DARKHAVEN | "Three Sisters" Book One

Chapter Sixty

Gia

Gia rounded the corner just in time to see the two devotees removing her book from its hiding place in the hallway table.

And time slowed to a crawl.

No, she thought, freezing. This can't be happening.

It was, though. A man and a woman—the man with a swath of unwashed brown hair, the woman a thrall of an age with Gia—stood there, drawer open, the book in the man's hands. The woman was peering over his shoulder. The male devotee was dirty and wore a leer, as men of the First Evil tended to do. The woman, however...she was clean. Polished. Austere. She was one of the rarities who served the First Evil as a thrall willingly in hopes of being raised to the rank of devotee for her service.

As one, they both turned and grinned at Gia.

Her life was over. Roslin's life was over.

Maybe not over, but not worth living once the Orchestrator learned of their scheming, either. They had survived the previous day's attack only to find themselves passed into a hand of Fate far more dangerous and far, far more dire. 

Unless Gia acted quickly.

Perhaps, she began to rationalise, I can pretend there is nothing wrong. They've no proof that's my book. Anyone could have put it there over the years.

She steadied her breathing and walked toward her room, feigning normalcy and the sort of nervousness they were accustomed to from her.

Their grins, though. There was no mistaking those grins. They knew. They knew it was hers, and they knew what would be done with her. How they'd be rewarded.

Gia hesitated outside her room. "Can I help you?" she asked, willing her voice to its usual guarded coldness.

"Oh," purred the woman, "I think you already have."

The male devotee held up the book. "Looking for this? Doing a little late-night reading?"

The blonde witch glanced at the book as if seeing it for the first time, but her voice was too high when she asked, "What is that?"

He snorted. "What is that?" mocked the man derisively. "They'll make me a hierophant for this, you know. I should be thanking you for being so stupid."

Gia wanted to feign ignorance, but she was too afraid—afraid because she couldn't fight her way out of this one.

The woman tugged idly at the black gable hood that she wore. "Think they'll finally let me take this off?"

"They'll raise you to true devotee. I've not a doubt," the man confirmed to her. At this, the thrall cackled dryly.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Gia insisted. "What have you got there?"

"Grimoire of the Lost Craft, Volume II," read the man from the cover. "I'm sure this is the sort of thing that just happens to be stashed outside your room."

The woman added, "Same as I'm sure Overseer Wicklowe will find this so entertaining."

Gia's stomach roiled. One hand curled into a fist at her side, the other rested on her doorframe. What do I do, spirits? Fate help me. I cannot fight, I have not any magic—

"Come on." The woman seized Gia by the wrist. "I've been waiting for this day."

Gia turned and looked at the man. He was loosely holding the book in one palm and leafing through it with his other hand.