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Her fingers dug into the floorboards, breath catching. Lance pressed his head beneath her jaw, a soft keen vibrating through his body.

"Don't think about it," she told Lance.

Lance didn't answer. She held him there.

Chapter 30

The cottage was quiet, save for the soft, restless hiss of Lance.

Idonea balanced on the table, fingers brushing along one of the Lodamante bars embedded across the ceiling. Unlike the door, now faintly responsive, its hum whispering under her skin, this metal was dead, cold and unyielding.

“Lance,” she said, arm outstretched, “if you will.”

He flew up to her, coiling around her wrist. She braced herself. His fangs sank into her skin with efficient pressure.

Pain flared, bright and grounding. It sent a pulse through her blood, the same primal spark that had triggered her claws before.

As his bite loosened, Idonea lifted her arm overhead. Blood oozed, warm against the cold metal of the bar. She carved sigils into the Lodamante with the claws; deep grooves, sharp strokes.

Her blood ran down, trying to fill the etched shapes. It slid right off.

“Consarn,” she muttered, teeth clenched.

More sigils, and more blood. It spattered the table, flecked across her boots, dripped to the floor. The Lodamante drank none of it.

Her shoulders trembled with the effort of holding her arms up. Her vision pulsed at the edges. Her blood was strangely thin, but she refused to stop. She couldn’t stop, not when the bar above her sat unchanged, untouched by her work.

She tried again, scoring the grooves harder, forcing her claws to deepen the cuts. Blood followed her movements in shimmering lines.

Still nothing.

A rasp built in her chest, frustration rising sharp enough to taste. Her hands shook. She wanted to scream.

Lance nudged her shoulder once, then slipped away. When he returned, he dropped something at her feet: a paintbrush.

Idonea blinked. A faint, incredulous smile tugged at her mouth. “That may work.”

He hissed proudly.

She opened another cut along her forearm. She dipped the paintbrush into the running crimson and drew it along the sigils carved into the bar. The brush carried the blood more steadily than her trembling fingers could. The grooves drank it at last.

The metal vibrated. The smallest flutter beneath her palm, but it was enough. A sliver of Current bled through, feather-light, but unmistakable.

Her breath left her in a thin shudder. She repeated the strokes until her head pounded with the effort. Her ears rang. The air wavered.

By the time the latch scraped at the cottage door, her vision was swimming. She nearly pitched off the table, catching herself on shaking limbs as she climbed down. Her cloak hid her arms poorly, but she pulled it close anyway. Lance disappeared up into the rafters.

The door swung open.

Lysander filled the doorway. Snow clung to his hair and cloak, melting in quiet rivulets down the leather. His gaze swept the room once, then locked onto her with a force that scraped down her spine.

“You look…” His voice caught. “You look like hell, Idonea.”

She stalked towards him. “You left.”

“I had to.” His voice frayed on the edges. “You don’t understand—”

“No,” she said. “You don’t understand.”