Ward Against Darkness (Chronicles of a Reluctant Necromancer) (9 page)

Chapter Eleven

Ward closed the door to his room and raced to the window to climb out, get Celia, and leave. Macerio had two of Habil’s grimoires. He was so much more dangerous than Ward had guessed, and his arm hurt. Dark Son’s curses, it hurt.

He struggled to focus his attention on anything but the pain. He’d left Macerio and returned to the library where Allette had given him the magic lesson. He’d hoped being there would help release his magic—books always calmed him—but he couldn’t stop thinking about two books in particular. The next thing he knew, he was sitting in the dark library and the sun had already set.

Celia was going to kill him. They were supposed to meet—he didn’t know where, but his room was the logical assumption—except he’d spent all afternoon and who-knew-how-much-of-the-night in the library.

The curtains in the window across from him ruffled.

Thank the Goddess, Celia.

But a large shadow detached from the curtains, and Ward shrank back against the door.

The shadow stepped into a pool of moonlight. Nazarius.

Ward blew out the breath he’d been holding. It wasn’t lost on Ward how strange his situation had become when Nazarius, a man who could arrest and sentence him to death on a whim, didn’t scare him any longer.

“I was wondering when you’d reappear,” Ward said, rubbing the back of his neck with his good hand.

Nazarius leaned against the overstuffed chair and rested his hands on the hilts of his weapons. Definitely a Tracker thing.

“Don’t get cocky.”

Ward snorted, realized he was scratching his brand, and slid his hand away. “You’re the least scary thing in this house. Anything you or the Ma—the Seer choose to do to me can’t compare to anyone else here.”

“Cocky with me means cocky with others. As you pointed out, I’m the least dangerous person here, so watch yourself.”

“If I didn’t know otherwise, I’d say you were almost concerned for me.”

“I’m not. I’m concerned for the assignment.”

“Well, the locket is in my rucksack, so you don’t have to worry about that anymore.” At least that had gone off without a problem. Ward strode to the bed, pulled his bag out from under it, and removed the locket from the soft leather case protecting his surgical implements.

“Did it show you where the reliquary is?”

“The what?” Ward suppressed a groan. Of course the job couldn’t be as simple as Nazarius made it out to be. “What has the Seer seen?”

“Habil buried a reliquary before his death. The locket was supposed to show you where it is.”

“And from your tone, the Seer has predicted that it only shows
me
where it is.”

Nazarius raised an eyebrow. “You catch on fast.”

“One of my few talents.”

Nazarius’s expression darkened. “The Seer said the reliquary is buried outside the house, but the very process of you acquiring the locket would show you where that is.”

“Well, it didn’t, so take the locket and come up with something else.”

Nazarius glared. Compared to Macerio’s dark everything, it was almost laughable that Nazarius had terrified Ward in Brawenal last week. Which only proved how much worse everything had gotten. “It doesn’t work that way.”

It never did, not in any of his recent experience. He’d just hoped maybe it would, just this one time.

“You have to go back to the room and find what you missed.”

“And how has the Seer foreseen that I’ll do that?”

“The Seer is otherwise engaged at the moment.”

So the Tracker was without his master. Did that mean he’d be harder on Ward or softer? Did it matter? And why couldn’t his arm stop hurting?

Nazarius sighed. “All I know is that, while acquiring the locket, you’ll learn the location of the reliquary, and the locket will glow in its presence.”

“How about
you
take the locket and roam around the countryside? It’s not the most efficient choice, but it’s safer than me sneaking around this house.” Not that Ward wasn’t already sneaking around the house for his own reason.

“This job wasn’t assigned to me.”

They were both in situations they didn’t like. Wonderful. Now he was feeling sorry for a Tracker. What was next? Feeling sorry for a vesperitti?

“The locket won’t respond to just anyone. It has to be you, and you can’t be seen with the locket,” Nazarius said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you need to get back into that room and hope inspiration strikes. I’d help if I could, but I can’t.” He strode back to the window.

“Nazarius.”

The Tracker turned. In the dim light, he seemed bigger, more dangerous than before. But he was just another monster in a mansion of monsters, and really, he wasn’t a monster at all.

“Thank you.”

He snorted. “Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t done anything.”

“But you will.”

“Are you a Seer now?”

“Just hopeful.” And Ward was. He couldn’t explain it. He shouldn’t have any hope in his fellow man, not after what he’d seen, but there was something about Nazarius, just like there was something about Celia. A core of honor, maybe.

“Your faith in people will get you killed,” Nazarius said.

“Oh, probably.”

“But not your faith in me.” He climbed out the window.

Had he misplaced his trust in someone? Celia? He didn’t think so. There wasn’t really anyone else he trusted. It was just Tracker stoicism. He needed to deal with his arm above and beyond everything else. He couldn’t ignore the pain any longer.

He hid the locket under his pillow, grabbed his rucksack, and headed to the kitchen. With luck, he could take care of his arm there. He’d need boiling water, wine, and oil.
Please don’t let the injury require re-stitching.
Doing that by himself was a challenge he didn’t want to face.

Thankfully, the kitchen was empty. Even the spit boy was elsewhere. The fire in the hearth was banked low, but the room was hot. Ward set his bag on the clean worktable and pulled out his surgical implements. The silver plating gleamed in the low light, as mesmerizing as when he’d first opened the case. His bandages, while wrinkled, had survived the dunk in the river. He found oil and wine and poured generous amounts into separate bowls.

Once he’d lit candles for better light, he sagged onto a stool beside the worktable, dragged his shirt off, and examined the wound. It didn’t look good. The flesh around the scab on the front of his arm was redder and more inflamed than it had been the night before. Thankfully, the back of his arm appeared to be healing normally.

He sucked in a quick breath, dipped a piece of linen bandage in the wine, and wiped the area around the wound. The alcohol stung, and he ground his teeth. This was nothing compared to what needed to be done, though.

He selected a slim blade, drew in another breath, and pressed it against the edge of the scab.

His hand shook in anticipation of the pain.

Come on. Do it.

He pressed harder. Agony shot up his arm as he drew a careful line through his flesh. Blood and pus oozed from the incision.

Panting, he held the cut over a large bowl, picked up his tweezers, and poked them into the wound to release any pockets of pus. Just a little longer. The infection didn’t seem as bad as it felt.
Please let me have caught it in time
. He removed the tweezers and poured wine into the wound.

An inferno exploded over him. He bit back a scream. Tears filled his eyes, and his head swam. Oh Goddess, this was worse than waking up after falling four stories. He had to focus on his breathing. Stay conscious. Finish the job.

Two more steadying breaths, and he poured more wine into the wound.

More fire.

He squeezed his eyes shut. He would not pass out.

He. Would. Not.

That was the worst of it. He was almost there.

Someone gasped, and his eyes flew open. Allette stood in the archway to the kitchen. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but couldn’t come up with an explanation.

“What happened?” She rushed to his side.

“I’m all right. Or I will be.”

She pursed her lips.

“Fine. I
hope
I will be. I could use your help.”

“What do you need?” She pulled up a stool and sat.

“To dry the wound, wipe it with the oil, and bind it.”

She picked up a clean piece of linen and dabbed the wine and blood from his arm. “It looks like you’ve left me the easy job.”

“You have no idea.” His breath still hadn’t returned to normal, and his arm still burned.

She paused mid dab. Her blond locks hung loose around her face, and concern filled her eyes. Her gaze leapt to his then flew back to his arm. “You don’t like asking for help, do you? Do you think less of me because I asked?”

“No.” He didn’t think less of Celia, either, but she hadn’t asked for his help. Not really. “I still don’t know if I can free you.”

She resumed drying his arm. “I have faith in you. Even Macerio believes in your ability. He wouldn’t have shown you his grimoire if he didn’t.”

“You should add an ‘s’ to grimoire.”

“It’s all one book, just divided into sections,” she said.

“Kind of an important detail.”

“There’s something special about you, Ward.” She said his name in a whisper, but that hushed word held so much emotion, desperation, hope, relief.

Her feathery touch drew gooseflesh up his arms and along his neck. She had everything figured out. Except her plan rested entirely on him being able to break Macerio’s spell, and he’d spent all day failing to draw even a hint of magic.

That wasn’t what made his stomach churn, though. He needed to
use
her to steal the grimoires, but he also wanted to help her. It wasn’t right to use someone, except he couldn’t see any other option.

“This waystation was built on hope and love,” she said.

Two words summarizing Ward’s wants. Hope and love. Neither of which he could hold onto at the moment. Certainly not with Celia. “Macerio said this was Habil’s waystation. It’s hard to believe the first Innecroestri built anything with hope or love.”

“He had to be something before he was an Innecroestri.” She offered a tentative smile, a hint of blush coloring her cheeks. “Habil was a necromancer like you. All Innecroestris start as necromancers with the gift for blood and soul magic.”

“But he fell to the blood magic lure.” The compulsion to cast with blood again and again, dragging the necromancer’s soul down the darkest magical path. “Habil founded all the Innecroestri spells, upsetting the balance between life and death, creating monsters.”

“Because of love,” Allette said.

“Love of blood magic.”

“Love of a woman. Ita Prias. A fellow necromancer. She died before her time, and Habil dedicated his life to finding the true resurrection spell to bring her back. He broke every law to be reunited with her.” The blush deepened, and her hands on his arm stilled.

“The true resurrection spell is just a myth.”

“Habil didn’t think so. He kept her room unchanged and spent hours staring at her painting. Can you imagine a love like that?”

A love like that was powerful. Powerful enough to drive a man mad, and yet Ward, too, yearned for that. It was silly, but he wanted it.

Allette leaned closer, her head turned to the side, exposing her neck. Her hair swayed over her shoulder, and a single lock curled in front, brushing her collarbone. In her own way, in a way obtainable to someone like Ward, she was a gentle beauty, earthy and pleasant. She had none of Celia’s feline grace and none of her deadliness, either.

Her gaze traveled up his arm and met his eyes, and he realized, for the first time, he sat before a woman shirtless and wasn’t ashamed of his thin physique.

“What happened?” She reached a tentative finger to his face and followed the line of his jaw. Shivers raced over him.

“What?”

Her finger traveled over his cheek into his temple, and he realized she was tracing his bruises.

“I had a run in with… I had a run in.” With a four-story drop and a handful of railings on the way down.

“And that’s what happened with this?” She cut her gaze to his arm.

“More or less.” The hole in his arm had been Celia’s doing. He’d been kidnapped by the Master, and when he’d been released and returned to Celia’s hideout, she’d stabbed him, thinking he was someone else. She’d been aiming for his heart, and only a Goddess-blessed trip had saved him.

“More or less?” She wiped more oil over his bicep.

“Yes.” In that moment, he realized he wanted Allette to touch him more. He wanted to touch her back.

He cupped her cheek, drew her close, and stared into her icy blue eyes. He ran his hand through her black hair—

His throat constricted.

Allette’s eyes were brown, and her hair blond. That’s what he should have been expecting, but instead…

Instead, he’d forgotten whom he was with.

Allette’s lips parted ever so slightly, an invitation to kiss her. But they weren’t Celia’s lips. Goddess above, it wasn’t just any love he wanted. He wanted Celia. And even if she wanted him back—a ridiculous thought at best—she was still dead and there were laws. Love couldn’t transcend death. Habil had proven that.

Someone cleared her throat, and Ward jerked back.

Celia stood in the archway, like Allette had done moments before, except her expression was hard, unreadable. “I hate to interrupt.”

Allette stood, her stool screeching against the stone floor. “No, of course.”

“I’d like a moment with…Quirin.”

“Yes.” Allette glanced at him and fled the kitchen, her head down.

Celia crossed her arms. “It’s time to talk.”

Chapter Twelve

Celia strode into the room and sat on the stool Allette had just abandoned. She’d been looking for him for hours, worried Macerio had him—or worse, he was dead—and yet here he was in the kitchen, looking as if he’d been about to kiss Allette. The guilty expression added to the evidence. They barely knew her and didn’t know if she could be trusted. What was he thinking?

But it wasn’t any of Celia’s business. Ward could kiss whoever he wanted. Just like she could kiss whoever she wanted. Except she didn’t want to kiss anyone else.

“Can you talk and tie?” he asked, pointing to the bandages on the table.

His arm didn’t look good. The flesh was red and swollen around the wound she’d given him.

“Fine. And then we’re leaving.” She picked up a bandage and placed it on his arm.

“I can’t.”

“Don’t give me some silly excuse about duty or honor or some shit like that. It’s too dangerous here.” Perhaps, if she left him no choice, he’d give in. She wrapped the linen around his arm with more force than she intended, drawing a hiss. Served him right for almost kissing Allette. “You grab your bag, and we’re out of here.”

He pursed his lips.

That thing within her chest twisted. His silence spoke louder than any words. “You want to stay. Why?”

He looked at the floor.

Shit. “You’re staying because of
her
.”

“No.”

The word came out too fast. She should have seen it coming and knew she shouldn’t be angry at Ward, but she couldn’t help herself. He should have said something to her. That was it. He should have mentioned he was interested in Allette right from the beginning. Friends didn’t keep secrets from each other, and that meant he didn’t think of Celia as a friend. He didn’t trust her.

She twisted the bandage into a knot and pulled it tight, drawing another gasp.

“Celia, she’s bound to Macerio with a terrible spell.”

She ground her teeth against the horror: magically bound, forever imprisoned by someone else’s will. But Ward and she needed to keep each other safe, not invite another helpless person to join them. “You think that changes anything? You think you can save her?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’ll only get yourself killed. And probably me as well.”

“I won’t ask you to stay.”

She stood and shoved the stool under the table with her foot. “You don’t have to ask. I’m stuck with you whether I like it or not.”

“What are you talking about?”

He looked up at her with those eyes. The ones she’d thought of as weak, puppy eyes. Now, she knew they were compassionate and caring, which made her even angrier. She didn’t ask for his pity, and she wasn’t going to have it. “Do you know when your spell on me will end? Do you even know what kind of spell it is?”

“No, I—”

“That’s right. You don’t know. I’m betting if you die, I die. Isn’t that the way it goes with vesperitti? You said if we kill the master they all die.”

“But you’re not—”

She slammed her hands on the table. “How do you know?”

He stood, courageous in the face of her rage. There was so much more to him than he gave himself credit for, and he was going to sacrifice himself on the first helpless maid he came across.

“You don’t know,” she said between clenched teeth. “All you know is that I’m different from them. But how different?”

“He doesn’t just have one of Habil’s grimoires, but two. He’s even more dangerous than I first feared.”

“All the more reason to leave.”

He reached for her with his good hand, but she jerked back. His expression grew stony. “I’m not a complete fool without a plan. Allette needs one of the grimoires to sever the spell on her, and she has access to Macerio’s private library. We can use her to help steal the books.”

“Fine,” she said. It was a smart plan—if Allette could be trusted. “It happens tomorrow night or it doesn’t happen at all. Get Macerio to invite us into his private parlor after dinner. I’ll sneak out and help Allette steal the damned books. But if your damsel in distress slows us down, I’ll leave her behind.”

She spun on her heel and stormed into the dark hall. Her chest burned. So did her eyes. Someone had to protect Ward from himself and now from that girl.

And yet, perhaps Allette was the girl for him. It couldn’t be Celia. He’d made that clear already. She was dead. All she had left in her control was to make things right for him, and then he could run off and save whoever he liked.

Dark Son’s curses. She stormed back to her room and slammed the door behind her. She should get some sleep, prepare for tomorrow night—although it was almost dawn. Tonight…whatever. But she couldn’t stop thinking about Ward. Why couldn’t he see reason? Helping Allette, helping anyone at the moment, was impossible. They needed to help themselves. Except she hadn’t said anything reasonable in the kitchen.

The conversation whirled through her mind. Heat burned in her cheeks. He just frustrated her so much. She wanted to shake sense into him, grab him and—

She sagged onto the bed.

Grab him and kiss him.

She shoved that thought away. Business first. With Ward, it would have to be business always. Her throat tightened, and she forced herself to head to the door. It probably never occurred to Ward to confirm Allette’s story with an outside source.

Well, if he wasn’t going to find the truth about that girl, she would. There was only one person she trusted: Val.

The sleepy servant by the stairs took her to Val’s room, leaving her—probably to stand guard around the corner—in the empty hall staring at the intricately carved bedchamber door. The pattern of leafy flowering vines swirled over the wood, knotting and unraveling. She couldn’t tell if they were in conflict, battling for space, or in harmony, embraced by each other.

Perhaps it was both. It felt like both within her.

Goddess above, she needed to hit something, take action, use her skills…feel like herself again. She should find those remaining two bounty hunters and kill them. That would make her feel right again. Except Ward wouldn’t want her to kill anyone just because. Well, what Ward wanted and what was good for him were two different things.

She raised her hand to knock, and the door opened, revealing Val. His disheveled pale hair hung around his chiseled face, accentuating his sharp noble lines. He wore pants, but no shirt, and her attention was drawn to his wide, well-muscled chest. Ward would never be as broad, but a month of solid meals would give him a sleek, lithe form just as attractive. More so because of the heart beneath those muscles.

“Well, you’re standing in my doorway, but you’re not really here, are you?” Val said.

She squeezed all thoughts of Ward to the back of her mind. It was unrealistic to try to banish them completely. “I’m sorry about…about Brina.”

Val’s eyes grew haunted, and his mouth tightened into a hard line. She shouldn’t have brought it up if she wanted information from him, but she didn’t know how else to start the conversation.

“Macerio has taken an interest in your
master
.” He said the word as if it left a bad taste. “You should convince him to leave if you value your unlife.”

“I’m planning on it. I just need to take care of something tomorrow night…tonight.”

She could see the question in his eyes. But Val blew out a ragged breath. Self-preservation apparently won out over curiosity. “You probably have about that long. Two at the most. Macerio likes to draw things out for his playthings, but he’s been different since you and Quirin showed up.”

So, they had one night’s reprieve. All she had to figure out was what to do about Allette. “Care to go for a walk?”

He glanced out the window. “Almost dawn. We’ll have about an hour to enjoy the gardens before the light gets too bright.”

He grabbed a shirt and shrugged into it as they walked down the hall. They made their way to the breakfast parlor in silence, the only sound the sigh of her boots and the slap of his bare feet on the floor. If Macerio’s guests weren’t in bed, they weren’t celebrating in this part of the house. In the quiet, the mansion seemed even more ominous, as if it lay in wait for Ward and her.

Why couldn’t she get him out of her mind?

Val opened the patio doors and ushered her into the garden. A nightingale trilled in a tree above her, and water gurgled somewhere within the foliage. They wandered along a gravel path to an open area. Here, the garden was pruned and ordered in boxes, creating a patio around a reflection pool. Rose bushes, heavy with white blooms, filled the boxes in front and across from her. It astounded her someone as malicious as Macerio would create a place so beautiful.

Val broke a rose from the bush and offered it to her as they sat on the edge of the pool. “A flower for a flower.”

The bloom was full with a hint of blush at the heart, but the thorns were long and wicked. “I’m not sure if I’m that kind of flower.”

A sad smile pulled at Val’s lips. “You are now. Beautiful and deadly and—” He jabbed his thumb into a thorn and ripped open a gash in his flesh. Blood swelled and curled over his knuckle. He dipped his thumb into the pool, washing the blood away, revealing how deep the wound was, but as she watched, his flesh closed, sealing together into a jagged red line. Then even the line disappeared. “Immortal.”

Celia turned away, pretending to stare at the garden until she was certain her surprise wasn’t clear on her face. Ward had been right. Vesperitti could heal wounds.

“Do you think we’ll ever get used to it?” she asked.

“Lyla says yes. But I don’t know if I believe her. I’m pretty sure I won’t ever get used to…our dining habits.”

If it was anything like the myth that they consumed the soul magic in human blood, Celia had to agree. “Me neither.”

“That’s at least one thing Macerio is good for.” Val barked a harsh laugh. “Perhaps
good
isn’t the word I should have used.”

Celia placed a hand on his arm.

“But it’s easier to keep a thrall on…dinner’s next course if the first course isn’t dying from blood loss. That and killing them would ruin the master’s plans. Straight soul consumption is the only method allowed.” He laughed again, just as mirthless. “That frustrates Lyla. Straight soul consumption is a poor, slower alternative to opening a vein. Unless you’re an Innecroestri, it takes a lot of energy to suck out soul magic without the conduit of blood. We get a fraction of the magic we would the traditional way, just enough to sustain ourselves and Macerio.”

So vesperitti could consume souls without devouring blood, but blood made getting the magic required to survive easier. She hadn’t needed anything like that to stay alive and wasn’t sure what Val had meant by sustaining Macerio.

The rose still hung, forgotten in his hand. She took it, twirling the stem between her fingers. “There’s got to be a way for you and Brina to get free.”

“Death is our only freedom.” He held up his thumb. All signs of the cut were gone. “And for me, the only way is a silver blade to the heart, and even then…”

“Val—”

He crossed his arms and stared into the foliage. “At least Quirin doesn’t seem half bad…for an Innecroestri.”

“He’s not.” The image of Ward with Allette flooded her mind, and her throat tightened. He wasn’t bad at all. Everything about him was good.

“Perhaps the others know of a way to free you.”

“The others?”

“Macerio’s vesperitti.” It was a long shot. She suspected Lyla wasn’t interested in leaving—she seemed to enjoy her position in Macerio’s court too much. But there had been fifteen people in that room when Enota had died, and almost all of them exuded the vesperitti air of danger.

“If there was even a whisper of rising against Macerio, Lyla would torture the dissident into submission. She’s not the oldest of us, only about fifty years older than me, but she’s the strongest. My only hope is to pray when I’m her age I’ll be stronger than her.”

“But that doesn’t help you with Macerio, and she’ll still be older,” Celia said.

Val offered her a dark smile. “The advantage to being the baby. Every time Macerio casts the spell, he gets better at it, making stronger vesperitti. When I’m fully into my unlife, I’ll be stronger than everyone.”

“So that means—”

“You’re like Allette. The first. You’ll be the oldest but the weakest of Quirin’s pets.”

“I’ll be what?” Surely she hadn’t heard that right.

“The weakest of Quirin’s vesperitti. Though the spell on you is strange. Perhaps he’s done something different. We won’t really know our full potential for about fifty or so years.”

The garden spun around her. Shadowy white flowers bled into red and purple and yellow. Around and around. Allette was a vesperitti. And Ward had almost kissed her. He had to be told.

Celia gripped the stem of the rose. Pain bit her palm, and she focused on that, jerking the whirling to a stop. She wasn’t sure Ward would listen to her warning, but she’d find a way to make him believe.