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Summary
“What are you doing?” Carver’s voice, slicing through the air like a whipcrack, is unmistakably real. Iris struggles to lift her head. This is her first glimpse of Carver since he drugged her. He’s changed from his formal party attire into a long robe. The book in his hands is ancient, or at least made to look that way. A sheath at his side catches the firelight exactly like the hilt of the dagger in Iris’s chest. Bastard. “I summoned you, you attend to me!”
Real. Oh gods, the man kneeling at Iris’s side is real. His hand on her chest, pulling the knife free and eliciting no gush of blood, is real. His voice, more powerful than Carver’s and infinitely colder, is real. “You summoned me? I think not. Is it your blood in this circle? Is it your mind giving me form?”
Carver stammers. The man talks over him, still coldly furious. “I think not. She summoned me.”