Master of Myth (The Antigone's Wrath Series Book 1) Read Online Free Page B

from his brow and made his way to the casting room. He hated that this woman caused him so much trouble. He hated that she caught him off guard. And he especially hated that she didn’t know her proper place.
    “Blasted female,” he mumbled to himself as he pushed the black, wooden door open. The sheath from the knife was already there, awaiting him at the altar. He glared at it, as though it somehow embodied the elusive captain. “ Captain , indeed.”
    “You must purge these thoughts from your mind, Brother.” The dry voice of the old man broke into his quiet rant. “It will take all of your concentration to perform the connection ritual.”
    “I know that!” he snapped. “It isn’t as though I haven’t done this before.”
    The old man rose from a simple wooden chair that sat where the circle of candlelight did not penetrate the gloom. “Then act it. Your attitude is that of an initiate. Put your head on properly and stop acting like a dog that’s been caught with its nose in the rubbish.”
    He gritted his teeth and said nothing more. He knew it was childish to behave so, but this particular woman had gotten under his skin. He couldn’t forget the piercing dark eyes that glared at him from behind that tiny pistol. There was an animal behind those eyes, one that begged to be broken like an untrained pup.
    It was those eyes he focused on as he lit each violet candle on the altar. There were seven in all, one for each element: Earth, Air, Water, Fire, Wood, Metal, and lastly, the Machine. It was this final element so many others ignored. The power of the Machine, to create, to destroy, was the ultimate combination of all other elements. To shun it was to deny the supreme power in the universe. Those who worshipped nature would never taste the might of the Machine.
    He knelt on the step before the altar, directing the flow of aether into the items placed on the table. Before him lay the dagger’s sheath, wormwood incense, a thimbleful of oil, and a wand of ash with a rose thorn embedded in the tip. He began the incantation in hushed tones, reciting the ancient words that would link his spirit with the aether. As his thoughts drifted, he dipped a single finger into the oil and anointed the knife’s empty casing. He reached for the wand and held it aloft in his right hand. With a low, guttural cry, he brought it down across his left palm, the thorn slashing it open, then clutched the sheath with the wounded hand, the warm blood mixing with the musky oil. He replaced the wand on the table while the casing remained in his grasp. The dagger pulled him now, reaching out for its other half. He allowed his consciousness to be guided through the beyond, across the ocean, into the air.
    The woman was nearby; he could sense her presence, feel her breathing rhythmically. She was sleeping. This would make it easier.
    His thoughts slithered around hers, searching them for clues to where they were headed, but her dreams were scattered. Blasted woman. Even in slumber she was difficult to handle. He pressed harder, delving deep into her mind. He was careless, however, and felt her waking. He retracted the tendrils of thought, and she resumed her rest. Several times this happened, and his frustration grew exponentially with each failure. In irritation, he pushed his consciousness into hers, delving heedlessly into her mind. When she awoke this time, he did not immediately let go, instead letting his presence stay with her a moment longer. He watched her as she sat up in bed, trying to clear her head. He laughed. She could never shake free of his hold.

    Mr. Mustache haunted her dreams that night. Many times Rachel awoke to his greasy countenance fading before her eyes. Much of her doubted the wisdom in letting him live.
    He posed two problems to her. First, he knew her face and could most likely identify her, especially given the hasty departure of the Antigone’s Wrath . The second problem was far less troubling to anyone but