Ward Against Darkness (Chronicles of a Reluctant Necromancer) (8 page)

“And what spell is that?”

“Magic calling to magic. Soul to soul.” Macerio patted the ivy carving and turned toward the bright sunlight bathing the courtyard. “A whisper to those who have untapped potential. It draws them here, a handful every year. Not enough to be noticed, but the numbers eventually add up. Those worth keeping, I entrance. The ones who show up unbidden and are of no use, I erase this place from their memory and send them away…or give them to my pets.”

This place was a trap. It called to those with the strongest magic unaware of their ability. “How perfect. Ample supply of potential vesperitti.” He struggled to keep disgust from his tone.

“As well as their sustenance. And for those with soul strength who resist my pets’ thrall, there’s the soul jar or death.”

Death would be the kindest option. Ward forced a smile to hide the fear racing through him. Macerio didn’t have to go out and find victims; they came to him. So long as he had the will to control his minions, he had enormous power. Vesperitti were walking magical wells, an extension of his magic bound to him by the spell chaining their souls to him. It was an ever-renewing resource.

Whoever Macerio’s Innecroestri master was, he had no scruples or mercy to set a spell that summoned victims to face eternal torture.

“So about your master?” Please let that Innecroestri be away. One Innecroestri as powerful as Macerio was bad enough. Two was certain death.

“He was a very powerful man.”

Was. Past Tense. Thank the Goddess.

Macerio led Ward back into the house.

“What happened?” It was dangerous to ask, but maybe it would give Ward ideas about how to stop Macerio—not that he was strong enough, but inside information could be helpful to the Necromancer Council of Elders.

“The other Innecroestri got jealous and abandoned him,” Macerio said, his tone crisp. “My master was a great man.”

Ward nodded. Macerio’s master was also a terrifying man, and Ward was grateful he was dead.

“Urson Neot Habil.”

Ward’s foot snagged on an uneven floorboard. He stumbled, caught his balance, and jerked upright. Macerio frowned, as if seeing Ward in a new light. A bad light. Best to keep the man focused on his Innecroestri lesson. “Habil? You studied with Habil?”

“The greatest Innecroestri to ever live. He knew the secrets of death and power and the ecstasy of blood magic. All blood magic.” Macerio ran a hand absently along the gold hoops in his right ear. “He knew the depths of its strength. You and I have only seen a glimmer of blood magic’s true potential.”

Oh Goddess, the man’s master was
the
Habil. The first and most powerful Innecroestri ever seen in the Union of Principalities, the man who’d figured out how to make vesperitti. That would make Macerio over 150 years old, and the man didn’t look a day over twenty-five. The myth that an Innecroestri and his vesperitti could extend their lives was true. “And that’s why you’re here? To understand the true potential of blood magic.”

“No. To continue my master’s mission to harness it.”

They rounded a corner, stepping into the strange sitting room with the door to the east wing and star-shaped lock. The door was closed now.

Macerio hissed “open” in Vys and the lock burst into light. It pulled away from the door, turned twice and sunk back into the wood. The light vanished, the lock clicked, and the door swung wide. Ward crossed his arms, a weak defense against Macerio’s magic, and brushed his wound, sending another stab of pain through him.

“Habil created the east wing for his magical studies. He kept his pets in the suites above, entertained with them in the many parlors, studied in the workroom, and kept his knowledge in the library.”

Macerio led Ward into the dark hall of the east wing. Flames burst on the wicks of the candles in the wall sconces as they approached. Now Macerio acted more like a true blood magi than an Innecroestri. The kind of power he wielded was incredible because it had nothing to do with his magical gift to manipulate souls. Ward was obviously there to witness Macerio’s massive abilities.

“All of Habil’s journals and the books he collected on blood magic are still in his library. When he faced the Necromantic Council of Elders without the cowards from the Council of Blood, he locked up the waystation and its secrets. I returned, as planned, after the Elders became complacent, thinking they’d murdered every Innecroestri in the Union.”

They passed Macerio’s…no, Habil’s…workroom, where Macerio had enslaved Enota’s soul, and climbed a staircase up two flights to a door. Inside, the candles on either side of the doorway magically lit, revealing a large room filled with shelves packed with books and scrolls and sculptures. From its size, it took up most of the third floor. Before him lay three passages with no indication if one was more used than the others. There wasn’t a window in sight.

Macerio flicked his hand and more candles lit.

“This is spectacular.” Even though the books contained the darkest knowledge known to man, the room was amazing. Maybe if he focused on that, he could keep his attention on Macerio instead of the panic racing through him.

“Not as spectacular as I’d hoped. When Habil realized the necromancer Oralia Bornay was on the verge of destroying everything he’d created, he divided his grimoire into three sections and hid them in this house.”

“The Book of Death, the Book of Blood, and the Book of Souls.” Ward at least knew that. From his necromancer education, he also knew that Oralia Bornay, the hero who killed Habil, never discovered the grimoires’ locations.

Macerio’s smile actually reached his eyes. “You do know your history. The Books of Death and Blood have spells to increase magical strength and cast false resurrections.”

“So the legend goes.”

“I have them. Would you like to see how true the legend is?”

Ward’s heart skipped a beat. “You have both the Book of Death and the Book of Blood?” Goddess above, he had two of the grimoires? That made him even more powerful, even more dangerous. There was no way Ward could steal two books, and risk facing Macerio.

Run. That was the only answer. He had to get out of there now. He—

—had to stay calm. Running now would guarantee death. Play this out. Live the lie. He could do this.

Macerio took the passage to the right and Ward followed, turning this way and that at random intersections. “I have the Books of Death and Blood. What I don’t have is the Book of Souls. It’s supposed to be in this mansion, but I’ve searched the library, and it isn’t here.”

“Did you really expect Habil to leave a part of his grimoire shelved under ‘S’ for Souls?” Ward asked before he could stop himself.

“For all I know it, could be. Habil hid it with a powerful spell so only an Innecroestri as strong as him could uncover it. Very soon I’ll be strong enough, worthy enough, for it.”

If Macerio had all three grimoires, not even the most powerful necromancer elder could stop him alone. Not even Grandfather. They could face another cataclysm similar to when Habil destroyed the balance. Famine, plague, terrible storms, and war had nearly torn the Union of Principalities apart. “And when you have the Book of Souls? What then?”

Macerio turned a corner and stopped. Before them lay an open area flooded with sunlight from a window built into the ceiling. On the far side, near the wall, stood three pedestals, their wooden bases and posts carved into a mass of curling vines. The grimoires sat on the outside two columns, closed goddess-eyes burned into the center of the covers, the Vys symbol for death on the one on the left, and the symbol for blood on the right.

In his mind’s eye, dark red light pulsed from the books, thick and malicious. He blinked, clearing his sight. Now was not the time to let his imagination run wild.

“I’ll be strong enough to rule the Council of Blood. None of the other Innecroestri will be able to stand against me.”

The room spun. He couldn’t let the Innecroestri find that book, but he had no way of stopping him. Ward didn’t even know how he’d get out of this house alive.

“With Habil’s grimoire complete, I will lead the Council of Blood to a new era of glory. And my guests, playing in my gardens, eating my food, dancing, and loving, all unaware of where they are and what they’re doing, reliving the same day over and over again, will ensure my success.”

By sucking their souls dry with agonizing slowness until there was nothing left of them to cross into the Goddess’s eternal embrace. “Won’t they eventually die?”

“Only of old age. I’m using a spell from the Book of Blood. I take a little piece of their magic every day. Just like my creatures consume magic from my guests’ souls without killing them. If we only take a little and maintain the proper spell, their souls replenish. It’s a never-ending supply of magic, filling jar upon jar.”

Ward fought to breathe. Once Macerio had the Book of Souls, there would be no stopping him.

What had he gotten himself into?

Chapter Ten

The sun sat low on the horizon when Val led Celia back to the breakfast parlor—now containing mid-afternoon tea, jahalva, and repast. They’d wandered all over the house, talking about their times at the prince’s court. If Brina hadn’t been visible—through a doorway, across the room, or beyond the open windows—Celia could almost pretend nothing had changed between them. Certainly the feeling of friendship and flirtation had returned as if they hadn’t been apart for a year.

Val pulled out a chair from a table by the windows and motioned for Celia to sit, but his gaze remained trained on the patio. Brina wasn’t there, but Celia was certain she’d arrive soon. She’d been everywhere else.

Celia eased into the chair. “How long have you been watching her?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“You know where she’s going to be before she even gets there.”

“She’s relived the same day pretty much without variation, except when we talk, since I got here. Probably since the moment Macerio’s spell lured her here. She can’t remember me or anyone else who isn’t entranced, but she also can’t remember half the people here who are. Every day, she reintroduces herself to the same brunette as if it were the first time. She still thinks her thirteenth birthday is next week.”

“Goddess, Val—”

Brina rounded the outside of the building and stepped onto the patio with two other women, one a brunette Brina’s age in a maid’s dress, and the other a woman with graying hair in a green gown with long sleeves. Val’s posture eased, his shoulders loosened, and his jaw relaxed. Not enough to be truly at ease, but enough for Celia to know he wasn’t on guard anymore.

“I don’t want your pity. We all must accept what She has given us,” he said.

“Or Her fickle Dark Son.”

“I didn’t think you’d willingly choose this…existence.”

For a heartbeat, heartbreak overwhelmed her, for Val, for Ward, for the life she’d never have. She swallowed the self-pity. “The circumstances of my unlife were out of my control. Still, there are benefits.”

“The myths are exaggerated. Lyla assures me they’re not, I’m just not old enough yet.”

“Do you believe her?”

“I don’t know. I’m only marginally stronger and faster than I used to be.”

“Same here.” Thank goodness she didn’t have to pretend she possessed that.

Brina giggled, the bright sound carrying through the open patio doors. The older woman joined her, sounding more like a youth than an elder.

“And seeing magical essence isn’t worth being blinded in the full sunlight.”

So that explained why they hadn’t left the house. Worst-case scenario, Macerio’s monsters wouldn’t be able to chase Ward and her if they fled during daylight.

The older woman said something and the brunette in the maid’s dress responded with a wide gesture to the gardens beyond.

A shadow stepped onto the patio. No, not a shadow, Rodas, swathed in a voluminous black robe. The women went quiet, and Val tensed. Ridiculous as the apprentice-hopeful looked in his robe and powdered wig, Celia couldn’t deny he was dangerous. Not like Val or Macerio, but Rodas was a Macerio in the making.

“You.” Rodas pointed at the brunette. “Come here.”

She scurried to his side. The older woman opened her mouth, but Brina grabbed her arm, silencing her protest. Fear radiated from the women. Even if they couldn’t remember Rodas, their instincts still worked and warned them he was dangerous.

“And here we go again,” Val growled.

“What does he do?”

“Whatever he wants. Almost every day,” Val said,

A cold rage ignited within Celia. The fear radiating from the woman indicated whatever Rodas did, it wasn’t pleasant. Goddess, they lived this day over and over again. They probably didn’t even know why they feared him, they just did. Did they ever change what they did? Did they ever fight back?

Someone needed to teach Rodas a lesson. Killing him would be a service to everyone. She jerked to her feet.

Val grabbed her hand. “Don’t.”

“Someone needs to do something.” A knife lay on the sideboard between the cured ham and the loaf of rye bread. That would do the trick.

“You’ll only make it worse.” His fingers dug into hers. “I’ve tried before. Pets don’t question masters, and Rodas is a master-in-training. That’s close enough in Macerio’s eyes.”

“But everyday?” One quick slice across that fatty throat. That’s all she wanted.

“Your master may have shown up with proof of his abilities, but Macerio won’t let an attack on a hopeful by a vesperitti go unpunished. Hopefuls can do anything, at least until Macerio gets bored with them. Pets can’t.”

“You have to take her and leave.”

He barked a bitter laugh. “If only.”

Macerio had been able to magically freeze the bounty hunters; what could he do with Val? Myth said vesperitti were connected to the Innecroestri that made them, but she had no idea what kind of connection that meant.

Rodas shoved the brunette toward a path into the garden, and Brina and the older woman sagged onto a bench. The woman dabbed at her eyes with the long tear-dropped sleeve of her gown—a cut that had gone out of style forty years ago.

Celia eased back into her chair. “There has to be something you can do.”

“You really haven’t been a pet for long, have you?”

Brina stared into the parlor, tilted her head to one side, then jumped to her feet and rushed in. “Celia Carlyle! I didn’t know you knew Lord de Cortia.”

“Ah, yes.”

“My brother talks about you all the time. We met last year at the prince’s masquerade.”

That masquerade had been three years ago, but Celia only nodded. There was no recognition in Brina’s eyes. She didn’t even remember having the conversation that morning.

“Excuse me, I’ve been rude.” Brina turned to Val. “I’m Brina Rous.”

“Val.”

“That’s my brother’s name.”

Celia wanted to scream. It burned to know he relived this moment again and again.

“Isn’t that funny.” Val brushed his lips across the back of Brina’s hand. “It’s a lovely sunset this evening. I’ve heard it’s best seen from the patio off the west wing. Care to join me?”

“That would be lovely.” Brina blushed, not knowing she flirted with her brother. “Would you like to join us, Celia?”

Val gave a slight shake of his head. He wanted this moment even if Brina would never realize who he was and wouldn’t remember him once he was gone.

“I think I’ll get ready for dinner. You know how long it takes us ladies to get ready.”

Brina giggled. “Of course.”

“Enjoy the sunset,” Celia said.

Val led Brina from the parlor, and Celia turned to the bank of open windows. A breeze, heavy with the scent of roses washed over her. She traced a finger over the lead stripping between the smoky-glass panes. As an assassin, she’d needed a heart of ice to avoid thinking about the people she’d been assigned to kill, but even with that frozen layer of protection, it hurt thinking about Val. The unlife he was forced to live was a nightmare, a thousand shallow strikes across his stolen soul every time he reintroduced himself to his sister. She couldn’t imagine repeating it day after day.

He hid how much it bothered him—like a good son of a Brawenal noble. But his pain, and more importantly his rage, were clear to Celia. That impotent fury could be harnessed. In fact, it was best if she harnessed it. While having one of the vesperitti on their side wouldn’t make it an even fight, it would help.

Movement outside the window drew her attention. Two men crouched on a rise overlooking the gardens then slunk out of sight. The two remaining bounty hunters. She couldn’t tell if they’d noticed something was wrong with this house or if they were just counting occupants to determine the odds of their success if they snuck in. If they realized the danger Macerio presented, they’d have been long gone by now.

Which meant by tomorrow night, whether they had Macerio’s spell book or not, they needed to leave. Except Ward wasn’t going anywhere without the damned book. She’d seen that look in his eyes before, that insistent, “I’m going to do this even if you’re going to kill me” look. And she had foolishly vowed to make his life right.

She eased away from the window and headed out of the parlor to find Ward, confirm he was still alive, and come up with a plan.

Nazarius crouched in the grass and watched two men slink down the rise overlooking the mansion’s garden and return to the river. A little battle and Ward’s problems would be taken care of, but Severin had commanded otherwise. As much as it frustrated Nazarius, he obeyed. It wasn’t his place to question the Seer, and who knew, killing those bounty hunters might irrevocably change Severin’s plans.

Plans that depended on Ward doing what he’d been told.

With luck, he’d followed orders and stolen the locket—and Ward was certainly lucky. Nazarius had never met a man with more lives than Edward de’Ath the fourth.

Of course, that begged the question, when would he run out? At some point, luck always ran out.

The wind shifted, rustling the grass around Nazarius. He ran his hands over his hair then shoved them into his pockets before he could repeat the habit. Pietro would laugh at him. Pietro would do a lot of things, and would continue to do so, thanks to Ward. The least Nazarius could do was to keep an eye on the necromancer. Severin had said he couldn’t assist with getting the locket, or even deal with the men chasing Ward, but he hadn’t said Nazarus
couldn’t
keep an eye out for Ward. Nothing else specific had been banned. Maybe nothing else would happen.

That was a bet Nazarius wasn’t willing to take.

Nazarius gripped the witch-stone globe in one pocket and the strange spherical key he’d found in the bowels of Macerio’s waystation in the other. Ward would be less than happy to learn stealing the locket was just the first step of his job. There was more to do, more only he—according to Severin—could do. Here was hoping Severin’s visions remained true and Ward’s uncommon luck continued to hold.