Page 42 of The Serpent Prince

Where was it?

Until she found it, there had to be another solution to feeding she could accomplish on her own.

Sitting on a log, she opened the book again, searching for a spell. Flipping through the pages like a madwoman, she read each at a feverish speed. One of the pages tore as she turned it too quickly.

Imani had borrowed it from the royal library in Niflheim, but she’d worry about fixing the damage later. She needed help and needed it now.

The book was filled with considerable flesh magic spells—dark, nasty spells, the likes of which she’d heard about before but had never read about … one included something called Eldritch Elixir, something she’d heard whispered about at the Essenheim court. She bookmarked it for later and kept looking, praying there was an answer in here for her that didn’t require her forcibly splitting open someone’s soul. She preferred to feed the natural way, with small pieces given willingly between two people who held some modicum of trust and respect for each other. That was how Norn elves fed to survive.

Any other way seemed … unnecessarily messy.

There might be whores in the next town they stopped at, but with Imani’s history, she couldn’t just feed from anyone at this point. She’d let it go too far, take too much, and she couldn’t risk another murder on her hands. She needed someone strong. Someone who could forcibly push her out of their soul and body if she lost control. Otherwise, she’d kill them like she had her grandfather.

Imani scraped her hands down her face, dreading asking Esa. But it was her next realistic option. The weakness of opening herself up to someone like Esa was dangerous. She liked the pixie—despite their trust issues and spats—but unlike with Tanyl, there were too many secrets between them. Imani’s mind would be unguarded, and there was some mind reading magic out there she wouldn’t put past Esa to practice.

Still, she was running out of options.

Esa stood off in the foreground, waving Imani forward. With a shuddering breath, Imani hid any pain from her face and slowly made her way back to the carriage.

As she approached, Esa swiped the book from Imani’s arms and kept it from her grasp. In her weakened state, Imani could do nothing.

“Ah, so this is the book you’ve had your nose in for days,” Esa sneered.

“As you know, we weren’t allowed much reading on the subject at home. I was curious. Purely academic,” Imani said, holding onto the carriage for support. Standing was even getting harder. She needed to lie down.

A few guardsmen and master witches bustled around them. It seemed there was some confusion. Imani tried to focus on their conversation while Esa flipped through the book, tsking. Imani could hear the guards speaking amongst themselves.

“Is that the direct order from the prince himself?” one guard asked.

The other bristled. “No, but Master Heirwyn told me we are to take the west pass and leave immediately.”

“Where is the prince?” A master witch approached. “I’d like to speak with him.”

“The prince hasn’t been seen in days. He’s been otherwise engaged. Master Heirwyn is of high enough rank to speak on his behalf.”

The witch grumbled but agreed.

Brow furrowing, Imani found the exchange odd. Where was Kiran? Somewhere that would keep him from giving direct orders? The man loved to lord over people.

The pixie was still rifling through the pages, her eyes wide.

With a burst of strength she didn’t know she had, Imani shot her hand out and ripped the book from Esa’s hand. Her chest heaved at the effort, but she glared at Esa. “Don’t touch what’s mine.”

Esa held her palms up in surrender. “Calm down. You’ve been on edge lately. I’ll ask you again: Are you ill?”

“I said no, and I meant it,” Imani stated, climbing into their repaired carriage without assistance.

Imani didn’t believe in fever dreams, not exactly. Perhaps the rational side of her preferred to wait for the real thing, but she did relive the kiss, exactly as it had been—crushing and hungry—and she remembered the spark of essence she accidentally stole from Kiran. It was bright, and shiny, and beautiful.

Then, too soon, it was over. She woke exactly where she’d fallen asleep before—against the side of the carriage. It was moving in a rhythmic motion that kept her pain lulled. She didn’t bolt upright, but lay where she was, lazy and languid with sleep and sweat. The dream felt different than others; it reminded her of the visions she’d get of Meira. Real. Somewhere else.

At sundown, when they usually stopped to make camp for the night, solitude had typically greeted her in the carriage as she skipped dinner, but not this time.

Opening her eyes, she gave a start.

Two maids and Esa stood over her, two sets of eyes wide and confused; a third, pointed at her in suspicion. Imani tried to sit up but was pushed back down by all three.

“Easy,” the one maid replied softly. “You’ve been suffering fits in your sleep, and you’re running a high fever.”