usually grumpy in the morning.
Or when I haven't had enough sleep. Or when I'm hungry.
I think about that. I guess I'm kinda grumpy as a regular thing.
I remember the Twinkie I didn't get to eat and silently simmer. No time to wallow in my bullshit though. The pity party will have to wait. My plan is to find Ren. Then eat.
I stand up, feel lightheaded, and sit back down. I stand more slowly. That's dumb.
I shuffle to the door and give it an experimental pull.
Locked.
Of course.
I drift to the tall, narrow window made of diamond panes in leaded caning that crisscrosses the entire sheet of old glass. Beyond that is an open field with a scattering of sparse evergreens that gradually thicken as they move into the mouth of a deep forest.
My gaze travels to the ground. I'm three stories up, like goddamned Rapunzel or something but without all the hair. Plus, I'm not blonde.
I'm getting grumpier by the second, and Ren's not around to pick on. The vamps will get up when nighttime falls, and they’ll be a big pain to deal with.
Striding to the door, I hit the surface with both palms, letting my depleted magic enter the material. It's a little like pouring creamer over something and covering it. The magic seeks any organic material it can use.
The resounding answer thrums through my fingertips like a divining rod finding an underground river.
My eyes pop open, and I move my fingers over the large metal bolts that are driven in equal distances underneath the arched wood at the top of the eight-foot door. I stand on tiptoe, feeling each hand-forged rivet.
The metal heats beneath my skin.
The wood isn’t oak, but the metal has components of silver in its forging.
Perfect.
They shake then loosen from their house of wood. A four-inch spike with a faceted head falls on the floor with a clatter, and I give an involuntary gasp. I’m so afraid to awaken the Reapers early. I don't want to deal with them if I don't need to.
Another falls. Then another.
When the tenth surrenders, the planks of wood tremble without their fasteners.
I catch
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