Morrigan Vex's Arc

Chapter 4 of 4

The floor tilted again and Morrigan grabbed the edge of the work table. A jar of dried rue slid past her hand and cracked on the boards. The candle guttered. Under the cauldron, the pendant lay warm against the wood, both halves lit, orange and blue. She had finished her side of the binding minutes ago. The spell was still settling into her ribs when she heard the sound she had been dreading — a thin, glassy ping from the corner of the room. She turned. The half-built cage stood where she had left it, iron ribs bolted to a base plate, the top ring still open. Inside, the desire wisp pressed both small gray hands against the bars. Its wings shivered pink and gold. Its eyes were fixed on the pendant. Morrigan understood at once. The wisp had felt her fresh want the moment it took hold. Her binding was raw, still cooling. If the wisp got out now, it would sink into that wanting and twist it. She would not want a man. She would want whatever the wisp fed her instead. She had two choices. Finish the cage, or kill the wisp. She could not kill it. A dead wisp bled its hunger into the nearest working. That was worse. She crossed the room. The top ring lay on the floor with four bolts beside it. She had planned three more evenings of careful assembly. She had minutes now, maybe less. The wisp shoved its shoulder against a bar and the whole frame rang. Morrigan knelt. She set the ring on top and lined up the first bolt. Her hands were shaking from the ritual. She steadied them against the base plate and drove the bolt through. One. The wisp climbed. It got a hand over the unfinished lip and pulled. Its face came level with hers, close enough that she saw the flecks of light moving under its skin. It smiled at her. It knew her name for the man she had never met, and it opened its mouth to say it. She drove the second bolt. Two. The ring pinched down on the wisp's wrist. It shrieked and yanked the hand back inside. Third bolt. Her thumb slipped and the bolt fell. She caught it against her knee. Set it. Drove it. Three. The wisp threw itself at the ceiling of the cage. The frame lifted an inch off the floor. Morrigan pressed her whole weight on the ring and set the last bolt by feel. Four. The cage locked. The wisp dropped to the floor of it and folded its wings tight. Morrigan sat back on the boards. The pendant against her chest was still blue and orange, unwarped. The floor tilted under her again. The cottage was still moving. Whoever he was, he was closer now, and her wanting was still her own.