“No,” she cried, reaching for the book. How had they found her? Why were they here? She needed that book, had to finish reading it, desperately needed Bastian with her. A strong set of arms stopped her from grabbing the book, holding her against a strong, solid chest. She struggled, but it was for naught.
“What are you doing?” Vale asked, eyebrows furrowed. He was the one who held onto her, and his voice dripped anger.
“Let me go,” she whispered, a command a necromancer’s thrall could not deny. As Vale let her go, she crawled on her knees to the book, her fingers about to brush over the pages when Tamlen’s voice cut into her head.
“You know you should not read from that book. You are stronger than whatever darkness that book has tainted you with, Lena.”
She paused, heart heavy in her chest as she met Tamlen’s scowl. Lena wanted Bastian, knew her anxiety was choking her, but…he was right, wasn’t he? She shouldn’t read from the book, even if it was to raise someone she knew.
Vale studied her, moving closer to check her for wounds once he was certain she wouldn’t command him otherwise. He’d find none. Her only injury, the cut on her hand, had long since healed. “What happened? Why are you out here? The guards spoke of undead outside the city—you should be locked inside with the rest of Rivaini. Why did you bring that book? What did you hope to achieve here?” Vale shot off without giving her time to answer. He was clearly not happy, and she couldn’t blame him.
Lena blinked, realizing how bad it would’ve been if she’d finished that spell. Whatever dark magic had swept through her earlier had faded, replaced by a deep, budding sense of guilt over what she almost did. She wanted to be sick.
No more dead rising, accidentally or not. Those who were in the ground should remain so; she had the only comforting arms she needed beside her. She ran a hand over her face, trying to compose herself even though she felt like bursting into tears again, much like a child would. Given the circumstances, she thought it would be an understandable reaction. “It was Gregain. I’m sure the horde is dead once more, now that he’s…” She swallowed, forcing herself to say, “He’s dead, too.”
Necromancy was like a drug. One she had to stay away from. Maybe her link to Zyssept made her more susceptible to the dark arts. She had to be more careful. She couldn’t let Zyssept win.
She told them everything, how Gregain used blood magic to ensnare Kyler, how he’d used it to transport them out of the city without anyone knowing. That he knew she’d used blackfire to burn down her parents’ farmhouse. And then she told them what happened when Gregain had pressed their slit palms together, how her blood tainted him and burned anything it touched until the wound healed.
Tamlen ran a thumb across the palm closest to him. “How did it heal so quickly? Were you able to use a healing spell?”
She shook her head. Healing spells were only taught to apprentices. Technically, she was still an initiate. “When I touched the book, it healed me.”
“The Noresh text healed you?” Vale frowned, sounding dubious. “I’ve never heard of that before.”
Lena simply shrugged. “It’s a good thing you found me when you did…otherwise I fear I would’ve risen an entire army of thralls.” She sighed, and then she grew confused. “How did you find me?”
Vale and Tamlen glanced at each other. Tamlen was the one who spoke, “We’re linked to you. You were frightened and hurt. We felt it, and we were able to come find you.” He pressed his lips to her wet cheek. He was as wet as she, having traveled to find her in the rain. “I’m glad you’re safe.”
A warm pair of lips gently grazed her other cheek as her other man murmured, “As am I.” Her past actions of forcing him away from her and lunging for the book like a madwoman were forgiven, just like that. She didn’t deserve either of them, not after this.
She smiled a weak smile, knowing they both meant it, knowing that they weren’t simply saying it simply because they knew they’d be corpses once more if she died. When a mage passed on, the effects of their spells faded away, disappearing. Curses were the only thing that could remain, that were timeless. A reason why they were banned so.
“I love you,” Lena whispered, turning to kiss Vale’s mouth, and then Tamlen’s. “Thank you for coming for me, for stopping me.” She glanced at the tome. Perhaps she should leave it with Vale and Tamlen at the inn, so it wouldn’t tempt her again. Perhaps—
The ground below them trembled, and the three of them got to their feet. A frenetic breath escaped her, and Lena nearly tripped on her own feet as she shook her head. Vale stopped her from finishing the spell. No dead should rise. Yet that fact did not stop the ground from shaking and her skin from turning as cold as ice with the realization of what she did, this time purposefully.
“Don’t worry,” Tamlen spoke, fires erupting over his hands. She tensed, forcing herself not to recoil at the sight of the fire magic. “We will handle them.”
Electric sparks danced across Vale’s skin, his runes coming to life as he agreed, “We’ll take care of the dead and then get you back into the city to avoid trouble.”
Oh, Lena knew, trouble had already found her. Loads of it. So much that she would not be able to run away and hide this time. The dead started to dig themselves out of the small hill, their bodies mostly skeletons, though some had decayed flesh. The spell began but did not finish. Would these walking, rambling corpses even listen to her will?
Once they were mostly out of the ground, Tamlen and Vale took care of them with their magic. One commanded fire, the other lightning. How was this possible? She hadn’t finished the spell. Nothing should rise, especially not another horde of undead. Necromancy should not come this easy to anyone, especially to her.
Lena stood there, aghast at what she’d done, when she spotted a hand rising from the grass. Its color was not the decayed rot the others were. It was not skeletal. This hand was alive, a tawny shade of tan. She swallowed. She knew that hand.
Bastian.
As her men fought around her, Lena ran to the hand that she knew belonged to her mentor, her savior, her chevalier. Falling to her knees, she grasped the hand, pulling it as hard as she could, ignoring the shouted words both Vale and Tamlen threw at her. They wouldn’t understand. They didn’t know what Bastian meant to her. To have him so close again, to know his smell and his warmth…all her logical thoughts vanished the moment her hand touched his.
The ground gave way, and Lena fell back onto the grass as she helped pull him out. He crawled from the earth, holding himself only a few inches above her. Covered in dirt, Bastian’s hazel stare was on her, hovering over her face. Her back was on the grass, and she thought nothing of it, too engrossed in looking at him, in studying him. His face was covered in a short beard, his black, curly hair a bit longer than it should’ve been. She knew he never would’ve let himself look like that; he must’ve been truly sick before he died.
Lena opened her mouth to speak his name, but her words were stifled in her throat as he let out a growl, bringing his hands to her neck and squeezing with the strength only a warrior would have. Even though her mouth was open, no air flowed inside her lungs. Her vision grew spotty, and she clawed at the hands choking her, too taken off-guard to mentally force him to stop.
This wasn’t the Bastian she knew.
Before she could think to defend herself, before she could do anything but fight for air, Vale was beside her, tearing Bastian off her. Bastian rolled to his feet, letting out haggard, hard breaths that sounded more like growls than inhalations. His hazel eyes flicked between Vale and Tamlen, who moved to stand between him and Lena.
Lena reached for her neck, still feeling the ghostly sensation of being choked. She fought back tears. This was the man she’d dreamed of missing? This was Bastian? Perhaps, since the spell was interrupted, he was not in his right mind. Maybe he wasn’t all there. She prayed that he would come to his senses so she would not have to watch Vale and Tamlen kill him like they had done the rest of the horde
.
Around them, the air quieted. The other undead were taken care of, lying in burning and sizzling heaps. It was only them and Bastian, now. Lena struggled to stand, swaying as she winced. Who knew being choked would hurt so much? She watched Bastian, doing her best not to look at any inappropriate places, which was difficult, given the fact that he was naked. Where was his armor? Why hadn’t he been buried in his chevalier armor?
The flames on Tamlen’s arms blasted toward Bastian in a large fireball. Lena had to look away, unable to watch. Tamlen’s confused “What the fuck?” made her stop avoiding the scene before them.
Bastian stood, unaffected by the flames.
“My turn,” Vale said, electricity winding around his fists as he ran toward Bastian. Bastian stopped his fists easily, and almost immediately, the electricity faded away. Tamlen was not the only one who was confused. Vale bared his teeth at him, muscles tensing as he tried to call forth more lightning, but nothing came.
With a hard kick to his chest, Bastian sent Vale stumbling back. Before he could attack, his eyes squeezed closed and he gripped the sides of his head, falling to his knees. Pain dotted his features, lining the face that Lena had dreamed about.
“My magic,” Tamlen said, staring down at his empty hands. “It’s like it’s there, but I cannot call on it.” His arms moved, flourishing in an arc, but no fire erupted. His dark eyes stared daggers at Bastian’s crumpled form. “What the fuck did he do to me?”
“I cannot feel my runes,” Vale muttered, frowning.
Lena slowly drew her gaze away from Vale and Tamlen, landing it on Bastian. He seemed to be fully-formed. He was no mage, she knew, so how could he affect Tamlen and Vale? Bastian was no skeleton, no zombie, and what skin she’d felt on hers had been warm. He was alive, though his mind might not have been all there.
Heart breaking inside her chest, Lena whispered his name, her voice rougher than it should’ve been, due to the recent strangulation attempt, “Bastian.”
The wincing, writhing man froze, hazel eyes opening instantly at her voice. The hands gripping his hair in a frantic display slowly fell as he locked gazes with her. He did not move, did not stand, but he did whisper, “Little one?”
Little one.
It’d been over four years since she’d heard his voice. Four years since he’d called her little one. Four years since she’d lost her chevalier. Hearing him speak, having him call her that, made her wonder if he was there after all. Coming back to life, digging out of his own grave, had to have been traumatizing.
When she only stared at him, motionless, Bastian asked, “Celena?” He sounded unsure, puzzled and confused.
She gazed down at herself. She might’ve still worn the same colored robe she wore four years ago, but she did not look the same. Lena was not little anymore; she was taller, fuller. A woman. A dirty, wet, somewhat frightened woman, but a woman all the same. And her hair…well. He definitely had never seen her with such colored locks.
Lena slowly moved past Vale and Tamlen, dodging the hands they shot out for her, reaching for her and trying to stop her from going to him. She ignored their pleas to keep from him, that he was dangerous. She knew that; she would’ve known it even if he hadn’t attacked her. Blame was not something she could put on him, for she had no idea what coming back from the dead was like. And to be enclosed in nothing but dirt…
Standing before him, she said again, “Bastian.” She stared down into his eyes, eyes that were perfectly lucid and clear. Eyes that held no anger toward her, no resentment. Only a deep, powerful bafflement that Lena wished she could banish. She lowered to her knees before him, reaching out a tentative hand, running it along his dirty face. The small beard that graced his jawline was prickly, but she didn’t mind.
She simply could not believe that he was here, that she’d done it.
What a foolish person she was. What a selfish, foolish person.
Bastian slightly turned his face toward her hand, exhaling slowly. He brought a shaking hand to hers, pressing her fingers harder against him. They remained like that for a minute, until he reached for her with his other arm, wrapping it around her back and pulling her close. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, holding her tightly, as if he were afraid she’d vanish. Lena held the back of his head, glancing at Vale and Tamlen.
They…did not look too thrilled.
It was too late now. Too late to go back. Bastian was just like them, even if he was a little out of it. She could not send him back, could not kill him. Lena couldn’t lose him again. Not when holding him felt so right.
Bastian’s body started to tremble. Wetness touched her neck, where his face was, and it took her a moment to realize that he was crying. “Celena,” he spoke, his breath warm on her chest, “I am so sorry. So very, truly sorry.” The arms around her back squeezed her even closer to him. “I would never hurt you, little one. Never again.” His melodic tone, the way he rolled his Rs, brought a smile to her face.
Even though the feeling of his strong hands around her neck lingered, Lena believed him. He was Bastian—the man was the farthest thing from a liar.
“I know,” she whispered, trying to soothe him. In all her life, she’d never witnessed him break down like this. “It’s all right. I’m okay.”
He slowly lifted his head, gazing down at her, eyes falling to her chest before immediately lifting back up. “How…” How was she grown? She did not look forward to explaining things to him. He glanced around, at the hill whose grass was torn by numerous holes, littered with half-risen zombie corpses. “Where are we?” His second question was pained. Then his stare moved to Vale and Tamlen, who stood behind her with their arms crossed and scowls on their faces. “And who are they?”
“I’ll explain everything,” Lena told him. She’d have to, as she’d have to explain to Vale and Tamlen how important this man was to her.
“Then I will wait with bated breath.” Bastian smiled a soft, gentle smile, though the corners of his eyes still held wetness. Having his full, undivided attention on her was both unsettling and wonderful. His smile warmed her wet insides, made her stomach twist in the most delightful of ways. He moved a hand to her hair, and though her head was utterly drenched from the prior rain, he slipped his fingers around its violet length, twisting a tendril between his thumb and forefinger.
For just that moment, it was only her and him. Lena and Bastian, together again.
That feeling did not last long though, for reality would not be denied, nor would the two sneering men behind her. Her lovers. Her thralls. And now, Bastian was her thrall too.
Gods. She certainly did have a lot to explain, didn’t she?
It was time. After waiting and waiting, after countless eons of sitting in the shadows, being forgotten by mankind, Zyssept, the god of death, bringer of disease and the void was ready to return to the world of mortals. To have flesh coiled around his spirit again, to breathe in the polluted air. He was more than ready to come forth, more than ready to start a new chapter in his immortal life.
Over the years, Zyssept had spoken to a few humans, started cogs turning in their pathetic, puny minds. Only one human, one child, had called him instead. She was too young to realize it, too emotional to comprehend what she had bargained with. A god whose claim would come years later, after all that she knew was torn from her.
The mage, Gregain, was simply a tool. He believed that he would keep her after Zyssept made his return to the world? The man was a fool, and he couldn’t have been more wrong. So when her blood came in contact with his, Zyssept took hold of their connection. In that moment, she became his completely.
Blackblood.
Gregain would help him enter the world, but he was never going to be alive to see it. Every god required sacrifice.
As Zyssept began his slow ascent, he felt her need, her desire. She wanted a man from her past, desired comfort and reprieve from the harsh realities of the world. He wanted her content, wanted her happiness, as much as a god of
death could. So Zyssept helped her, funneling his magic into her as she raised more dead, flinging a bit of extra magic toward the one particular man she was after. A skeleton made no good thrall, nor did a rotting corpse. The man she wanted would be flesh and whole.
His goddess would get everything she wanted; he’d make sure of that.
The gateway to the mortal realm was within reach. Zyssept turned his eyes—the eyes of a god, mostly black, with irises of pure white—upward. The blood that had seeped from Gregain’s corpse served as his window, his doorway. When he reached his first clawed hand out, he knew two things.
Celena was his.
And the mortal realm would fall.
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Spells and Necromancy: A Reverse Harem Fantasy (Unfortunate Magic Book 1) Page 21
