until it’s time for it to turn back into a fae.”
Again, so fast I can’t quite make it out because he’s a blur, but I think Carrick punches Ozigeor as his head snaps backward and he howls as he grabs his nose, blood pouring from it.
“Son of a bitch,” he yells, immediately grabbing a wad of tissues from his desk and pinching his nose with them to staunch the flow.
The necklace has once again fallen out of his hands, and when Carrick bends to pick it up this time, he turns and hands it to me. “Hold this for him, love. No telling if I’ll need to hit him again.”
Love.
He called me love.
I take the necklace and nod with a stony expression, not wanting Ozigeor to know how much his endearment meant, nor even how much enjoyment I’m getting out of Carrick and his arrogant ways.
“Changelings,” Carrick says, turning back to Ozigeor. “Go deeper.”
Ozigeor glares at Carrick, but he starts talking, his Arabic accent almost comical from the nasal tone of his pinched nose. “Before the changeling is placed, it’s touched to both parents so that it turns human and takes on their physical likeness. Placing a changeling and then stealing the human baby is a form of ritual that will harness and amplify power. It was primarily a tool by the Light Fae to build up their powers to pre-fallen status.”
“But Light Fae wouldn’t steal babies,” I blurt out. “They were angels once.”
Ozigeor turns his head my way, his expression telling me that I’m an idiot. It’s a look I’m sure Carrick won’t attack him for. “They were expelled from Heaven. What makes you think they wouldn’t?”
I shrug. That’s a good point.
“How does the ritual work?” Carrick asks, gaining the sorcerer’s attention again.
He pulls the tissues away from his nose, and it seems the bleeding has stopped. He tosses it in a trash can before casually moving behind his desk. Pulling out his chair, he sits and clasps his hands on his desk. He wants to be the picture of a professional having a rational discussion, but he’s really just putting something between Carrick and himself.
“Power is funneled into the stolen child, where it builds in strength before moving to the changeling at a designated time.”
My head snaps Carrick’s way. Did he hear what I just heard? It’s funneled into the stolen child?
My twin.
“More,” Carrick demands.
Ozigeor sighs. “The fae wanting the power goes into stasis. It’s like they’re frozen in time, still as a statue, where they stay until the ritual is complete. Power is funneled into the human child, who acts as a vessel of sorts. The power accumulates there while building upon itself.”
“But why a baby?” I ask. “Why not just funnel power into the fae?”
“Because it’s a ritual of time. Like any good recipe, it can’t be done quickly. And there’s a dark component to it that amplifies the power.”
“The fact you’re using a human baby,” Carrick mutters.
Ozigeor smiles and points at Carrick as if he just won his bingo card. “Exactly.”
My stomach rolls. My twin was stuck in the Underworld for years and used as a vessel to store dark magic. What was her life like? Was she kept in a cage? Was she abused? Tortured?
I can’t even fathom it.
“Kymaris, Queen of the Underworld, used a changeling ritual. She used it not only to gain power, but also to escape the Underworld and come to the human realm.”
Ozigeor blinks and exclaims, “Really? That’s incredible.”
Once again, Carrick moves at the speed of light, his body leaning over the desk as he pops the sorcerer on the nose with his fist again. More blood spurts, and Ozigeor howls as he grabs more tissues.
I stare agog at Carrick for the brutal act of violence that has no reason I can fathom.
Carrick, clearly reading my expression, explains, “He’s lying. He gave her the ritual.”
“I did not give—” Ozigeor starts to deny, but when Carrick raises his fist, Ozigeor’s mouth snaps shut.
He leans back in his chair and tilts his face toward the ceiling to stop the flow of blood, but people aren’t supposed to do that. It will just run down his throat.
Not my place to tell him that, though.
“You gave her the ritual,” Carrick says with assurance. “I want the details.”
The sorcerer lifts his head, glaring at Carrick past the wad of tissues held to his nose. “Fine. I did a changeling ritual, and I was asked to tweak it a bit to bring the queen out of