Ward Against Darkness (Chronicles of a Reluctant Necromancer) (10 page)

Chapter Thirteen

Ward woke with a start. The sun sat high in the sky, either late morning or early afternoon, indicating he’d been unconscious for a while. He got out of bed, put on a clean shirt that didn’t quite fit, and flipped up his collar to hide the back of his neck.

It surprised him he’d managed to sleep, although he supposed no matter how dangerous a situation was, eventually exhaustion and starvation caught up to a man. His arm, however, felt better. The swelling and redness had gone down.

In fact, he almost felt good. Physically, at least. Exhaustion didn’t pull at him now like it had for the last week, and his muscles had stopped aching. His bicep still hurt, but not nearly as much. Things were finally turning around.

Emotionally, however, things were still complicated. He hadn’t meant to tell Celia Allette was enspelled—he still hadn’t decided if he trusted Allette or if he had the ability to free her. But Celia had been furious. She’d acted like…like she was jealous.

Which was ridiculous. She more likely thought him a fool for trying to be kind.

There was also Nazarius and the locket, and now the reliquary.

In the last two weeks, he’d cast more spells of significant size with greater frequency than he ever had before—most of which he had no idea how he’d accomplished—and he hadn’t been meditating afterward like he was supposed to, which increased the risk of falling to the blood magic lure. Though, with his mystical blindness, he doubted he was susceptible.

Regardless, he’d try to unblock whatever magic he had to free Allette, he would steal Macerio’s grimoires—or die trying—and he would do as the Master commanded and find Habil’s reliquary. All in one day.

No problem.

The catch to tackling something large was to do it one step at a time. He should start with the reliquary since that didn’t require great necromantic ability.

See, easy enough.

Nazarius said the location of the buried reliquary would be revealed in the room where he’d stolen the locket.

Allette’s words from last night flashed through Ward’s mind—Habil had embraced the darkest magics to find a way to bring his lover back to life and had kept her rooms unchanged.

The room with the locket had felt like a shrine to the beautiful woman in the painting.

He opened the door, strode to the servant by the stairwell, and asked to see Allette. The servant escorted Ward to a parlor filled with the opulent, delicately carved furniture predominant in the time of Taloren the Eighth, leaving Ward standing in the doorway while he, presumably, went off to find Allette.

Light poured through expensive floor-to-ceiling windows along the far wall.
Guests
gathered around tables and chattered with each other. Their clothes ranged from modern to three generations old, and all were a mix of peasant and nobility, but no one seemed to notice. A man with dual-colored slit-sleeve doublet currently popular in the prince of Brawenal’s court strode across the parlor to a long table piled with pastries, dried meats, and fruits. Steam curled from the spouts of three silver kettles, and the room was filled with the rich, bitter aroma of jahalva.

Ward’s stomach growled, reminding him he wasn’t sure when he’d eaten last.

“I thought I’d find you here.” Lyla’s sultry voice slid over him. A cool finger traced a delicate line across the back of his neck, drawing down his collar. “So you are branded.”

“Lyla.” He spun around, stepping out of reach.

She pouted and crossed her arms. “Is that any way to treat a lady? An interested lady.”

“You’re not interested in me.”

“But I am.” She tilted her head, and her eyes narrowed.

Something billowed within his head, hot and hazy. He couldn’t place the sensation.

“I’m very interested in you, Quirin. Or is that Edward like the Tracker believed?”

The heat swirled his thoughts. He struggled to grasp onto one, regain his mental balance, but they slipped away like smoke when he reached for them.

Lyla grabbed the front of his shirt and urged him back into the hall. Stepping close, she pinned him against the wall beside the door and ran a cold finger from his temple to his jaw.

Celia had touched him like that, back in…where had they been?

The thought melted and joined the vortex within him.

“Who are you, really? What makes you so special? Are you just mistaken for a de’Ath? Maybe you are one, a distant cousin, and you changed your name so they’d never know what you’ve become?”

“No, I’m not— There’s nothing—” Why couldn’t he make his mind work?

Lyla pressed her body against his. The heat enveloped him. She had asked a question. One that didn’t make sense. But he couldn’t remember what or why. All he could focus on was her, mesmerizing and deadly.

She blinked, her dark lashes brushing her bronzed skin, then up again, drawing him to her eyes. Golden-brown abysses. He was falling, falling.

“Tell me.” Her breath caressed his cheek, whirling him farther into her golden depths.

Yes. He should tell her. Tell her Allette thought he could free her. Tell her—

“You’re spending a lot of time with Allette.” She stroked his temple again. “Why?”

That thought, the one about Celia touching him, took form again. It stuck, sending jagged spikes shooting through his mind.

No. This was wrong. Lyla was wrong.

He pushed at the swirling gold, clinging to that one thought about Celia. Beautiful, determined Celia. He could trust her. She’d proven he could, even if he didn’t approve of her methods.

“Come on, Quirin. One word then the next. It’s easy,” Lyla said, but there was an edge to her voice.

He shoved again at whatever threatened to consume his mind. It pulsed, whirling him around once…twice. He shoved harder.

Snap.

He jerked back and cracked his head against the wall. Pain shot through his skull. Lyla staggered back, her eyes wide. Then they hardened, and she leapt at him, grabbing his face. Her fingers dug into his cheeks.

“You will tell me.”

“He’s already broken your thrall,” a new voice said from the end of the hall. It sounded like Allette but was so confident and strong it couldn’t be her. “And the master hasn’t given him to you for a plaything.”

“Not yet.”

“Until then, I suggest not breaking what’s
his
, before he does.”

Lyla released Ward’s face and ran her hand down his neck, along his chest to the waistband of his pants. “Macerio will tire of you soon. And then you’ll be mine.”

She glared at Allette and stormed off.

Ward kept his back to the wall, waiting for his legs to stop trembling. “What was that?”

“Proof you have powerful magic.”

He snorted. “Because Lyla is interested in me?”

“Because you resisted her thrall. Not many can do that, not even most Innecroestris.”

He didn’t know what Lyla would do with that information, but it couldn’t be good.

“We need to do the spell tonight and then we need to leave.”

“I couldn’t agree more, but I’m still blocked.” Or a magical weakling. At that moment, Allette sounded eerily like Celia.

“I have faith.” She offered a gentle smile, turning back into the shy, uncertain woman he’d first met in the courtyard.

He didn’t know how much he believed that smile.

“We should prepare.”

But before that, he needed to get back into the locket room. Which meant he had to use her even more. “I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said last night about love.”

A hint of a blush blossomed on her cheeks.

“About how the house was built on love and hope. You said Habil never changed her room.”

“Yes.”

“Can I see it?”

The blush vanished, followed by the rest of the color in her face. “We’re not supposed to go in there. We should work on unblocking your magic.”

“Just a peek.”

“I shouldn’t have said anything.” She inched back a step.

“Please. What you said about Habil means I don’t have to turn into Macerio. Celia was…unintended. Going down the Innecroestri’s path was an accident. But if Habil could keep his love—” He bit the inside of his cheek to stop from talking. If he didn’t, he’d confess that bringing Celia back from the dead had started something he couldn’t stop, and that she couldn’t care for him the way he did for her.

“All right, but just for a moment.” She led him away from the parlor. They returned to the west wing and up to the third floor. She grabbed the latch but turned to Ward before opening it.

“Just for a moment,” she said.

He nodded.

She opened the door. The room looked as it did before. Allette crossed to the window and opened the drapes a little, allowing more light into the room. Still, the loom, the chairs, the tables, gave no hint of anything save that this place was untouched by time, person, or dust—nothing within indicated where the reliquary was buried.

The Master had to be wrong or Nazarius hadn’t understood the message.

The breathtaking woman Ita stared down at them from the painting, her expression loving and demure. She was so young, not much older than Celia or him. Habil had given up everything to bring this woman back, including his soul. It broke Ward’s heart. Loves like that weren’t found often.

The locket around her neck still radiated light. Boughs of an oak shaded Habil’s lover, the leaves brushing her hair. Behind her stood an intricate wrought-iron gate, partially open as if inviting the viewer to cross the threshold with Ita and discover what secrets lay beyond.

“We should leave,” Allette whispered.

“Just a few more minutes.” With enough time, Ward could figure out anything.

“But if we’re caught—”

“I’ll explain I was trying to better understand the path of the Innecroestri and pay homage to Habil.” The lie slid so easily off his tongue.

Habil had embraced the darkest of magics in his madness to bring his lover back to life. The madness hadn’t happened from one breath to the next. It happened one neglected value at a time.

Chapter Fourteen

It was midmorning, and Celia paced her room, her mind whirling, always coming back to the same question: what was she?

She wasn’t blinded in full sunlight, she didn’t need to eat souls to survive, and she wasn’t faster or stronger.

She drew the dagger hidden in the front of her bodice and pricked her finger. Blood welled, beading on the pad. She sucked it away and watched the blood well again. She didn’t heal like Val, either. But she’d been dead and now she wasn’t. That meant, regardless of what Ward believed, he possessed great power.

Which didn’t make him or his plan any less crazy. The more she thought about it, the less she liked it, particularly since it involved Allette. That Allette was a vesperitti made everything more complicated.

She hated knowing Ward was being manipulated. It didn’t matter that she’d manipulated him first—she was trying to atone by saving him, even if he made it next to impossible to achieve.

Celia left her room and asked the servant to take her to the breakfast parlor. Once there, she’d ask him to find Val, so she could convince him to help her cripple Macerio. Given his rage over his sister’s miserable existence, persuading him wouldn’t be difficult.

The servant led her into the narrow stairs down to the first floor. He grabbed the door latch and, stepping aside for her to go through first, opened it.

Rodas, in a pale green robe, filled the doorway. He sneered when he saw her and ran a hand over the greasy patch of hair on his chin she supposed was a beard. “Hello, pet.”

“Good morning to you,” she said, managing to keep most of her disgust from her voice. She shifted forward, indicating she’d like to pass, but he didn’t move.

His gaze slid down her body in blatant appraisal. “You’re mistaken if you think you and that boy can breeze in here and take my rightful place. He doesn’t have it in him to become Macerio’s apprentice.”

“That would be up to Macerio, wouldn’t it?”

The man’s scowl deepened. “You may have tricked Macerio and his pets, but I have a true gift. I can tell the difference between a real vesperitti and a fake one.”

She leaned close and lowered her voice, letting a hint of menace darken it. “Are you so sure I’m just pretending?” It was a risk, guessing the man would be as fearful of a vesperitti as everyone else.

His eyes widened. “I—”

“Do you really want to test that theory?” She seized his fear—or surprise, she didn’t care which—and dug a nail into his cheek.

He jerked back. “Quirin’s spell will be easy to destroy.” But he didn’t sound sure. “It doesn’t even look right.” He straightened, his eyes hardening. “But that doesn’t matter. He’s still not as powerful as me.”

Damn. She’d lost her advantage and didn’t want to think about whatever sick plan he’d come up with.

“That has yet to be seen, Rodas,” a soft tenor said from behind Rodas. Silk on a sword’s edge. Macerio.

A shiver raced over Celia. Darkness lay within his voice.

Rodas stiffened and went white. “Easily proven.”

“Are you so sure?”

Rodas turned to face Macerio in the hall, and while his words were confident, his body trembled. “Of course I’m sure.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about,” Macerio said.

“I don’t, and I’ll prove it tonight.” Rodas almost sounded pleased.

“If I decide to have a test. Tonight, there will be a midnight feast.”

Rodas paled further. Any more and he’d be as white as the powder on his wig.

“You probably should be studying. Just in case.”

“Yes, of course.” Rodas bobbed his head.

“Now.”

He spun on his heel and hurried away, followed by Macerio’s laughter.

Celia eased into the doorway and leaned against the frame. The servant remained hidden in the stairwell. Macerio stood a few feet away, still as stunningly beautiful as his voice suggested, and exuding just as much danger. His black hair hung loose about his shoulders and, as seemed usual, he wore all black. With his sculpted features and dark eyes, he was mesmerizing. A careful manipulation to instill awe and fear.

She’d seen his type before.

A hint of a smile pulled at his lips.

He knew exactly what effect he had on women, and if she hadn’t planned to leave that night, she’d use it to her advantage.

“We haven’t had much chance to talk since you arrived.” He bowed with an old-style courtly gesture, but she couldn’t shake the feeling it was all in jest. “I have business in the courtyard. Shall you escort me to the antechamber and continue our conversation?”

“Depends on the topic.” It was a risk being so blunt, but she could tell he’d see right through any other act.

He raised a sculpted eyebrow. “I can see why Quirin selected you. Or was it you who did the selecting?”

“Call it fate. Our partnership was unexpected but mutually satisfying.”

“How satisfying?” Macerio’s tone implied that Ward and she had a physically romantic relationship. Great magical power didn’t seem to change the mind of any man.

Celia fortified her smile. This was the game, and she needed to play. How convenient that she played it well. “A lady doesn’t tell.”

His laugh washed over her, filled with a sensuality that belied his youthful appearance. Boy, he was good.

“By your look, and what Val Rous tells me, you are definitely that.” He offered his arm, and she took it, letting him lead her down the hall. “Rodas was right about one thing, though.”

Something about his dark tone made her pause. She released his arm and forced herself to offer a lazy smile. “And what was that?”

He crossed the threshold between the dark hall into the bright antechamber. “Your false resurrection is unlike any I’ve seen before.”

A chill spread across her chest, and she deepened her smile. He hadn’t done anything yet. She wasn’t caught and shouldn’t act like it.

“I can tell your soul has been rebound to your flesh, but it’s subtle and…” He frowned. “There’s a lack of necromantic strength to it. Such a lack, I’m surprised the spell holds. But I can’t deny you’ve been reborn.”

Celia nodded as if she knew what he was talking about. So she didn’t look like a typical vesperitti to Macerio, either. What in the name of the Goddess was she?

“If your master wishes to be my apprentice, he’s going to need to improve his technique.”

“With your expert guidance, I’m sure he will.”

“I’m sure.” He reached for the latch to the front door. “Mind your eyes.”

Celia retreated back to the darkness of the hall as Macerio strode out into the courtyard.

“You shouldn’t be alone with him,” Val said from behind her.

Her heart skipped a beat, but she managed not to show her surprise. She didn’t remember Val being so quiet, but that was another truth to the vesperitti myths. He was different from when she’d known him in Brawenal. “Always looking out for me.”

“A beautiful damsel, how can I not?” He slid a hand around her waist and drew her close.

The thing in her chest, the one that squeezed when she thought of Ward about to kiss Allette, twisted, and she pulled away. Val let her go.

“Is there someplace where we can talk?”

Fear and hope flashed across Val’s expression before it settled on grim stoicism. “This way.”

They headed down the hall to a servant’s plain door and entered a maze of narrow, dark passages. He reached for a torch from a nearby bracket and met her gaze, his pupils larger than she thought possible.

“I haven’t quite developed full night sight yet,” he said.

A shiver raced over her. She was in the dark with a monster. But he hadn’t done anything to demonstrate he was other than what she remembered of him. He was still Val, the second son of Lord Rous, and a man furious at his maker. So long as she kept that fury pointed in the right direction, everything would be all right.

“Let me guess,” she said, “Lyla says we’ll develop that soon, too.”

He shrugged. “She has it. She has everything the myths mention. So I guess they’re true.”

“I guess so.” And good to know. She’d have to be careful around Lyla. No hesitation and no assuming her feminine form made her any less dangerous.

They took a flight of stairs down two levels into the depths of the mansion. Cool dampness pressed against her, drawing more gooseflesh. Val stopped at a door with a closed goddess-eye surrounded by the sun carved onto the center.

“A temple to the Light Son?”

“Ironic, I know. That the god of everything good has a room in this house.”

Inside was a small sanctuary filled with dust and cobwebs. At the front sat a stone altar covered in carvings of the sun and the Golden Stag. Val put the torch into a bracket by the door, sagged onto a rickety stool against the stone wall, and leaned back. “So what do you want to talk about?”

Celia drew a finger through the dirt on the altar, tracing the intricate pattern carved on the top, acting a hint of helplessness. “I need your help.”

He sat forward. “With what? Are you all right? Has Quirin—”

“No.” She bit back a smile. That was the response she’d hoped he’d have. “I’m fine. Remember last night I said I couldn’t leave because I had to take care of something first?”

“If Quirin’s forcing you—”

“He’s not forcing me to do anything.” Even though, technically, he was.

“He’s an Innecroestri, that’s what they do with their pets.”

“Would you just listen to me?” She threw away the helplessness and leveled her gaze on him. It was a technique her father used; stare down the subordinates until they realized who and what he was. The Dominus. The most powerful man in Brawenal City, in all of the principality of Brawenal. Val might be a monster made by Macerio, but she was a killer, too—even if she was only going to show him a fraction of what she was. Her skills came through dedication to her craft and the ice running through her heart the moment she accepted an assignment. “Do you want revenge on Macerio?”

Val’s eyes widened. He’d never seen this side of her before. “That’s not an option.”

“What if I told you it was?” She softened her expression. It wouldn’t do to scare him off. He still believed she was the innocent noblewoman he knew at court. Now, he knew she was determined and not quite an innocent. “Tonight, when Macerio invites us into his private parlor, Quirin will keep him distracted, and I’ll go into the library and steal his spell books.”

Val barked a bitter laugh. “Now I know you’re mad. Stealing the grimoires is impossible.”

“We’re back from the dead. Impossible isn’t quite so impossible these days.”

“That still won’t destroy Macerio.”

“But it will weaken him.”

“Not for long.”

“For long enough.” She needed Val to believe there was hope for Brina and him. Perhaps there was. “With Macerio weakened, Quirin can go to the Necromantic Council of Elders and they can finish him off.” She had no idea if it was true, but Ward kept saying he needed to tell the necromancer leaders about Macerio.

“The Elders don’t sanction false resurrection. Even I know that. You’re lying. They’d sentence Quirin to death the moment they saw him.”

“This is an unusual circumstance.”
Please just agree.
“It’s a chance to get Brina free.”

Val stared at her. This was the moment. He’d either agree or not.

“Fine.”

The tension in her chest eased.

“How come I never met this Celia?” he asked.

She offered a tentative smile. “A girl can’t reveal all her secrets.”

“That you’re even considering this is a pretty big secret.”

“I need you to watch Quirin’s back. That’s all.”

Val snorted. “Oh, that’s all. You know Macerio will realize something is wrong.”

“If all goes according to plan, he won’t realize until his books are destroyed and we’re long gone.” She wanted Val to be part of that ‘we’re,’ but if he spoke true last night, he’d never be able to leave Macerio. The only way he’d win his freedom would be through death.

That truth stung more than she expected. She’d never cared about the casualties of her business before. But then, she’d never been given a second chance at life—more or less—either. She’d lost her life to gain her humanity. This was one new realization she wasn’t sure she wanted.