Ward Against Darkness (Chronicles of a Reluctant Necromancer) (5 page)

Chapter Five

Ward pressed his back to the bedchamber door. It didn’t have a lock, although barring it with his body didn’t make him feel better. The Innecroestri had over a dozen vesperitti. He had Habil’s famed Book of Death, for goodness sake.

Something scratched at the open window. His heart leapt into his throat.

Celia slipped inside, her black skirt tangling around her legs. Her pale face accentuated her grim expression. Ward wished she hadn’t seen how dangerous Macerio was firsthand. He wished
he
hadn’t seen, either.

“I think, given our options, the rosebush and thorns is the best choice.” She held the curtain aside for him. A hint of daylight edged the peaks of the Red Mountains.

Ward pressed his back harder against the door, as if that would force his feet to stay put and not to take him to the window and safety—relatively speaking. “I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t?”

“I—” Why was this so hard to say? Because he wasn’t a fool and staying was beyond foolish.

“The jump will hurt, but it won’t kill you.”

“It’s not the jump. I have to stay.”

“Have you lost your mind?”

He was pretty sure he had. “I thought I could just report Macerio to the Necromantic Council of Elders—”

“And you should.” She grabbed his arm and tugged.

He shrugged out of her grip—or rather, she let him go. If she’d wanted, she could have dragged him to the window and tossed him out. “I can’t risk him fleeing before they get here.”

“Yes. You can.”

“No. He has a powerful grimoire with terrible spells that must be destroyed.” There, he’d said it, but saying it out loud didn’t make him feel any better. Goddess be damned, he was smarter than this. He’d been at the top of his class at the Physicians’ Academy before he’d been expelled. He was fluent in five languages. He knew the illicit, intimate workings of the human body. But he knew next to nothing about necromancy and even less about stealing.

“Ward, please.” Was that fear? Concern? He couldn’t tell. “You were right, Macerio is too dangerous.”

“You don’t have to stay.” He didn’t want to have to do this without her, but it wasn’t her responsibility. It wasn’t really his, either, but if he left now, it would haunt him for the rest of his life—however long that was.

“You know I won’t leave you here alone.”

Her words sent a flush sweeping through him. She wouldn’t leave him. Him. There
was
something between them. Beautiful, ferocious Celia wouldn’t leave him. That meant something. Didn’t it? “I can’t confront Macerio, he’s too powerful. I think the best option is to steal the grimoire.”

She raised a delicate eyebrow, drawing attention to her icier-than-normal eyes. “This will take planning. You’ll have to continue pretending you’re Quirin Dagenhart. If Macerio finds out you’re not Quirin…”

“He’ll kill us. If we even look at him wrong, he’ll kill us. Likely in some horrible way.” He was sure this was a death sentence, but with Celia helping, they might just be able to do it. They’d figured out who’d murdered her and stopped that other Innecroestri. Of course, that Innecroestri was powerless compared to Macerio.

“We’ll have to pray the real Quirin Dagenhart doesn’t show up while we’re here.”

“Oh, trust me, I’m praying.”

“Ward.” Her gaze bored into him, as if she could see the depths of his soul and freeze it in place.

He wanted to see kindness, respect, affection, but this was business—Celia’s business. He could see her calculating the odds and coming up short when it came to him.

He dropped his gaze to his feet. “This has to be done.”

Silence stretched between them. He wanted her to say “yes” and stay with him, but she wasn’t a fool, and this was a fool’s mission. His damned honor was getting in the way again, and yet, if he abandoned it, he wouldn’t be any better than Macerio.

She growled and plopped into the closest chair. “All right, fine. First thing we need is information. The girl Allette obviously wants something. We can use that to our advantage. I also need to know more about vesperitti so I don’t do something I shouldn’t. What’s myth and what’s truth?”

He couldn’t believe she’d agreed. “Their origins are the same as yours. They were dead, but the spell cast to bring them back is dark, darker than just a Jam de’U. It requires great will and focus and usually a blood sacrifice, although it looks like Macerio is trying to disprove that by not giving Enota much blood to work with. Myth says they have heightened senses, are strong and fast, can heal the gravest wounds, and can enthrall unsuspecting victims. But I wouldn’t begin to know what’s real or not.” This was going to be more challenging than he thought. “Maybe we could just avoid everyone.”

“You really think that’s possible while getting information?”

“No.” He’d just hoped it might be. “There’s also the catch that only someone with strong mystic sight can tell who’s a vesperitti and who isn’t, which means neither of us will know who’s a monster.” And he already couldn’t remember everyone who’d been in that room. All he remembered was the book absorbing the blood, and Macerio sucking out Enota’s soul.

“I think it’s safe to assume everyone here is a monster.” She tapped her nails against the chair’s arm. “If this goes sour, how do I kill a vesperitti? Is the part about a silver blade to the heart true?”

“I don’t know. With so many in the house, it might be easier to kill Macerio. If he dies, the magic sustaining all his vesperitti ends, and they die.”

“Good to know.” She stood. “We’ve got a day to figure out if we can pull this off or not. Talk to Allette and see what you can learn about Macerio’s grimoire. I’m going to scout out the place and learn about vesperitti. The more information we have, the more likely we’ll get out of this in one piece.” She strode to the window and hopped on the ledge but didn’t swing out. Instead, she gripped the frame, her back to him, a picture of beauty and deadly grace. “The first sign of trouble, and we’re out of here.”

As if being in a house with an Innecroestri and his vesperitti wasn’t trouble enough. “I have to destroy that grimoire.”

“You can’t destroy it if you’re dead.” She slipped out the window, ending the conversation before it could really begin. Though there wasn’t much left to say, at least about the grimoire. With everything else, there was far too much unsaid. Like the nature of their relationship.

Celia slipped back into her room and hugged the shadows to stare into the pre-dawn grey. Below were Ward’s rucksack, her clothes, and the sword hidden in the rosebush and ready for a quick escape. Beyond lay the field of grass and the swollen river. She strained to catch a glimpse of the remaining two bounty hunters, but couldn’t see anything.

The only saving grace to this latest disaster was, with just two men left, they wouldn’t storm in. They’d likely check out the place, count people, then decide whether sneaking in or waiting for backup was their best bet. Ward and she had at best a day, perhaps two… If they saw their compatriots die at Macerio’s hand, hopefully they’d fled back to Brawenal City.

Which was the very reason Ward and she couldn’t stay either.

Goddess above, Ward had lost his mind!

The hum of danger coursed through her. A fine vibrating thread cutting through her weariness, straining her senses. Why couldn’t Ward have stuck with his original plan to run? With only two bounty hunters, now was their best chance to lose them. But no, he had a duty, an obligation.

Ward and his Dark Son-cursed Oaths. Sure, his Physician’s Oath to help any soul in need or face eternal torment had suited her needs when she’d first met him, and she’d used it to manipulate him. But whatever his necromancer Oath was, it was going to kill him. Honestly, couldn’t he have a glimmer of self-preservation?

She fought the urge to punch the wall. The Goddess was cruel— Ward didn’t deserve any of this, especially the grief Celia had brought him. But she hadn’t known that when he’d woken her from the dead two weeks earlier, which seemed like a lifetime ago. She was not the person she’d been before her murder…before Ward.

He’d changed things, made her see that what she’d held true—the weak and foolish were killed and the strong stayed strong—was wrong. Except now she didn’t know what was right or who she was. Family didn’t count for anything anymore. The love of her father had never been real.

Something in her chest contracted.

She didn’t want to examine the truth. A person could only soul-search if they had a soul. Hers was borrowed from the Goddess. Any time now, the Goddess would take it back.

The something within her squeezed again. She didn’t want to die, not when Ward needed her so badly. She’d gotten him into this mess, it was her responsibility to get him out of it. Surely the Goddess would give her enough time to get Ward to safety.

But things didn’t often work that way. Celia hadn’t experienced any sensations that might indicate Ward’s spell on her was about to end…but what if whatever kept her alive wasn’t just a Jam de’U?

Macerio thought she was Ward’s vesperitti, and Lyla, a real vesperitti, had made the same assumption. They saw something Ward couldn’t. But he was mystically blind and couldn’t see magic—the reason he couldn’t entirely explain what he’d done to her. Sure, he’d cast a Jam de’U, but from everything he’d said, the spell should have ended over a week ago.

Which meant maybe that wasn’t what he’d cast. He had said he had to improvise parts of the spell. Maybe he’d cast something else. He might not believe he was powerful enough for anything else, but she knew different. She’d seen a glimmer of something amazing when they’d faced that last Innecroestri. Maybe he cast a vesperitti’s false resurrection spell on her. Except, if she were a vesperitti, why wasn’t she driven to consume souls?

She needed more information, and she’d start with Val Rous, her former suitor. If she could rekindle their flirtation, she’d learn what she needed about what a vesperitti could do and if she was one herself.

Fear and hope fluttered through her. Being a vesperitti meant she wasn’t going to die again and could fix the things she’d ruined in Ward’s life; she could even remain with him. But what would Ward do if he discovered she was a monster? Would he think twice before trying to kill her?

Chapter Six

Ward jerked awake. There was someone in his room.

Maybe it was just his imagination.

The flame of the candle on the bedside table flickered. He’d been so tired he hadn’t even blown it out. He’d seen horrible things, knew monsters lived in this house, and the door to his room didn’t have a bolt.

Movement flitted at the edge of his vision, and something scratched. That side of the room was dark, filled with shadows. It had to be Celia.

But she didn’t appear or call out.

The curtains billowed again, revealing a man-sized shadow. Ward’s mouth went dry. He needed a weapon, but he didn’t have anything, and even if he did, he wasn’t skilled at using it. He was a necromancer and not a very good one at that.

In truth, he was a physician. He’d been good at that. But his dream of pursuing the illegal activities of surgery had destroyed that life.

The candle. It might distract the intruder long enough for him to escape. He inched up the bed and reached for the holder.

“Not your wisest move, Doctor Death.”

Ward froze, straining to see who was in his room. The masculine voice sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. Whoever it was knew him, so it couldn’t be anyone from the house. It had to be a bounty hunter.

“That’s de’Ath, not death. It’s two syllables. And what isn’t wise?” Just stay calm.

A large muscular man with short-cropped dark hair stepped from the shadows of the curtains. Both his build and his hair were signs of his occupation: warrior. Or in this case, a member of the highest law in the Union of Principalities, the Quayestri. The Tracker Nazarius, a warrior with divine backing.

The man crossed his arms, the fabric of his shirt straining against his well-honed muscles. “You were going to throw that candle at me. It wouldn’t have worked and would have just made a mess.”

The goddess-eye brand at the back of Ward’s neck began to itch. It did every time he faced the law, and he was reminded he’d been caught digging up a corpse in Wildenmere and branded a criminal. Wonderful. If he thought he had enough to deal with before with Macerio and his monsters, now the law was involved. And that was never good.

“Would it at least have set the mansion on fire?”

It was bad enough the Tracker could arrest Ward in a heartbeat for anything, but Nazarius was a special agent for the Seer of the Prince of Brawenal. The Seer who also lived a secret life as the Master of Brawenal’s Assassins’ Guild—affectionately called the Master. Not that Nazarius was aware of the Seer’s secret identity. It seemed only Ward was allow to live with that particularly dangerous honor.

“No, it wouldn’t burn down the mansion, and besides, that would interfere with your assignment.” Nazarius tossed Ward’s worn canvas rucksack onto the bed. “You left this outside. Not to mention a sword that should be better taken care of, and some old clothes. Those are still in the rosebush.”

“An assignment?” Ward bit back his instinctual refusal. It might be easier if he could make Nazarius think he agreed to whatever the Master wanted so he could escape. “What assignment?”

“And don’t think about refusing.” Nazarius sat in the chair and leaned back. All too comfortable with the fact he’d crept into Ward’s bedchamber and was in the process of threatening him.

Ward opened his mouth.

“Or thinking of agreeing and then not following through. The Seer has already foreseen how it will turn out if you don’t do what he asks.”

Nazarius didn’t need to spell out the consequences. The Seer likely knew every move Ward might make to avoid this so-called assignment. He’d already proven his capabilities by predicting the direction Ward needed to take when he’d fled the prince’s dungeon and that he’d require a dagger to rescue Celia. Both times Ward had doubted, and both times he had gotten into deeper trouble. If he refused, who knew what would happen this time?

Damn cursed Seers. “I’m a little busy right now, but my schedule opens up next week.” If he was still alive.

“Next week doesn’t work.”

“Of course.” There was a special place in the Dark Son’s Abyss for men like Nazarius and the Seer.

“The Seer needs you to acquire a locket.”

“And by ‘acquire’ you mean steal since there aren’t any shops in the immediate vicinity.”

“The Seer has foreseen its need, and therefore the acquisition is sanctioned by the Goddess.”

“So a very fancy way of saying ‘stealing.’”

Nazarius sighed and rubbed a hand over his face and into his short-cropped dark hair. “Call it what you will, the Seer needs it done.”

“I hate to argue semantics with you—”

“And yet you do.”

“But wouldn’t
you
be better off
acquiring
this locket?”

“Of that I have no doubt. But the Seer has given you the task and only you. Your companion, Carlyle’s girl, isn’t to get involved.”

“Fantastic,” Ward said, unable to keep his frustration from coloring his tone. He didn’t want to argue with a Tracker, or a Seer—or the Master of the Assassins’ Guild for that matter—but he was exhausted and hungry and sore, and people, many people, wanted him dead. And he already needed to
acquire
a grimoire from an Innecroestri who could kill with a touch.

“Fine. If I’m the only one who can get this locket then I need you to get a message to the Necromantic Council of Elders.” He doubted Nazarius would agree. The man probably had no idea how to contact the Council in the first place. Necromancers and Quayestri didn’t keep the same social circles. But hey, at some point the Goddess would have to take pity on him and change his luck.

“The closest village is days away. I’m not in a position to leave.”

So much for hoping for pity. “You sure?” Maybe they could trade thefts. Ward could take the locket, Nazarius the grimoire. “How about—?”

Nazarius stood and rested his hands on the hilts of his matching sword and long dagger at his hips. It could have been an unconscious action, typical of a man trained to fight, but Ward betted it was really a subtle warning… All right, a not-so-subtle warning. They might have the same master, but they were not friends. In Nazarius’s eyes, Ward was a criminal. There were still warrants out for his arrest. Nazarius was probably disgusted that he had to work with Ward at all.

There was no way to get Nazarius to help him with his Innecroestri problem, and no getting out of stealing the locket, at least not right now, and probably not later, either. “So why does the Seer need this locket?”

“Seriously? You’re questioning a Seer?”

“Good point.” The sooner he got the job done, the sooner he could go back to committing suicide by trying to steal Macerio’s grimoire. “All right, where would I find this locket?”

“Third floor.” Nazarius pointed to the ceiling. “Two rooms down and on the other side of the hall.” He indicated toward the end of the wing. “It’s a golden oval engraved with a rose on the front and a ruby chip set at the rose’s heart.”

“And once I have it?”

“I’ll find you.”

That was pretty much the answer Ward had anticipated. He didn’t know if he liked the idea that a Seer could predict his every move, that the man knew where he’d be minutes, hours, days from now. Dare he ask if he was alive in a year? Maybe he would eventually get to Gyja and go back to a normal life. Dare he ask if Celia was still alive…or rather still undead?

“It would probably be best if you not keep the locket on your person. I’m told it will draw unwanted attention.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Nazarius snorted. “The Seer says your best opportunity to get the locket is tomorrow when you wake. The hall and the stairwell will be empty.” Nazarius’s expression softened. Ward wasn’t sure how, but something about it seemed kind, almost apologetic. “Enjoy the bed. You deserve the rest.”

“Ah…thanks.” He had no idea why he was thanking the Tracker. The man hadn’t helped him with the Master/Seer, had held him at knifepoint to perform surgery on his Inquisitor partner, and now couldn’t help with Macerio.

He supposed in his heart he knew Nazarius wasn’t bad. Just bound up in a complicated relationship, kind of like Ward. But, boy, it was going to be a shock to Nazarius when he found out who the Seer really was. Ward couldn’t decide if he wanted to be there when it happened or far, far away.

Nazarius headed back to the window, his steps silent on the hardwood floor.

“Hey, Nazarius.”

The Tracker glanced back. In the shadows, all Ward could see was his outline and the candlelight reflecting on the hilts of his weapons.

“How’s Pietro?”

“Good.” He dipped his head. “You saved his life.” And with that, he stepped onto the sill and out into the night.

Ward stared at the empty window and scratched the puckered flesh at the back of his neck, drawing a flash of pain through his arm. At least Pietro was alive. His first unsupervised surgery was a success. Maybe he could convince Nazarius saving his partner was worth something, like convincing the Master that Ward wasn’t particularly useful as a servant—if his attempt to steal the locket wouldn’t end up as proof enough.

He wasn’t one to manipulate someone or steal something. Those were Celia’s strengths, but he couldn’t confide in her because Nazarius had forbidden it.

It was best to do what the Master wanted, get it over and done with, and pray it didn’t draw Macerio’s attention.

Nazarius wiped a thumb over the blood beading along his forearm from the half-dozen scratches. Damn rosebushes. He’d be happy when this particular assignment was over.

The light in the window to Ward’s bedchamber went out. The necromancer looked better than the last time Nazarius had seen him. The bruises on his face from his four-story fall in the cavern in Brawenal City had turned a mottled yellow and brown, and while he still looked exhausted and underfed, overall he didn’t look bad—all things considered. He even had some fight left in him.

The Seer of the House of Bralmoore, Severin, hadn’t lied. Edward de’Ath, the necromancer-turned-surgeon, made a promising—if unpredictable—servant. Asking him to do a favor in return for obeying the Seer? How ridiculous. Things didn’t work that way. The Seer commanded and you obeyed, or everyone and everything you loved would be taken from you. You’d be proclaimed a threat to the Union of Principalities and the Goddess’s divine law.

The thought didn’t sit well with Nazarius. Not much about the situation sat well with him. He had sworn himself to the Grewdian Council when he’d joined the Quayestri and became a Tracker. He’d wanted to uphold justice, help the helpless, do what was right. Sure, there were politics in the Quayestri and with the Union’s spiritual leaders, but that was the way it had always been. He was still doing good work.

He’d been the Council’s man for a few years when Severin claimed him and his partner Pietro as his personal Quayestri, his personal servants. But Ward hadn’t taken the vows of service. He was a criminal—now no longer even a reformed criminal because of the surgery Nazarius had forced him to perform to save Pietro.

For which he thanked the Goddess every day. They’d been partnered six years ago and hadn’t worked separately since. Ward had cut Pietro open, pulled out his guts, and saved him. Law or no law against surgery, Nazarius was grateful he’d stumbled across Ward in that café. It was bed rest for Pietro for at least two weeks, probably more, and then light duty for another month, but he was alive.

Except that left Nazarius with no one watching his back while he manipulated a necromancer who didn’t have the skills for the job Severin had assigned him. It would have been better if the Seer needed a surgery or something medical related. That was where Ward’s talents lay. Regardless, the Seer had foreseen something terrible, and Ward, experienced or not, was somehow significant.

Nazarius turned away from the window and slunk around the side of the pilgrims’ old waystation.

The young necromancer seemed to survive against all odds, but from the details Severin had let slip, things were only going to become more difficult for him.

Everyone had his role to play. Who was he but the Seer’s man? Sworn to uphold the Dark Son’s justice. If he didn’t play his part, he’d likely face charges of desecration of the Goddess’s sacred mysteries by assisting an illegal surgery. That wasn’t a charge a Quayestri survived. One of his Inquisitor brothers-in-arms would be assigned to take his head, probably Pietro’s, too. Besides, he had his own assignment.

He headed for the mostly abandoned south wing. Half-hidden by ivy, a small wood door stood in the shadow of a jutting buttress. Nazarius tried the latch. Locked.

Somewhere in the basements of this monstrous house was a key Severin needed to prevent the looming evil. How or why, Nazarius had no clue. In fact, it surprised him Severin had revealed as much as he had.

Ward needed to get that locket. It would lead him to one of three blood magic grimoires locked within a magically-hidden reliquary. Something about a spell hiding the grimoire and Ward’s unique magic allowing only the necromancer to find it. Nazarius wasn’t sure of the details. All he knew was that Severin wanted the book.

A chill swept over him at the thought of blood magic, of using such evil to stop whatever was coming. But if embracing darkness was the only way to save lives, then so be it. Nazarius was a swordsman and barely understood magic. What he’d learned at the Collegiate of the Quayestri had been brief and confusing.

He glanced around. There was no one in sight. The area was quiet. Crickets and cicadas chirped, and the long grass rustled in the cool pre-morning breeze. This was the door Severin said he had to use. He gave the latch a good shake, but it didn’t budge.

He was a detective and fighter, not a thief. Quayestri didn’t usually require stealth. He stepped back and rammed his foot against the lock. The wood splintered and the door crashed inward.

Crouching in the shadows of the mansion, he waited to see if anyone had heard the noise. His heart thudded, and he strained to hear beyond his pulse. The crickets and cicadas had gone silent. Even the breeze had stilled.

No one came. Lights didn’t flicker to life in the windows, and no one called out.