Blood and Sorcery: A Reverse Harem Fantasy (Unfortunate Magic Book 2)

by Candace Wondrak

  This Zyssept thing was far too real. Until the moment when she’d woken tied to a chair in an abandoned farmhouse, until the very second she’d realized Gregain’s treachery, Lena always hoped none of it was real. That it was her imagination running wild.

  But it wasn’t.

  Zyssept was real, and she was linked to him. Or it. Whatever Zyssept was. Zyssept wanted her as a bride, and she’d made a deal with him when she was too young to understand. As she’d gazed into the mirror in her bedroom, a mirror her father had brought back from the city for her, the old god had appeared to her as nothing more than a black mist with eyes of white. A drop of blood was all the mirror asked for, and it promised her much.

  Foolish, truly. Lena only vaguely remembered the night, for the next morning she woke up, she’d thought it was a dream. And then, not too long a time later, she’d burned down her parents’ farmhouse and killed her mother and her father. Then Bastian had found her, soothed her, and taken her to the College of Magi.

  A goddess of death. What a laugh. Lena would make a terrible goddess of death, given the fact she abhorred magic of all kinds, especially the illegal kinds. Like blood magic, curses and…necromancy.

  Okay, so she hated it, but she was also strangely good at it. Had to be her link to Zyssept, right?

  Rivaini, as it turned out, had a lot of abandoned farmhouses. Whether the land eventually grew fallow and the farmers moved on, or if the houses were abandoned for other reasons, such as bandits or even the death of the owners, they dotted the landscape and the rolling green plains. The closer they got to Rivaini’s walls, the less the odds were the houses would be abandoned, so they had to find something farther out.

  They chose a rather dingy-looking hut whose walls seemed rotted and warped. Vale was the first to enter the home, making sure it was indeed abandoned before Lena and the others came in. She pretended to ignore the scowl on Tamlen’s face, overlooking how closely he stood to her while glaring at Bastian, instead focusing on the rusted tools sitting on the side of the house. She didn’t know much about farming, because she was taken from that life when she was eight, but she recognized a few of the rusted items. Some were for cutting grains, others for planting seeds in a straight line. The field around them was small, forest and trees lining the edges of the property. There were no neighbors in sight, and they were far enough off the main dirt road that no one riding or walking by would see them.

  Vale emerged from the house a few minutes later, “It’s vacant, but…”

  “But what?” Tamlen shot back, his arms crossed over his chest. He must’ve been trying to look intimidating, Lena decided, for he kept puffing out his chest and standing as tall as he could.

  “There’s a body in one of the beds,” Vale said. “I think she died in her sleep.”

  “Then we bury her,” Lena said.

  They didn’t have any other choice. The woman in question was old and dried up, what little hair was left was a pure silver. She’d been old and probably died in her sleep, as Vale had said. The men dug a grave in the back, right beside a pile of rocks—where Lena knew her husband was. It was sad, but they’d be together soon enough.

  It wasn’t long before the four of them sat at the round table in the home’s kitchen, after Bastian had found some old farmer’s clothes to cover himself up. The whole place needed a good cleaning, but it would have to wait. Right now, she needed to clear the air between them. The Noresh tome sat in the center of the table; she couldn’t leave it for anyone else to find. There was a fraction of her inner mind that never wanted to part with the text, as wrong as it was.

  And it was wholly wrong, considering what the book was capable of, what it had made her capable of.

  Everyone deserved to know the truth, so after flicking her gaze from Vale to Tamlen to Bastian, she told them. She told them everything. About Gregain, how her blood had sizzled and burned, how the book that sat near them had healed her. She told them about Zyssept, being extra careful to not give too many details away—they didn’t need to know her dreams had been full of a dead Bastian…or that she’d had sex with him. Nope. No one needed to know that; even Lena wanted to forget those particular dreams.

  Vale was the first to speak, pausing every few words as he thought of what to say, “It seems as though…this Zyssept might’ve…helped you when you needed it?” His words caused Tamlen to throw a dirty glance his way. “All I’m saying is that we were not fast enough. If your blood hadn’t harmed Gregain, there is no saying what could’ve happened.”

  “I will never say this Zyssept is a good and benevolent creature,” Tamlen spoke with a frown, his usual expression. The intense sneer on his face did nothing to mar his handsome features.

  “Nor will I,” Vale agreed. “Anyone who uses the dark magics cannot be munificent—” His blue gaze turned to Lena as he added, “Except you, of course.”

  Finally, Bastian spoke, though he was hesitant, “Wait a moment. Does this mean you used necromancy to bring me back to life? You are the reason all those corpses were walking around with life?” After such a long, mostly one-sided discussion, the man was finally putting it together, and it hurt Lena to hear him speak about her with such scorn, such derision.

  Even his wonderful, melodic accent, the way he rolled certain words on his tongue, did not ease the hurt and guilt building inside of her under his incredulously shocked expression.

  “I’ve used necromancy twice now. Once when I brought Tamlen and Vale back from the dead,” Lena paused, “and then with you.” She watched Bastian’s face twist, a look of pain on his face, and he abruptly stood.

  “I…please pardon me.” Bastian left the kitchen, disappearing down the hall, where the outdated washroom and bedrooms were.

  Lena was about to stand and follow him, explain to him that it wasn’t as bad as it sounded, but Tamlen’s sharp gaze pierced her to her chair. She supposed she should explain Bastian to them first, so they could understand how much he meant to her.

  Tamlen practically growled out, “Who is this Bastian to you? From his accent, I can tell he is not from Rivaini.” His fingers, thick and strong, toyed with a splinter on the table. Lena had to tear her eyes from his hands as her mind drifted to places it shouldn’t—at least not now.

  Now was not the time to think about sex.

  Tamlen was not a jealous man. Not once in his life had he ever given his heart to a woman and wondered whether or not he had hers in return. Women always freely gave their hearts to him—among other things. Yes, he might’ve been in a relationship with both Lena and Vale, but he was never jealous, just as he hoped neither of them was.

  But Bastian? He did not know Bastian. He did not trust him, for it wasn’t too long ago when the tanned man had his filthy, grimy hands around Lena’s neck. Tamlen didn’t care whether or not Lena knew Bastian when he was alive; there was something in the man’s eyes that screamed insanity. Something wasn’t right, but she was too blind to see it.

  Tamlen turned to Vale as he wondered if he felt the same. Perhaps not. Perhaps he saw Bastian and grew as absent-minded as Lena due to the man’s foreign looks.

  “He is—was a chevalier from Sumer,” Lena slowly said, gaze lingering on her small hands in her lap. She would only make eye contact for a few moments at a time. In all odds, she probably felt bad about what she’d done, which was good. She should feel ashamed. To resort to necromancy purposefully was on a whole different level than accidentally doing it. “He was the one who found me after I’d burned my parents’ farmhouse down. He took me to the College, visited me every time he was in the city. From what his stories told me, he was a spy for the King in the Empire.”

  Vale asked what Tamlen could not, the more direct one, “Do you love him?” The way he asked such a heavy-handed question, so innocently, as if he did not care whether or not Lena had feelings for the man. Tamlen felt his body temperature rising as he grew angry.

  “Do I—I don’t…” Lena stumbled over her words in an adorable yet in
furiating way. She shifted in her seat, putting all her weight on her right leg as she crossed it. “He was like family to me. I care for him.” Her full lips slammed shut, thinning slightly, making it clear that was all she was willing to say on the matter.

  Which meant, Tamlen was aghast, she did love him.

  Tamlen leaned toward her, grabbing one of the hands on her lap, intertwining his fingers with hers. “He attacked you.”

  “He was not in his right mind,” Lena told him, though she did not pull her hand from his. “Neither of you were very pleasant when you first rose.”

  It…might’ve been true, but it did not ease any of what Tamlen felt. “There is something about him, something I don’t like. My magic did nothing to him, and then—then I couldn’t call forth any magic at all. It was the same for Vale.”

  Vale nodded. “It was…the most peculiar feeling, as if my runic magic was locked away. Still there, inside me, but unable to get out, unable to be released. I’ve never felt anything like it.” The other man was too calm, given the situation. It irked Tamlen to no end.

  “Give him time,” Lena said. “He’s been dead for over four years. He died of the plague, and I never got to see him before…” Her eyes closed. “I’m certain it was not a pleasant death.”

  Tamlen held back his next retort—Vale had impaled him centuries ago, killing him in battle. Truly, no death was pleasant. However, it was no excuse. There was no excuse for the way he’d attacked Lena.

  “Please do not be hard on him,” Lena added. “He is a good man. Kind and generous. Regardless of how you feel about him, he is not going anywhere. I…now that he’s here, I need him.”

  “And us?” Tamlen spoke through gritted teeth, shooting a glance at Vale. Vale looked as though he was deep in thought.

  Lena leaned toward him, brushing her lips against his. “Of course I need you.” She pulled away from Tamlen, placing a similar kiss upon Vale’s mouth. “Both of you. I love you both, but that does not change how I feel about Bastian. I hope you two can understand where I’m coming from.” She stood. “I must go speak with him—alone.”

  As she disappeared from his view, Tamlen sighed as she went. His lips tingled where hers had brushed against. What he would give to hold Lena close, rid themselves of this Bastian fellow and make a simple life outside the city, away from the confines of the College.

  But it sounded as if Lena wanted to go back. Back to that prison, even after her precious Gregain had betrayed her and tried to kill her. The woman was mad, and since he was her thrall, he could not go against her, could not kidnap her and take her away from all of this. It did not stop him from wanting to, though.

  Vale turned his head as he watched her go. His blue gaze was sluggish in returning to Tamlen, his voice quiet as he said, “She loves him.”

  Tamlen’s hands curled into fists. “What?”

  “I believe she does, anyway. The way she talks about him, how she looks at him—I think she loves him,” Vale explained further, as if Tamlen had asked for more. He didn’t, because he knew it’d only make him madder. “I wonder if she’ll…”

  When the man said nothing more, Tamlen prompted him, “If she’ll what?”

  “If she’ll attempt to bring him into our relationship. He is her thrall, too. They knew each other before his death, which means they might feel closer to each other than we are to her. We were strangers to her, Tamlen. Bastian has a history with her. To deny it would be foolish.”

  Tamlen’s fist pounded the table. “He attacked her.”

  “I threatened much the same when I first woke up, and I was in a tomb, not thrown into the dirt. As much as I would like to label him as an other, I can’t.”

  “So you would be fine if Lena indeed loves him?” Tamlen could hardly say it without spitting. Like venom on his tongue, he just wanted it out, and he never wanted to say it or think it again. Lena with Bastian…no good thoughts accompanied the pair.

  Vale scratched the back of his neck. “I wouldn’t necessarily be fine, but I would not hate her for it. I would understand it, and I would love her all the same. She can love us, and love him. I will not judge someone for whom they love, as I hope you wouldn’t.” His gaze lingered on Tamlen, heavy and intense. He spoke from experience, due to his preference of men; Tamlen knew.

  Still, it was hard for him. Hard for Tamlen to realize Lena could indeed love them all without having a favorite. Harder for him to rationalize it all. Almost impossible for him to face the fact he loved Lena, and he was slowly growing similar feelings toward the man across from him. Being with someone, fucking them, did not mean love was in the equation. Getting physical and bearing one’s heart were not the same.

  Yet…here he was. Here they were, while Lena was off doing gods knew what with Bastian.

  This damned second life was going to kill him. For good, this time.

  Bastian couldn’t linger in that room, could no longer listen. He hadn’t realized it before, but it made more sense than suddenly waking in the ground, the feeling of dirt in his lungs. He needed to be by himself, needed to breathe, to focus on the here and now and not…not the ground. Not the dirt. Not the feeling of sheer terror that ran through him each time he heard a shovel throwing more dirt on top of him.

  Celena had used necromancy. Celena, the little girl who he’d only ever wanted to help. He’d kept the truth to himself when he brought her to the College. He’d said her brother had started the fires that consumed their home and their family, that she may have magical abilities as well, and that was that. There were no questions, no follow-up. The High Enchanter took his word.

  But the High Enchanter had been lying this entire time? He practiced all sorts of dark and forbidden magics in order to bring forth an old god—the same old god who wanted Celena? It was all too much. Too much, too soon.

  Bastian found himself in the washroom, moving before the dirty mirror. He used his sleeve to swipe a clean streak, staring at his reflection. His skin was not as dark as it should be, not as lively. His hazel eyes were haunted. His curly black hair—normally kept at a short length—was a few inches longer than it was when he was thrown in the mass grave, and a grizzly beard lined his chin. He could hardly recognize himself.

  He looked terrible.

  And he felt…even worse. He gripped the wall around the mirror, holding himself up, lest he collapse to his knees. His mind was anxious, fretting, frantic. Bastian did not feel like himself. He was a stranger in his own skin.

  The hands on the wall formed two fists, and he gently pounded on it. Celena was a necromancer. His Celena was…a user of dark magics. Truly, Bastian should have known she might fall to this level when he came upon that farmhouse, when he saw her small, naked body and the black flames flickering around her but harming her not, even though they’d burned her parents to cinders.

  It meant one thing. If Celena had risen him from the dead, they were connected in ways they had never been before. It meant he belonged to her, in a sick and twisted way. What was the word? A thrall. Bastian was Celena’s thrall.

  He was angry, for he was a proud man. He was a chevalier. Bastian belonged to no one. No kingdom, no king or empress, and certainly no necromancer. But he did; he belonged to her.

  He belonged to Celena.

  Chapter Two

  Lena’s legs drew her down the hall; she spotted Bastian standing in the washroom, in front of a dusty mirror. He must’ve wiped his sleeve on it, for there was a streak of cleanness, a small area where he could stare at his face. And what a haggard, ragged face it was. Not the face she knew was his.

  Maybe she could help him get cleaned up, help him shave and cut his hair, and they’d both feel better. Although, given the circumstances, she was pretty sure feeling better about any of this was out of the question, an impossible wish.

  She stood there in the hall, staring at him while her mind fluttered about, for what felt like forever. Bastian, she realized with dread in her heart, was her thrall. She could command him
to do anything, and he’d have no choice but to do it—not that she would. She might’ve raised him from the dead, but she wasn’t the typical necromancer. They weren’t her puppets.

  She did wonder, though, why Bastian was the only one who came back with flesh and his mind mostly intact. Just like in the crypt with Vale and Tamlen—they were the only two who had their facilities intact; the others were simply skeletons. Her power was undeniable, but untrained and rusty.

  “Bastian,” Lena finally spoke, stepping into the washroom slowly. It was a rather small space, fit with a tub, a mirror, and a large window which, she supposed, made it easier to fill and empty the tub with water.

  He didn’t look at her, didn’t even tear his gaze from the mirror for a second. Bastian probably didn’t want to look at her, knowing what she did, what she was capable of. But, she told herself, how was raising someone from the dead worse than murdering her own parents? Surely this was a step down from that.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, feeling her eyes growing watery. Great. She was about to cry. That was the last thing this situation needed. But after everything that had happened, it was too much. “I know you must be disappointed in me, but know that I…” Her voice stumbled to a halt. What was she attempting to say? What did she want him to know? “Know that I am sorry, and I’ve missed you terribly.”

  Lena moved deeper into the room, running a hand along the tub. It was ceramic; the old farmers must’ve had it imported from the city. It was covered in dust and grime, but it was big enough for multiple people to sit inside it.

  His eyes never tore from the mirror.

  “I asked for you for weeks before Gregain got word from the King you had fallen ill with the plague.” Lena closed her eyes, recalling the terrible memories. “By the time I knew you were sick, you were already in the ground. I could never visit you, because I could not leave the College. They just told me you were with the others.” The other plague victims. The first tear spilled from the corner of her right eye. “I never got to say goodbye.”