The ritual room was deep beneath the main house. Accessible by a narrow staircase that wound down into the earth. The space was circular, with walls of smooth stone and a domed ceiling from which hung clusters of dried herbs and small crystals that caught the light from oil lamps placed around the perimeter.
In the center lay a thick rug woven with symbols Elara recognized from the Siren Codex, surrounding a low platform heaped with soft blankets and cushions. The air was thick with the scent of burning sage and something sweeter, more floral.
"Lavender," Marlowe explained, noticing Elara's expression as she inhaled. "It promotes relaxation and mental clarity."
The elder moved around the room, lighting more lamps, adjusting the cushions on the platform, and setting a small brazier beside it on which dried herbs smoldered.
"Lie down," she instructed, gesturing to the platform. "Make yourself comfortable. This may take some time."
Elara hesitated at the threshold, a sudden wave of anxiety washing over her. "Who else knows we are doing this?"
"Damon," Marlowe replied. "And Cora, who is standing guard at the top of the stairs to ensure we are not disturbed."
The knowledge that Damon knew and had approved was both reassuring and unsettling. After the incident at the training grounds, she had expected him to keep his distance, to see her as the threat she knew herself to be. Instead, he seemed determined to help her understand and control her abilities, even after witnessing their devastating potential firsthand.
"He is not angry about what happened?" she asked, unable to help herself.
Marlowe's expression softened slightly. "Damon has seen and experienced far worse than a forced submission. His concern is for you, not for his wounded pride."
The insight into the Alpha's character was unexpected. But aligned with what Elara had observed herself. Beneath the stern authority lay a deeply protective nature and a willingness to sacrifice for those under his care.
With a deep breath, she crossed the threshold and settled onto the platform, arranging herself on the cushions. The material was softer than it appeared, cradling her body comfortably.
"Your pendant," Marlowe said, moving to sit cross-legged beside the platform. "Keep it against your skin during the ritual. It may help guide your memories."
Elara touched the silver spiral, which had begun to warm slightly in the ritual space. "Will this trigger another episode?"
"This ritual is about remembering, not power," Marlowe assured her. "But if you feel anything unusual, tell me immediately, and we will end the session."
With careful movements, the elder prepared a cup of steaming liquid from a pot that had been warming near one of the lamps. The tea was a deep amber color, with an herbal and slightly sweet aroma.
"Drink slowly," she instructed, handing the cup to Elara. "It will help quiet your conscious mind without putting you to sleep."
The tea tasted better than it smelled, with hints of chamomile and honey balancing the more medicinal herbs. As Elara drank, a gentle warmth spread through her body, relaxing muscles she had not realized were tense. Her thoughts, which had been racing since entering the ritual room, began to slow and clarify.
"Good," Marlowe murmured, taking the empty cup. "Now close your eyes and listen to my voice. I will guide you back through your memories, starting with recent events and moving gradually deeper."
Elara obeyed, letting her eyelids fall closed. The cushions seemed to mold more perfectly to her body. And the scents of lavender and sage wrapped around her like a comforting blanket.
"First, recall the day of your collapse in my study," Marlowe instructed, her voice taking on a rhythmic, almost hypnotic quality. "See the Codex, feel the power awakening within you, hear the ancient words."
The memory unfurled in Elara's mind with startling clarity. The shimmering pages of the Codex. The heat of her pendant. The vision of her ancestor performing the ritual beneath the Blood Moon. Unlike before, when the experience had overwhelmed her, now she could observe it with a sense of detachment, noticing details she had missed.
"Good," Marlowe said, seeming to sense her engagement with the memory. "Now move further back. To your arrival at the pack house. Your first encounter with Damon at the pub."
Again, the memories came easily, playing like a film in her mind's eye. The shock when Damon's eyes had flashed gold during her performance. The confrontation in the rain-soaked alley. The terror when attackers had invaded her apartment. And the awe when Damon had shifted to protect her.
"Further back now," Marlowe continued. "Chicago. The incident that sent you running."
This memory was harder, edged with fear and guilt. Elara's body tensed on the platform, her breathing quickening.
"You are safe, Elara," Marlowe reminded her. "These are only memories. They cannot harm you now."
With an effort, Elara forced herself to recall that night. The private room. The wealthy patron. The drugged drink. The terror as he approached her with unmistakable intent. And then her voice, unleashed in a surge of desperate self-defense, causing blood vessels to rupture and a heart to stop.
"I killed him," she whispered, the words escaping despite her intent to remain silent.
"You defended yourself," Marlowe corrected gently. "There is a difference."
The distinction felt meaningful, though Elara was not sure she could fully accept it. The guilt of taking a life, even in self-defense, had haunted her for three years.
"Now," Marlowe said, her voice dropping lower, "go further back. Before Chicago. Before your adult life. Return to childhood. To the earliest memories of your mother."
This transition was more difficult. The tea's effect seemed to deepen, creating a pleasant heaviness in her limbs and a floating sensation in her mind. Her adult memories receded, giving way to fragments from earlier years. Scattered impressions of different cities. Different schools. Always moving. Always careful not to draw attention.
"Focus on your mother," Marlowe guided. "On moments when she spoke of your voice, your abilities."
A memory crystallized. Elara at perhaps seven or eight, sitting at a piano in a small apartment. Her mother was beside her, beautiful despite the worry lines around her eyes. And the premature streak of silver in her dark hair. They were singing together, their voices blending in perfect harmony.
"That is enough for today," her mother said, placing a gentle hand over Elara's on the piano keys.
"But we just started," Elara protested. "And I like singing with you."
Her mother's expression softened, though the worry remained in her eyes. "I know, sweetheart. But remember what we discussed about our special voices? About being careful?"
"That we are different," Elara recited. "That we have to be careful not to sing too loudly or too strongly, or people might notice."
"That is right." Her mother stroked her hair, the gesture tender yet anxious. "Our voices are a gift, but they can also be a danger. We must keep them hidden."
The memory shifted, flowing into another. Elara was slightly older, perhaps ten, watching her mother pack their belongings with hurried movements.
"Why do we have to leave again?" Elara asked, clutching her favorite stuffed animal as clothes and books were stuffed into suitcases.
"Someone noticed us," her mother replied, her voice tight with fear. "At the recital yesterday. A man was asking questions about us, about our family."
"But I was careful," Elara insisted. "I sang just like you taught me. Not too strongly."
Her mother paused, coming to kneel before her. "I know you were, sweet girl. This is not your fault. But there are people in this world who hunt our kind. Who have hunted us for generations. And we must stay ahead of them."
"What would they do if they found us?" Elara asked, the question, innocent despite its dark implications.
Her mother's expression was haunted. "They would separate us. Take you away. Use your voice for terrible things."
"Why?"
"Because our voice holds special power," her mother said. "And there are those who crave power above all else."
Another shift, another memory. Elara at twelve, in yet another apartment, watching her mother studying ancient-looking papers spread across the kitchen table.
"What are those?" Elara asked, peering at the strange symbols and flowing script.
Her mother quickly gathered the papers, her movements protective. "Family history," she said. "Something I am trying to understand better."
"About our voices? About why we have to keep hiding?" Elara asked.
Her mother hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. About our heritage."
"Are we ever going to stop running?" Elara continued, the question weighted with years of transient living and constant vigilance.
"Someday," her mother promised, though her eyes held doubt. "When it is safe. When the hunters have forgotten about us."
"Who are these hunters? Why do they want us?"
Her mother touched the pendant at her throat. The same silver spiral Elara now wore. "There are families who have hunted our kind for generations. Who believe our power should belong to them, or be eliminated entirely."
"Our kind?" Elara pressed. "What are we, exactly?"
Another hesitation, longer this time. "You might not understand, but we are something called sirens," her mother finally said, the word barely above a whisper, as if she feared even naming what they were. "Women whose voices can influence emotions, actions, even thoughts. Once, we were many. Now, we are almost gone."
"Because of the hunters?"
"Yes. And because of a war, long ago. Between our kind and others with power." Her mother's fingers tightened on the pendant. "There were those who were once our allies, our protectors. Wolf shifters with ancient bloodlines. But even they could not save us from extinction."
Something about her mother's words stirred recognition in Elara, even in her trance-like state. Wolf shifters. Ancient allies. The connections were forming in her subconscious, pieces of a puzzle she was only beginning to understand.
The memory continued, her mother's voice growing more intense, more urgent.
"Listen carefully, Elara. If anything ever happens to me, you must guard your voice more carefully than ever. Trust no one. Keep moving. And never, ever let them know what you truly are." She removed the pendant from around her neck, placing it over Elara's head. "This will protect you, as it has protected me. It contains old magic. Siren magic."
"But it is yours," Elara protested.
"And now it is yours. The last of our family heirlooms." Her mother's smile was sad. "It belongs to our bloodline. The royal Sirens. Our line."