The woman mage didn’t look too thrilled at the idea, though her eyes did fall to the mounds of skeleton bones around her. “Fine,” she said. “But neither of you are to leave my side. Understood?” Though her words were a question, Valerius felt them as a command. He would not be able to go against them, against her, even if he tried.
At this point, after learning he was dead for years and then brought back to life by a woman mage who had no idea what she was doing, Valerius wasn’t sure he wanted to go against her. He wanted answers, and he’d get them by staying with her. As she led them out of the dark place, through a narrow pathway, Valerius realized he also wanted something he wasn’t able to do before.
He wanted to live.
A giant stone blocked the path to the outside world. Tamlen stepped around the woman, resisting the urge to touch her to move her aside—she did still hold the dagger close, as if she weren’t certain whether she was safe with them or not—and he readied his hands. A good blast of fire could knock away the boulder, and then, then…daylight.
Oh, to feel the sun on his flesh, to feel the warmth encasing him. To step on grass and feel each of its little prickles on his soles. After being dead for so long, he wanted nothing more. Actually, he did want one thing more—the touch of a woman. Her skin, her soft hands, the warm, wet space between her legs.
Yes. Tamlen was certainly overdue for a good lay. The necromancer who gave him life was too good at avoiding looking at his body, at how well he was hung. Perhaps he could convince her to—
“No,” she said, and the flames on his hands died at the very same moment. “No fire. I’ll do it.” The way she said no fire, as if fire were the worst possible element. Tamlen wanted to ask her about it, for fire was the most beautiful of all, but he couldn’t. He simply stepped aside and let her take the helm.
The book was back in her bag, the dagger in her left as her right hand pressed flat on the cold, grey stone. Her eyes fluttered closed, and after she inhaled once, the large stone rocked to the side a few feet. The daylight that streamed in was harsh, making him wince and squint. She was the first to slide out, followed by Tamlen, who tossed Valerius a glare as he went.
Valerius. The almighty hero. What a laugh.
Valerius was no hero, just as Tamlen was no villain. Whatever the woman knew of them, she had no idea of the real story. History had a way of morphing and twisting everything. Tamlen would be all too happy to school her in truth. Maybe they could do it while naked.
The sunlight was just as Tamlen remembered. Bright and warm, it danced across his skin as he stretched, the blue sky clear above his head. They were in a forest, high trees of both pine and evergreen around them. He glanced behind him, looking at the place they’d just exited from.
A crypt in the middle of nowhere. So that’s how it was, huh? Both Tamlen and Valerius, forgotten to the sands of time? Or, more apropos, to the forests of time? At least the woman knew of Tamlen; she didn’t seem to recognize Valerius at all. His enemy was completely wiped from history. It made him quite happy.
Tamlen was about to remark on it when he saw the woman drop her dagger and grab the side of her head. Her small body swayed side to side, and he knew what was happening before it happened. He ran to her, catching her before she collapsed. The small force spell was not what made her faint. He cradled her against him, careful not to let her neck fall back.
In the daylight, she was even prettier than she was in the crypt. Pale skin, like she hardly ever left her College. Not a single blemish. Her hair was a startling and unnatural hue, a soft purple, just as her eyes were. It was a similar hue to the sparks that danced along Valerius’s skin when he called forth his lightning. If only she could turn her eyes to him, so Tamlen could see how they sparkled in the sun. The strange color fit her perfectly.
Valerius bent to retrieve her dagger. Tamlen shot him a look and said, “You look like shit, old friend.” When he glared at him, Tamlen laughed. He stood, holding both the woman and her bag that seemed to be full of useless shit.
“At least I’m not naked,” Valerius shot back, frowning. His tan skin, carved in white runes, was a startling sight, just like it always was on the battlefield. All along his arms, on his upper chest, intricate designs full of magic that Tamlen did not understand. Non-mage humans should not be able to wield magic.
Giving him a half-grin, Tamlen said, “Don’t pretend you don’t like the view.” He laughed again as Valerius muttered a swear word under his breath. If it were up to him, he and Tamlen would be locked in a duel until they died again. Unlike Valerius, Tamlen didn’t want to die. At least not so soon. He wanted to enjoy life, even if he was on the undead side.
Necromancy was not Tamlen’s forte. Were they alive, or were they undead? Would they age? Would a blow to a vital organ kill them, or would they simply keep trudging along like the typical necromancer’s puppet? The unconscious girl in his arms didn’t seem like the sort of person who’d keep the undead as pets, but he supposed he didn’t really know her.
“So,” Tamlen spoke, “what now?”
Bastian was a handsome man, but Lena had been too young to realize it until now. His skin held the tawny warmth that all those who hailed from Sumer did, a few shades darker than a Rivainian farmer’s skin when he spent most of the day outside in the fields. His hair was short and curly, his eyes a bright green, little jewels that Lena loved staring at. His jaw was clean of all scruff and stubble, a square jawline and a dimpled chin. He was her friend, he checked up on her in the College; he was all she had since he’d brought her there, ever since finding her and discovering what she did.
But…no. This wasn’t right. Bastian laid on the floor, his jade eyes open and staring at her, his mouth ajar. No words would come out because he was dead. He was dead and surrounded by fire.
Black fire that seemed to burn in sync with Lena’s heartbeat. She was the one who started this fire; she was the reason Bastian was dead.
No, no, no.
Lena knelt over his body, her hands on his chest. He was a chevalier from Sumer, a spy for the King of Rivaini. His work took him all over. He was barely thirty years old when the plague killed him. But this—this wasn’t the plague. This was because of her, because of what she did, what she was. She was a monster.
Tears welled in her eyes, and regardless of how often she blinked them away, they would not stop forming. Lena fell over Bastian, weeping her tears onto his chest, onto the colorful metal armor that meant he was a decorated chevalier, honored by Sumer’s Queen. Her hair was yellow, its natural hue, and her eyes a bright blue. Something tingled on her forehead, but beyond the tears, she could feel nothing. It was an uncomfortable position, but she did not care. All she ever cared about, all those she ever cared for, were dead.
Because of her.
And then, suddenly, Bastian stirred below her. She flew off him, inching away because even in this state of mind, she knew dead men did not come back to life. She inched backward, more afraid of the lumbering Bastian than the black fires to her back.
Bastian’s jade eyes fell on her, though they looked less green and more grey, like the fires and the smoke had tainted their brilliant hue. His mouth opened, and a voice that was both like and unlike his seeped out, “That’s where you’re wrong, little one.”
Little one. He always called her that. Didn’t seem as fitting now, seeing as how she was older and he was not. They weren’t that far apart in age, now. Here it felt patronizing, almost cruel to call her little one.
“I don’t have to be dead,” Bastian said, kneeling before her, taking one of her trembling hands in his. His thumb, gloved in leather, ran over her knuckles, and Lena could do nothing but gaze into his eyes, at the face she swore she’d never see again. His touch was strong and confident. It made her feel…strange things.
“But you are,” Lena whispered, quite pathetic. Half-hearted, too. She wanted Bastian alive, wanted to feel his arms around her, hear his voice telling her that everything was going to b
e alright.
“You can change that.” Bastian brought his other hand to her face, moving her hair behind her ear. His fingers danced along her jaw in the same motion, gently lifting her chin so their noses touched. “You’re hungry for more, aren’t you, Celena?”
Hungry for more. The words echoed in Lena’s head, bouncing back and forth, gaining intensity until she could no longer deny it. She was hungry. She wanted more. She thirsted for more. She felt it, the deep hunger in her bones, the longing and the desire for everything all at once.
Hunger.
Something took hold of her, something instinctual and primal. Lena could not control herself. She was so hungry. So very hungry…
Lena threw her arms around Bastian’s neck, bringing her lips to his. It was like her body knew exactly what to do. She couldn’t remember ever doing this before, but it felt good. Beyond amazing. Her mouth parted slightly, letting his tongue run along hers as he pulled her against him. His hands ran down her body, bunching up the dress she wore.
Hunger.
With a steady hand, she pushed Bastian back, laying him on the floor. She straddled him, suddenly aware that she wore nothing beneath her dress, as if she knew it would end this way. A burning in her stomach, a yearning even lower; she had to have more, and she needed it right this second.
Lena worked to undo his clothes, tugging off each piece of metal armor and tossing them to the side with a loud clang. Soon enough, Bastian was beneath her, utterly naked and aroused—and she practically dripped with anticipation. Yes. She needed more. Her insatiable hunger caused her to position herself over him. She didn’t even care that she still wore a dress, that the fabric was tight and stifling; she needed him to fill her now.
Hunger. She never knew what true hunger felt like until this moment.
When he filled her, as she took him in, it hurt a bit, like it shouldn’t be there inside of her, but Lena didn’t stop. She rocked through the pain, a smile on her face.
And then, slowly, Lena stopped. Whatever touched her mind, caused her to hunger for things that were so very wrong, was gone. Lena was herself again, and she brought a shaking hand to her face. Around them was her family’s farmhouse, burnt to ashes. The black fires no longer burned. Below her was a rotting corpse—Bastian’s—his skin green and pussy and decaying, maggots crawling out of his cloudy eyes.
“No,” Lena muttered, crawling off him, feeling him slip out of her, limp and dead and cold. What magic was this? Why did she do the things she did? Her stomach twisted, bile rising in her throat. How could she move on from this? Her eyes watered, her heart frozen as she said, “Gods, no.” She repeated herself over and over as the panic took hold, growing frantic and clawing at her head, at her hair.
What was inside her head? She wanted to tear her hair out, to block the memory of what she did. Lena started to scream. This was no life. This was torture.
Lena jerked awake, suddenly aware that she was being held, much like a child, against a strong, solid, naked chest. It was a chest very much like the one she dreamt about, except it belonged to a man she didn’t know—also to a man who should be dead. Her breathing was erratic, and she looked around; he was carrying her through the forest of the King’s Gardens. Valerius was beside them, holding onto her dagger.
It was too much. Lena couldn’t take it anymore. She smacked Tamlen’s chest, demanding as she hyperventilated, “Put…me…down!” Tamlen nearly dropped her due to the suddenness of it, but she landed on her feet.
As far as she could tell, they weren’t yet back to an area where there would be others on the wyvern hunt. Lena waved the two men off, averting her eyes so she would not see any more nakedness—she’d seen enough of that in her disturbing dream.
“Stay here. I need some time alone,” she muttered, turning and running in the opposite direction. Lena’s legs tired quickly; she wasn’t used to such physical activity, but she made it to a small pool of water.
Good. She could use a cold splash in the face after that dream.
Lena bent down, putting both hands in the water, cupping as much as she could before bringing them out. The water was warmer than she thought, but it jerked her to reality. She didn’t have sex with Bastian’s corpse. She wasn’t back in the farmhouse. No black fires in sync with her heartbeat. It was a nightmare.
A bleeding nightmare that felt so real.
What she felt in that nightmare, the desire that raged through her body—it was almost like she was possessed. Which was ridiculous. She couldn’t be possessed because she never ran across any Demons, never partook in any lessons that involved peeking through the Veil or summoning. She was the farthest from Demons as any mage could be.
Lena shivered, even though the sun was hot, when she recalled feeling a similar way in the crypt, before losing herself and reading from the archaic tome. Was something else inside that place, something other than long-dead men? What if she unleashed some kind of terror upon the world?
All from reading a blasted book.
She wanted to scream, much like she had in the nightmare, but she found that she couldn’t, for she was not alone. The water rippled before her, its crystal-clear waters parting as a large, white creature lifted its head. A mixture of reptile and bird, dotted with white scales and ivory feathers around its face, with teeth that were as long as her fingers. Water droplets glided easily off its face, as if it weren’t just submerged moments ago.
Lena could hardly breathe as she stumbled back.
The white wyvern.
It crawled out of the lake, shaking itself, showing off its spiked tail and the wings that were a part of its arms. Smaller than the dragons of old, but larger than a horse. Definitely larger than a horse. Almost three horses, lined up, head to tail. Both magnificent and frightening, it was a wild creature that could tear her apart in seconds, magic or not. Wyverns were made of magic; any spells sent towards their scales simply bounced right off.
She stared into its pale grey eyes. The color of silver, only a shade or two darker than its iridescent scales and feathers. Its cat-like irises narrowed at Lena, but it made no moves to attack. Odd, but she wasn’t going to question it. She was just going to get up and run away…
The wyvern tilted its head at her, opening its mouth a fraction, letting out a cooing sound. A small chirping of its ribcage. It would’ve been adorable, if it weren’t a creature that could tear off her limbs without even trying.
Lena was on her backside, hands in the grass. She needed to get up. Freezing at the first sign of danger was a stupid thing to do, especially dangerous for a mage. Maybe, she came up with a possibility, the wyvern sensed the magic in her. Maybe it thought they were alike in that way. Or maybe it simply liked her hair.
Wyverns could breathe fire, just like their dragon ancestors. Lena did not want it to breathe any fire.
The wyvern chirped again, stepping closer to her, nearly standing over her legs. It lowered its head, sniffing her. Oh, Gods. There was no escaping it now, was there? Why did Lena not get up when she had the chance? Sure, this might be the creature the hunt was searching for, but she didn’t want to alert the others by dying. She didn’t want anyone else to see it at all, for they’d either try to capture it alive—which might be a possibility, due to its curious nature—or kill it and bring it to the King. They’d gain riches, land, and a title.
Even if this creature was going to eat her, it didn’t deserve that.
“Look,” Lena spoke softly, trying to sound as calming and soothing as she could, given the fact that she, moments ago, had woken up from the worst possible nightmare, “you should get out of here. Hide. There are people looking for you. They want to catch you, hurt you. You should go.” Wyverns were intelligent and magical creatures. Not much was known about them. Did it understand what she said?
The wyvern pressed its nose against her stomach, causing her to tense up. It breathed in her shirt, and Lena wanted nothing more than to crawl away. It let out another chirping noise, its body…pur
ring?
What in all of Rivaini was going on here?
Lena lifted a hand, hyper-aware that the eye it was closest to watched her every movement with interest, though it did not withdraw its head from her lap. It knelt over her, its winged arms on either side of her legs, its back legs laying on the rocky shore of the pond. Its tail hung in the water still. She tentatively brought her hand to its head, freezing when the wyvern jerked a few inches to the left—closer to her hand. Did it want her to touch it?
Not knowing what else to do, and not having anywhere else to run, Lena laid her hand across its head, smoothly running it over the ridges between its eyes and nose. Its mane of feathers jostled at her touch, but it did not move away. The scales were soft; she could hardly tell where one ended and another began. If dragons had been like this in ages past—this curious and docile—it was no wonder humanity hunted them to extinction.
“You’re a nice wyvern,” Lena told it, still petting it. “But you really should go. I have…a situation I need to take care of.” When it didn’t move, she added, “I have to go. Hide from the others. Don’t let them catch you. You’re too beautiful to become a mount on the King’s walls.” She scooted out from her position under it, slowly withdrawing her hand from its head.
The wyvern let her go, watching her with eyes that were far too intelligent for their own good. Its mouth parted slightly, its sharp teeth separating as it let out a whine, almost as if telling her not to go. But she had to. Even though it was a miracle that she saw the fabled white wyvern, it was a bigger miracle that she didn’t become its dinner. Or lunch. Or whatever the time of the day it was.
Lena would’ve loved to stay, to study it, to figure out why it seemed so tame and used to humans, but she had other things on her plate right now. Like two gorgeous dead men and the weirdness that took her over and forced her to do things she wouldn’t normally do. Maybe after her current predicament was taken care of, she could come back. Instead of writing her dissertation about the runes of old, she could write it about wyverns.
Spells and Necromancy: A Reverse Harem Fantasy (Unfortunate Magic Book 1) Page 4
