Ward Against Darkness (Chronicles of a Reluctant Necromancer) (22 page)

Chapter Thirty-one

Ward shoved open the wrought-iron gate at the end of the long passage and stepped, thankfully, out of the house. Quirin growled and lurched behind him. Ward’s control was slipping.

He clenched his bloody hand, concentrating on it, and its power wrapped around Quirin. The man quieted, but Ward doubted that would last long.

To Ward’s left, at the top of the hill, stood the willow. The place where Allette said they needed to meet. Pink edged the eastern peaks, and the sky was definitely lighter than before. He raced up it to find Allette clutching a book to her chest and standing beside a jagged recessed rectangle cut in the long grass. Brina’s shallow, half-filled grave. Relief washed over Allette’s face when she saw him.

“We have to hurry. It won’t take long for Macerio to figure out something’s wrong,” she said.

“Agreed, but we have a slight problem.”

Her gazed leapt over his shoulder to Quirin.

“Sever your soul chain and the spell on him will end.”

“It doesn’t work.”

“Please. This is my only chance.”

The words sent shivers through him. They were too similar to Celia’s when he’d woken her and she’d insisted she’d been murdered. He had the grimoire and couldn’t leave Allette to Macerio. There had to be a way to incapacitate Quirin long enough to sever Allette’s soul chain.

That was it. Incapacitate. He’d done a reverse wake twice now on instinct alone. It was fast. Required a bolt of concentration—or of desperation, depending on the situation.

“Ward, please,” Allette said, her voice desperate.

It would have to be fast. As soon as he released control to concentrate on the reverse wake, the man would attack.

Ward moved back and closed his eyes. A bolt. A strong lightning strike to force out his soul. He released his control of Quirin.

The man growled. His footsteps pounded in the grass.

Ward slapped his hands together, snatching the sticky power from Rodas’s blood, and imagined it slamming into Quirin.

Something thudded, and Ward’s eyes snapped open. Quirin lay face-down in the grass, his hands inches from Ward’s boots.

It worked! But for how long? He had no idea.

He peeled his hands apart and wiped them in the grass. It did little to clean them.

“Sit in the octagon with the grimoire.” Allette grabbed his hand and drew him to the grave.

An octagon with goddess-eyes at the points was drawn on the dirt. He stopped mid-step. “What’s this?”

“The best place to draw the sigil?”

“What kind of spell is this?” A shiver swept over him. The residual magic from Brina’s soul and the energy created by the violence of her death would add power to the octagon.

“You expended too much magic creating him.” She jerked her chin at Quirin. “I don’t have more to give you, so we needed to find another source.” She opened the grimoire to a spell near the back and handed it to him.

He didn’t know what kind of effect the magic in Brina’s grave would have. But if he used it to give Allette her freedom, he’d have one of Habil’s grimoires. Two, if Celia had managed to steal hers.

“We don’t have much time.” She knelt, unsheathed a dagger, and sliced her wrist, letting her blood drip into a bowl at her knees. It wasn’t much, only a few ounces, before her wound sealed.

So it was true. They could heal any wound. He stepped into the grave and sat in the octagon, the grimoire open in his lap.

She handed him the dagger and the bowl. “Thank you.”

He opened his mouth to say something flippant, but if his spell worked, she wouldn’t get to thank him later.

There was such hope in her eyes. He didn’t want to fail her, except he didn’t want to be the instrument of her death, either. There was a strange balance between physician and necromancer. As a physician, he was obligated to do everything within his ability to save lives. As a necromancer, he had to respect and understand the balance between life and death. In truth, there was no balance. He could no longer be a physician, and Allette’s life was unnatural. It was his duty to guide her soul back where it belonged.

“You’re welcome.”

She offered him a gentle smile and sat back.

He smoothed the page before him. It was written in Vys. The language Enota had spoken when trying to turn the bounty hunter into a vesperitti. The spell was simple. Blood of the chosen, on the chosen and on the dagger, the chant, and power. Lots and lots of power.

The grave beneath him and Allette’s blood would provide the magic. So, too, would everything around him. The grass, the tree, the rushing river. They all possessed magic. It was only a fraction of what was found in blood, but he’d take every little bit he could.

He dipped his finger in the blood and drew a closed goddess-eye on Allette’s forehead, then smeared the edge of the blade.

The spell said the chant would make the soul chain vulnerable, and when it was at its weakest, the blood-covered blade could sever it. Just above the creature’s heart.

With his bloody finger, he activated the octagon. A rush of something swept over him, and he gasped. The hair on his arms and neck stood up.

Goddess, what was that?

“Ward?”

“It’s all right.” He closed his eyes and concentrated on the chant. The words pulsed through his head, calling on magic to wither that which had been created by another and to imbue power into the dagger to sever the chain. Over and over he chanted, whirling a vortex of concentration and will, focusing his magic into a lance of intention.

He imagined the magic from Brina’s soul and the violence from her death seeping from the grave, red and angry. He swept it up, spinning it into the remains of his magic. The imaginary ball of power grew and spun. He envisioned it bursting from him in a two-pronged trident. The one spike shooting into Allette’s soul chain, turning it brittle and weak. The other wrapping around the dagger until it shimmered.

“You’re doing it.” Allette sounded so far away.

The rush of imaginary magic filled his ears. Filled
him
. His pulse pounded, speeding up as the ball of magic whipped within him. He ground his teeth, determined not to get swept away.

“I can see it weakening.”

He opened his eyes but couldn’t see anything. He’d have to take her word.

“Just a little more.”

He nodded, afraid if he murmured anything but the chant he’d lose the spell.

Something rustled behind him, and Allette’s eyes grew wide. “Hurry.”

He glanced back. Quirin had risen to his hands and knees, and behind him, Macerio stormed toward the hillside from the wrought-iron gate. Ward’s heart pounded even harder. He clutched the book, willing his magic to manifest. The vortex within him throbbed, faster than his heart. Building, ever building, ready to explode.

Allette leaned close, her knees on the edge of the grave. “Yes. Almost there.”

He shouted the chant. In his mind’s eye, the magic erupted from him. The dagger flared red, the blood along its blade glowing and pulsing in time with Ward’s heart.

“Now, Ward. Do it now.”

Macerio yelled.

Ward looked over his shoulder. The Innecroestri stormed up the hill, his hand outstretched. Allette staggered, her muscles twitching, just like Val’s had under Macerio’s control.

“Please.” She screamed and clutched her chest.

Ward scrambled over the edge of the grave, shoved her hands away, and slashed the blade through the air over her heart.

She screamed again. Goddess, he’d killed her… But yes. That was the plan. Freeing her soul so she could cross the veil.

She grabbed Ward’s wrist. “Thank you.”

His throat tightened.

Her breath came in quick pants.

“You think you can take what’s mine,” Macerio growled. He pointed a finger at Quirin still on his hands and knees and barked a word Ward didn’t recognize.

Quirin screamed, and blood poured from his eyes, nose, and mouth. He collapsed to the ground, and fire exploded in Ward’s chest.

“Feel that? That’s what I felt when you murdered Lyla. That’s what the death of a vesperitti feels like.” Macerio kicked a line through the octagon, releasing the power gathered inside. “I welcome you into my house, and this is the thanks I get. The agony of a murdered pet.”

Allette’s breath stilled.

Ward squeezed the hilt of the dagger, his chest still burning.

“I shared my sacred knowledge with you.” Macerio seized the front of Ward’s shirt and hauled him off the ground. “I embraced you as my apprentice. It’s been a long time since I’ve made a de’Ath suffer.”

Ward sliced at Macerio’s wrist. It cut deep, scraping across bone. The Innecroestri didn’t even flinch. He grabbed the blade in his free hand, twisted it from Ward’s grip, and tossed it to the ground.

Ward writhed and kicked, but Macerio held tight. His strength as unnatural as his vesperitti’s. He pressed a nail against Ward’s cheek. “Shall I make you bleed or rot?”

Pain bit into Ward’s cheek, and heat seeped down to his jaw. Blood dripped onto his shoulder.

“Rotting is always my favorite. You suffer more.”

“No, you suffer,” Allette hissed. She snatched the dagger from the ground and plunged it into Macerio’s bicep.

She drew back to strike again. He pointed at her, but nothing happened. His eyes widened.

She slashed at his face. He stumbled back, dragging Ward along. Ward wrenched at his shirt to get free. Macerio batted off another of Allette’s attacks. He lost his balance and fell, pulling Ward down with him. He had to get free. He ripped the buttons from his shirt and shrugged out of it, scrambling to the side.

Macerio shouted “stop” in Vys pointing at both Ward and Allette. All the muscles in Ward’s body contracted. Fire raced through him, and he dropped to his knees. An inferno consumed his heart.

Allette staggered.

“You know you can’t win. You can’t be free of me.”

Allette’s lips curled back in a terrible smile. “Are you so sure of that?”

Macerio flexed his hands, and pain exploded through Ward.

Allette didn’t flinch, and Macerio’s eyes widened. She straightened and pointed the dagger at him. “This pet no longer has a leash.”

Macerio’s mouth opened, to command, to scream, Ward didn’t know. In a heartbeat Allette was on top of Macerio. She plunged the dagger into his heart, yanked it out, and drove it in over and over again. With wild screams, she rammed the dagger into Macerio’s eye, shoved her hand into the hole she’d made in his chest, and ripped out his heart. “Who is the master now?”

Ward couldn’t move. The pain was gone, but he couldn’t make his mind work. He was thankful Allette wasn’t dead, but she was supposed to be dead. A vesperitti couldn’t survive the severing of her soul chain. It just wasn’t possible. And without a doubt, she was still a vesperitti. Her speed and strength when she’d attacked Macerio had been inhuman.

She turned to Ward. Blood covered her face, dress, and hands. She licked Macerio’s heart and shuddered, her eyes half-closed with pleasure.

Goddess, what had he done?

“Thank you, Ward,” she said, her voice sickeningly sweet.

He swallowed. “You’re welcome.”

“I know just the way to thank you, too.” She jerked the dagger from Macerio’s head and stood.

“No thanks necessary,” he said, his voice cracking.

“Really. I insist.”

He forced himself to stand. Icy fear numbed his legs, his hands, everything. His mind banged through his options: run—no, a vesperitti could be faster than a man. This had to be a fight—damn. Not his favorite option, but currently his only one. No. He still had magic. An even worse option than fighting.

He yanked the silver-plated knife from his sheath and held it ready.

She lunged at him fast, knocked the knife from his hand, and grabbed his arm. Without thinking, he threw the image of the writhing ball of magic in his mind’s eye into Allette’s chest.

She threw her head back and laughed. “Oh, Ward. You aren’t trying magic, are you?”

He imagined more power, wrapping around her, binding her up.

She laughed harder and pressed the flat of her blade against his cheek.

Why wasn’t it working? He had to have enough magic. She really was a monster of legend, and now no one controlled her. There was blood everywhere, surely he could use that.

She yanked him close, licking the blood on his cheek from Macerio’s cut. “You can try all you want, but without me, you’re barely even a necromancer.”

Her words tumbled through him. Those conversations they’d had about magic, about him being blocked, and that he could release his potential. “You—”

“Lied. You aren’t blocked. You’re just like Habil’s lover. Pathetic. A flicker of a necromancer, nothing more. You aren’t anything except dessert.”

Chapter Thirty-two

Celia crested the hill with Val at her side and lurched to a stop. A few feet away, Allette held Ward close, a dagger pressed against his bloody cheek. Quirin lay face-down in the grass, and Macerio face up, a gaping hole in his chest. Something had gone horribly wrong. If she hadn’t been caught up with Lyla, or hadn’t taken the time to hide the spell book in Ward’s rucksack, she could have stopped this.

But to what end? Macerio and Quirin were dead. And good riddance to them.

Ward’s gaze locked onto hers from over Allette’s shoulder. Celia opened her mouth to call him, but a blast of hot air hit her in the back, and the dawn filled with wailing. Val staggered, clutched his chest, and gasped.

She reached for him. “What is that?”

“Death.” Allette tossed Ward to the ground and turned. She was covered in blood. It splattered her face, the front of her dress, and her arms. “You know what I’m talking about, Val.”

“What does she mean?”

Val straightened, but his face contorted in pain. “Macerio is dead. The magic keeping his vesperitti alive is failing.”

Allette cackled, sounding far too much like Lyla. “Wonderful, isn’t it?”

“It starts with the first.” Val sucked in a ragged breath.

“But if it starts with the first—” Oh, Goddess. The spell Ward cast. She’d tricked him into freeing her. Ward shook but not with fear. His muscles were bunched as if he were inching toward something, hoping he wouldn’t be noticed.

He gave a slight shake of his head, and she dragged her attention back to Allette. He was fine. Or at least he looked fine. Please let him be all right. She had to figure out what to do about Allette, who was now a vesperitti without a master.

“Can you feel yourself slipping away, Val?” Allette asked.

Another blast of hot air and wailing burst over the meadow. Val shuddered.

“Piece by piece.” She licked the flat of her dagger. “I wonder how long it will take before you’re ripped from your corpse.”

“Long enough to end you,” Val growled. He leapt at her. She twisted away, grabbing for Ward.

Ward dove into the grass and jerked around, swinging his silver-plated knife at Allette. She hissed and shied back. Val tackled her, and they tumbled into the grass.

Celia rushed at them. Val didn’t have a silver blade; he was going to need help. Ward scrambled to his feet, the knife held out. Allette clawed at Val’s face, drawing deep rents. Blood dripped down on her, and Val’s wounds didn’t close up. She growled and yanked him around, exposing her back.

Celia leapt at them, plunging her silver knife toward Allette’s heart. The vesperitti twisted, and Celia’s blade skidded off a rib. Allette stood, hauled Val with her—with more strength than her tiny frame could ever have—and threw Val at Celia. She sidestepped, knowing she couldn’t catch someone of his weight. He landed on his heels and tumbled onto his back. He groaned and clambered to his feet.

Ward swung his knife at Allette. It was an obvious attack, but it threw Allette off balance. She twisted away, and Celia lunged. Her knife caught the vesperitti’s forearm. Flesh hissed, and smoke billowed from the wound.

Allette scrambled back, glancing from Celia to Ward. Val squared his shoulders and took a heavy step forward.

“The odds aren’t in your favor,” Celia said.

More hot air and wailing swept over the meadow.

“If I wait, my odds will get better. Brother Val, here, will be dead.”

“Think you’ve got that long?” Val growled.

She turned to Ward and blew him a kiss. “You have my thanks, oh mighty necromancer.”

Ward grimaced. Celia couldn’t imagine what he was thinking. They’d all been tricked.

Faster than Celia thought possible, Allette leapt onto Brina’s half-filled grave, grabbed Macerio’s spell book, and bolted away.

Val sagged to his knees and clutched his chest. Celia dropped to the ground beside him. It wasn’t fair a monster like Allette would live and Val had to die. But nothing about the world was fair. She’d learned that when she was a child.

Goddess, curse the truth! This time, the innocent had to be saved. How could she justify her existence if Val couldn’t be saved?

Ward could save lives…and control death. He hugged himself, the knife still in his hand, his mouth set in a hard line. Blood smeared dark across his cheek, and his nose was swollen.

“Save him.”

He hugged himself tighter. “I can’t.”

“You mean you won’t.”

Val moaned and bent over, pressing his forehead to the ground.

“Please.”

“No. I can’t.”

She jerked to her feet, and he shied back. “I don’t care about your necromancer oaths or whatever. You owe him.” Her throat tightened. It was ridiculous how important this was. But she
had
to save Val. She couldn’t be the one who remained alive. She’d been brought back for all the wrong reasons.

A hot tear trailed down her face, and she furiously rubbed it from her cheek.

Ward reached for her hands but stopped before making contact. “Celia, I—”

“Please. He’s a good man.”

“I know,” Ward said.

“Then why?”

Val brushed her leg with a weak hand. “It’s all right.”

“No, it’s not.” She dropped to her knees beside him. “Ward will fix this. You don’t deserve this.”

Ward knelt beside her. “I can’t. I don’t have the magical strength.”

“Yes, you can. You brought Quirin back and those flowers—”

“That was all Allette’s power. She needed a necromancer to focus her magic or something. I’m still not sure what happened.” His shoulders sagged. “I’m still…nothing.”

She grabbed his arm and yanked him close. The fool couldn’t see the proof right before him. When she got her hands on Allette, she was going to make the bitch pay for showing Ward what he really was and then tearing it away from him. “You’re still Edward de’Ath the fourth, eighth-generation necromancer. And you brought me back without anyone’s help.”

“I—”

“I know you have no idea what you did. I don’t care. Val saved your life. You owe him at least to try.”

Val shuddered and groaned.

“For the sake of all that’s good. Just try.” She released Ward and sliced the knife across her forearm. “You need blood. I got lots.”

“Dark Son’s curses.” He slapped his hand over her wound.

She dropped the knife and pressed her hand on top of his. “Please.”

His eyes were dark pools filled with concern and uncertainty. It broke her heart to see the magical confidence he’d developed over the crazy few days here vanish. She’d thought he’d finally embraced the glimmer she’d seen back in Brawenal.

Ward stared at Celia. She had such faith in him. More likely, it was such desperation. Val had been helpful. But Ward had been so wrong about Allette. Could he let another masterless vesperitti survive?

If he didn’t try, Celia would never forgive him. One bad option after another.

“Bind this, and I’ll try.”

She practically melted with relief.

He’d never seen her so concerned for another person before. It really was proof how much she cared for Val. He yanked his attention from her. Focus on Val.

Ward had no idea how to save Val. Allette had taken the enspelled dagger, so he couldn’t sever his soul chain. He placed a hand on Val’s shoulder. The man groaned but didn’t look up. Still alive, but barely.

All he had was his imagination and a whole lot of prayer. Goddess, please.

He pressed his bloody palms to Val’s cheeks but didn’t urge the man to look up. For Celia. For the kindness still remaining in Val’s heart and all the torment he’d suffered at Macerio’s hands.

Ward called on knowledge from the Light Son, power over the dead from the Dark Son, and grace and well-being from the Goddess. Beneath Ward’s fingers, Val’s pulse fluttered, weak and dying.

A stillness settled within Ward, a pinprick of peace at his heart. It seeped across his chest and down his arms and legs. It filled every crack within his soul, every pore, every drop of blood. Using the technique he’d learned from Allette, he delved into his imagination and saw the meadow around him glimmering with magic. It drifted from the waving grass and mingled with the moonlight. It radiated red and angry from Brina’s grave and Macerio’s corpse. And pulsed pure and white from Celia.

It was all there, just like Grandfather had said, except the bloodless magic was so much stronger. It wasn’t the same as the magic within Celia or Macerio or Brina. There was a difference to its pulse. It was slower but just as strong.

No, it couldn’t just be his imagination, a figment of his desperate thoughts. He saw that Macerio’s death had seeped through the soul chain and was sucking the magic from Val. How could Ward’s imagination know to draw an image to represent that?

Allette had said he was weak. He wasn’t strong enough to save anyone and—

Val shuddered.

Above him, a crack of light flared. It rippled, radiating love. A fissure between this world and the next. The Goddess was coming for Val.

Without thinking, Ward grasped for all the magic surrounding him, blood or otherwise. He swept it up, pulling it from the grass and moonlight and Macerio’s corpse. It filled him, becoming the whirling vortex that had appeared when he brought the flowers back to life, when he called Quirin back, and when he’d freed Allette. He shoved it into Val and it exploded into him, ferocious, without focus.

Ward struggled to control it, bend it to his will. He needed to tie Val’s soul to his body. He would not let Val cross and would defy the Goddess as no necromancer should. He was disrupting the balance between life and death…again. And there would be a price to pay.

The magic surged from him, pouring and pouring. He had no control. Please, make the spell work.

He couldn’t catch his breath. He spun with the power, around and around. The glowing meadow and moonlight and everything disappeared. Even the fissure in the veil. There was only the roar of magic and an all-consuming darkness.

And then nothing.

No sound. No magic. Only the darkness.

He was empty. An aching void filled his heart. His throat tightened at the all-consuming loss. He wasn’t even sure what he was missing.

Ward
.

Yes. That’s what he was missing. Himself. His essence.

“Ward.” The voice blew through him, a soft, clear chime on a still morning.

His essence picked up the note in sympathetic vibration. Gentle. Sure. The darkness bled into silvery light. Crickets chirped. Grass rustled. And a breeze caressed his temple.

He smiled. It wasn’t a breeze.

He opened his eyes. Celia leaned over him, her pale gaze filled with concern, her cheeks damp with tears. He brushed his thumb across the wet track, and her fingers stopped mid-stroke. Her mouth pressed into a tight line.

“I didn’t do it. I couldn’t save him, could I?” He hadn’t wanted to fail her, but it was inevitable. “I’m so sorry.”

“No, you stupid necromancer.” She cupped his face in her hands. “You saved him. But if you ever do that to yourself again, I’m going to kill you.”

“Promises, promises.” He pressed his palm against her hand, leaned into her touch, and closed his eyes. He could lie this way all day, empty of thought, of magic, of everything but the feel of her close to him.