She’d seen Caine in battle, the blur of silver and shadow. If she could combine strength with that speed, she’d be a formidable force. Even among demigods.
“Fine.” Malphas pointed to the moon. “This time, think about the jewel of Nyxobas, instead of my brother.”
“Any tips for me to survive the shadow hell intact?”
“It’s just like the mountain magic you used before. You’ll need to let Nyxobas’s power into your body without letting it overwhelm you.”
“Of course.” Her legs still shook from the magic she’d conducted earlier, and she needed to feel that raw thrill of gods-magic.
Malphas moved in closer and his aura curled around her body, whispering over her skin and sending shudders through her body. It smelled like moonflowers.
Caine’s not around, Cleo whispered. Why not take his brother for a ride instead? Believe me, when you’re dead you’ll regret wasting your time.
“Shut it, Cleo,” Rosalind snarled.
Malphas took a deep breath, and his eyes returned to their usual pale gray. “I’m not sure that you’re ready for this power. I wouldn’t have started with magic this intense if we’d had any choice. Flickering candles would have made more sense as a starting point.”
“But like you said, we don’t have a lot of time. So how does this work? Before, I lay on the rocks and then swam into the sea. But the night isn’t a physical place.”
“That’s why it’s a good thing you have me here, to lead you into the void.”
She still sensed tension in his powerful body. Whatever Stolas meant, she’d touched a raw nerve. She stared up at the moon. “Lead away, Malphas.”
As soon as the words left her mouth, silvery shadows thickened around them, enveloping Rosalind’s body. Electric power crackled over her skin. Malphas’s body seemed to fall away from hers, and his warmth disappeared.
And then there was nothing but the dark. No up, no down. No sound, nor comfort. Just a sharp emptiness that bloomed in her chest, and grew until it seemed like it would eat her from the inside out.
Dread took hold of her heart, and a loneliness so thorough she couldn’t hear her own thoughts. All she knew was that she’d always been here. And she always would be. Rosalind had never existed at all…
The realization tore her mind apart, until she could no longer remember who she was, her name, or anything she loved at all. For what seemed an eternity, she drifted in the void, consumed by emptiness.
At last the darkness thinned, and she found herself on solid ground. She sat in an empty house—a room with glass windows that overlooked a dusty, gray landscape. When she glanced down at the chair in which she sat, she saw it was more of a throne, made of onyx. The cold marble chilled her skin. But at least she could feel again.
She took a deep breath.
I’m alive. I’m here.
Where, exactly, was she?
A cold room, built of white and black marble. Windows looming over a desolate landscape.
From the corner of her eye, she caught a flicker of movement. A figure loomed by one of the windows, but she didn’t want to look. I don’t want to see…
A deep voice, like thunder, rumbled over the horizon.
Look up, Rosalind. See your future.
Terror stole her breath.
I don’t want to look.
And yet, she seemed to have no control over her body. She felt her head turn, her eyes swivel toward the window…
There, through the glass, her own face gaped, open-mouthed like a dying fish. Horror slammed into her. Somehow, she was in two places at once, and the world no longer made sense. And worst of all: the Rosalind who stood on the other side of the window didn’t look right. Her eyes were empty and lifeless, her skin gray, her body unmoving.
The Rosalind on the other side of the glass—the second Rosalind—was already dead.
See your future.
Bile climbed up her throat.
I need to get out of here.
With shaking legs, she stood. She ran for a black door, pushing through it into a gray, marbled hall. It seemed to stretch on for miles, and her footsteps echoed off the ceiling. She didn’t know where she was running to, just that she was desperate to get away from her doppelgänger.
But as she ran, an aura filled the hall—tendrils of black, scented of the grave. From out of nowhere, a powerful hand gripped her by the hair, yanking her head back.
In the next second, someone was slamming her against the wall with a painful crack. Her heart thudded against her ribs, and she stared into the pale, waxy face of Bileth.
He was bare-chested, a sword slung around his waist. The stench of decay filled her nose, and a low growl rose from the demon’s throat. He snarled, exposing his long teeth, and gripped her wrists hard; his nails pierced her skin. “My little Hunter. What has brought you here? To my home?”
This can’t be happening.
Was she really here, or was this some sort of vision? It certain didn’t feel like a vision. Not from the nails digging into her skin, or his fetid aura crawling over her body.
“Is this the shadow hell, then?” she asked.
“No.” He leaned in closer to her neck. “But you smell like you’ve come from there. I can smell the dread on you. And now you’re here, in my manor. What have I done to deserve this pleasure?”
His hot tongue licked her neck, and disgust rose in her gut. As he touched her—without her permission—she could feel Borgerith’s power flooding her body. It gave her a strange sense of certainty that she could fight him, an uncanny strength that blazed through her muscles.
And speed. Now, she had speed. Her power could match his. And he had no idea.
“Open your legs,” he said.
“I have a better idea.” She slammed her knee into his groin.
He grunted and dropped her wrists, his eyes widening with shock. Clearly, he hadn’t expected her new power.
While he was dazed, she took the chance to punch him hard in the side of the head.
He staggered back, howling with pain. She followed up with a kick to his chin. His neck snapped back with the blow.
She had him where she wanted him. And yet… where the hell was she supposed to go? Somehow, she’d ended up in his manor. Where was this magic from Nyxobas she was supposed to let in?
She kicked him again, this time in the chest. The blow knocked him back into a window, shattering the glass. Broken shards rained over him, slicing into his skin. Then, in a blur of shadows, he pulled the sword from his sheath.
He swung for her, and she leapt back. But not fast enough. The blow cut into her gut, and she screamed. Bileth’s dark magic whorled around her in a cyclone of shadows, wild wraiths that tore at her hair. As the world around her darkened, she found herself floating in the void once more. The painful emptiness gnawed at her.
But this time she was going to let it in.
She took a deep breath, letting the shadows fill her blood, until nothing remained but the dark. She fell to the ground—the wildflower and grass. She clutched her stomach, and in the next moment Malphas was leaning over her, gently touching her arm.
“Seven hells, Rosalind. What happened?”
Pain speared her gut. “I ended up at Bileth’s house, I think.”
Malphas shook his head. “That’s not possible. You were here the whole time.”
Blood soaked her fingers. “Then how do you explain what’s going on with my stomach?”
“I’ll explain in a minute. Right now, I need to heal you, okay?” Deftly, he ripped open the tear in her gown. His fingertips brushed over the skin around her wound, and she felt his magic thrum over her body for the second time, in waves of electrical power.
As his magic worked its way over her skin, the pain left her stomach, replaced instead by a soothing warmth.
She looked up into his silver eyes.
“What happened? he asked. “For fuck’s sake. I just fixed the last one.”
When she reme
mbered that empty room—the sight of her own dead face—the agonizing emptiness still cut through her heart, so raw she could hardly remember how to speak.
“Rosalind?” Gently, he touched her forehead.
She swallowed hard, sitting up. “I definitely went to the void. Just at the start.” She shook her head. “And then, somehow… I was in Bileth’s mansion. We fought.”
He nodded slowly. “You had a vision in the void.”
“A vision?” She frowned. “Is that what it was? How does that explain the giant slash in my stomach, then?”
“Sometimes, your own mind has control over your body. If you believe it’s real, then it’s real.”
Her body shook with fatigue. Images whirled in her mind: the dead Rosalind, staring at her through the window; the nails, piercing Caine’s gut to the post; the fields of wildflowers, where Cleo waited for Ambrose…
The queen’s murder. The hairpin on the wood table. The word Stolas falling from Caine’s lips.
She shook her head, trying to think clearly. “No. I was in a lot of places. I was in Maremount, and Bileth’s mansion. I’ve been with Ambrose, in the sycamore grove.”
“Rosalind,” Malphas said. “You’re losing focus.”
“I’m the collector of too many people’s memories now—Caine’s and Cleo’s and my own, clamoring for attention in my skull. Trying to outdo each other.”
“You need rest.”
“I’m fine. I just…” She trailed off. She wanted more of that rush again. How would she convince this man to do what she needed him to do?
“You need rest, Rosalind. I’m not going to be responsible for your insanity.”
“We need to keep going. I’m fine now.” She clamped her eyes shut.
Think, Rosalind. Convince him.
She couldn’t quite keep her thoughts from drifting away, couldn’t remember how to speak clearly. But maybe Cleo could.
She let Cleo’s aura bubble in her chest. “You know,” she said, her voice clear as a bell. She sat up straight, smoothing out her hair. “I feel fine now. I just had some aftereffects from the shadow hell, but my mind is clear as day now.”
Malphas narrowed his eyes. “What’s the rush?”
“Caine seemed like he could be in trouble.” She heard the words tumbling from her lips as Cleo took over. “And Drew could break through that shield at any moment. We don’t have time to waste.”
“You nearly died. Twice.”
“I’m fine,” she heard herself say, with a hint of growl. “Let’s go. You said I needed to be prepared to go as far as it takes, and I am. Are you?”
There was no way around it. She was going to lose her mind. Might as well try to save the world while she was at it.
Chapter 27
They trudged into the Edin Woods, and Rosalind tried to ignore the gaping tear in her gown. Her mind was a whirlpool of images. Golden rings and bluebells. Blonde queens falling from towers, their gowns fluttering in the wind. Someone seemed to whisper the name Stolas…
Her head whipped at the sound, then she blinked her eyes. Stay focused. She was in a forest, and she had some more powerful magic to acquire.
The wind rustled through the ash trees towering above them, and faint streams of moonlight pierced the leafy canopy. In the distance, a nightingale trilled. The air smelled heavy here, like damp moss, like the undersides of rocks.
“Druloch is already your god,” Malphas said. “You should be familiar with him.”
“He’s Cleo’s god.”
“Let Cleo lead you, then. Druloch’s hell will be unpleasant, but I’m sure you can handle it.”
“You think so?” She just need to feel that raw thrill of magic once more. The godlike power. Already, her body was buzzing in anticipation.
He paused by a towering oak, and leveled his gaze on her. That silver, god-like gaze. “Back up. Against the tree.”
She stepped back against the bark. “What will this sort of magic feel like?”
“Power over plants and the life of the forest. Power over death and decay. The power of a mob’s fury, desperate to hang the latest scapegoat from the branches of an elm. The brutal strength of a primitive human mind, and the power to give in to divine, liberating frenzy.”
“Plants?” She couldn’t hide the disappointment in her voice. She’d been hoping for an earth-shattering power.
He shrugged. “Obviously you’ve never been in a famine, or near death from starvation.”
Cleo’s aura whirled, slamming Rosalind’s mind with a vision of a dingy prison cell. She watched Cleo’s emaciated hand, reaching for a half-dead rat.
“Oh, I’ve starved nearly to death,” Rosalind said, with a ferocity that cut through the air. “I’ve eaten vermin from the filthy floor to stop myself from dying.”
Malphas’s eyes widened. “When you lived with the man who adopted you? I knew he was brutal to you. But I didn’t realize how brutal.”
Rosalind shook her head, dropping eye contact. It had been Cleo’s memory, not her own. But she couldn’t tell Malphas that. He wouldn’t let her practice more magic if she was losing her mind, and she was already jonesing for more power. “Let’s not talk about the past. What do I need to do for this magic?”
“You can start by feeling the trunk behind you.”
She pressed her fingertips against the rough bark, and it scratched her skin through her dress.
Malphas took a step closer to her, and as he did, his eyes slid down to the tear in her gown.
Okay. Maybe he had noticed the rip.
She felt Cleo stir. The old witch seemed to like the way Malphas was looking at her.
“Close your eyes,” he said, meeting her gaze again. The heat from his body warmed hers, and his silver magic curled around her protectively.
As if responding to Malphas’s aura, Cleo’s magic came alive, wrapping around her body in green tendrils. Look at the beautiful incubus, she whispered. Until you finally make good on our bargain and throw yourself at Ambrose, I guess one of these demigods will have to do.
Rosalind gritted her teeth, trying to marshal some control over her mind. She’d wanted Cleo to take over—but not so much that she was going to jump on any shadow demon in her path.
“You okay?” Malphas asked.
“I’m good,” she said.
He nodded. “Cleo’s aura should respond to Druloch’s power. Do you feel it?”
She inhaled the deep scent of pines and oaks, feeling the leafy magic stroke her skin.
I feel Cleo.
“Close your eyes,” Malphas whispered.
She did as instructed, letting her eyes drift close, and her entire body buzzed with anticipation. As she lost herself in the vernal magic, vines slithered up her legs, wrapping around her thighs, pinning her arms to the tree. Her eyes snapped open at the sensation, and she stared at Malphas.
His eyes gleamed like icy beacons in the darkness, not a spark of humanity in them.
“What happens now?” she asked in a raspy voice.
“Now, you learn what it feels like to be on the wrong side of mob justice. Something you’ve only seen from the other side. You will learn what it feels like to be at the mercy of those who fear not only death, but life itself.”
Her stomach dropped. “What?”
Shadows enveloped Malphas, and a low rumble filled the air. The vines tightened around her, pulling her back against the tree bark until she thought her ribs would crush. Slowly, the tree bark gave way, sucking Rosalind inside its soft wood.
The trunk molded around her, scented of decay. Bugs scuttled over her skin, up her legs.
So this was Druloch’s hell.
From within her own mind, Cleo’s voice answered, No, Rosalind. Not even close.
From within the tree, a chorus of voices began to chant:
We wait beneath corrupted frozen ground.
Unconsecrated, tangled roots enshroud
our crumpled necks and long-smothered embers,
w
here the hours fly, and death is remembered.
Her mind whirled. She didn’t understand exactly what they were saying, but she thought she understood who they were. The voices of those killed unjustly—the witches, the outcasts, the scapegoats.
They’d come for a reckoning.
From the soft wood, hands clasped at her body, tearing at her skin. As the tree seemed to close in, bugs scuttled over her body—up her dress, into her mouth. She opened her mouth to scream, but a filthy hand clamped over her mouth.
A deep voice intoned in her ear: “The unlamented will claw back their fates from those who fanned the flames with pious breath.”
Rosalind couldn’t breathe. There was no air in here, and the tree was crushing her. Another bug scuttled into her mouth, climbing down her throat, and she gagged. The tree’s walls pressed in closer, crushing the hands against her, and screams rose in her mind—the screams of the fallen, the unjustly slaughtered. The women whose feet danced over Salem’s grass, and the men who dangled from elm branches.
The tree closed in, slowly crushing her bones for what seemed like an eternity.
Let the power in, Cleo whispered.
Rosalind closed her eyes, envisioning the vernal magic entering her body. Bony hands clawed into her flesh, ripping her open, letting the bugs in. She shrieked in agony, until at last, a vernal magic filled her.
The pain began to subside, and Druloch’s power washed through her.
She opened her eyes once more. She stood beside the tree, looking into Malphas’s deep, silver eyes. Her body trembled, and she looked down at herself. This time, she hadn’t come back with a wound.
“It’s okay, Rosalind. You’re back now.”
Her entire body shook, but ancient power now coursed through her veins. And it felt amazing. She wanted to sew a forest of yews, and bend the elms to her will. She wanted to wrap this shadow demon in vines, and keep him as a toy...
He touched her shoulder, moonlight dancing over his pale skin. “You’ve had enough for one day.”
“No.” Her legs were ready to give way. But she wasn’t done yet--two more gods to go. She trembled with the power at her fingertips, and Cleo’s aura roiled in her chest. Images flashed in her mind: Cleo’s emaciated hands picking up a rat; Ambrose’s pale skin, glowing like a beacon in the night. Gold rings around his fingers.
Blood Hunter (The Vampire's Mage Series Book 3) Page 17
