by Emma Hamm
But it was likely the safety of his arm curled over her side, his thighs bracketing hers, and his breath stirring the hair at the nape of her neck.
He didn’t count the passing of time in hours or days. He counted time in each beat of her heart, every soft sigh, and every slight movement that brought her closer to him. They might have laid on that bed for hundreds of years and he still would not have moved.
She was dangerous. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had distracted him in such a way.
Pitch liked to think that he was a picky man. He liked nice things, and understood the only way to keep such things was to work hard. He served himself on a platter to those who had money and power until he was the only one with such things. He beckoned and everyone answered his call.
Except her. He looked down at the fan of her eyelashes upon her pale cheek. She had dug her heels in from the first moment he tried ordering her around. Of course he’d gotten his way, but her hesitation had made a lasting impression.
He played with a lock of her hair, coiled around her antlers. She was too pretty to be considered animalistic, even with the clear deer parts attached to her human body. A monster she was not. A goddess? Perhaps. Although he was inclined to compare her to an angel.
Certainly she could have been. He read the stories humans created. Angels were different in his world. They were fierce creatures who enjoyed battle and bloodshed as much as their demonic counterparts. That was why so many Blue Bloods had disagreed with the human categories.
Blue eyes. Black eyes. It was all the same to creatures who had long ago sectioned themselves into light or dark, good or evil.
She was neither, this strange captive who wiggled her way under his skin. If she bled, he thought it likely to be white. If she could even bleed. Her transformation was nearly complete.
Sil had never been able to be wounded until the moment his siblings found her ultimate weakness and torn her limb from limb.
“Pitch?” her soft murmur startled him from the ancient memories.
She reached for him, her slim hand stretching into the darkness. He wasn’t usually the kind of man to smile, but he felt the soft expression stretch across his face as he grasped her fingers.
“Did you forget where you were?” he asked, his lips hovering above her ear.
Her entire body tensed against his. “Pitch?”
“Still me.”
The startling difference between her tense body and her relaxed body was evident as she molded against his skin. He didn’t think she would be particularly keen on sleeping in his room. Apparently he had been wrong.
“Sorry,” she muttered. “I’m never very sharp when I’m coming out of a vision. Everything always feels so disjointed.”
“I thought I told you to dream without seeing the future.”
“You did, but I don’t control it all the time.”
He knew that she would go through a learning period. Nearly the entirety of his childhood had been mistake after mistake until he eventually put the puzzle pieces of his mind together. She didn’t have the luxury of a couple hundred years to hone her craft. Lydia had to be pushed harder than most deities.
There were worlds depending upon it.
“You need to learn how, and quickly.” He tried to be gruff, but Pitch was finding it harder and harder to be so around her. She wanted to make him happy.
“There was another boy.”
It took all his self-control not to flinch. He was still finding it difficult to put the last one out of his head. Changing someone’s gender wasn’t exactly the end of the world, but it was a dastardly thing to do before the person could make that decision on their own. A child was a child, but he hoped he had been there early enough that the soul inside it hadn’t decided what it would like.
“Another?”
“Older,” she whispered. “Much older. He’s not like us. He’s human, a Red Blood, and so powerful that he almost threw me from his thread of future like a ragdoll.”
That made Pitch sit up and pay attention. “A Warlock?”
“A Magician.”
“We wiped them from this planet when the dimensions first collided. And you mean to tell me we missed one?”
“No,” she chuckled. “He was created naturally. There aren’t even any Magicians in his family line. He simply became one in the womb. Infinitely powerful and very important to our cause.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know yet. I couldn’t see that far but I couldn’t pull myself off of his time thread either. He’s going to kill his family.”
Pitch blinked a few times to clear his mind. “What was that last part?”
“He’s going to kill his family. Everything was muddled and very emotional, but he can’t stay there. All I could see was a mist of red and I can’t change that part. That future is very much set no matter what things I tweak. It’s too late to save them. But he can’t be caught and he can’t stay in that house with all those dead bodies.”
“How old did you say he was?”
“Eleven maybe? Twelve? He’s just a boy.”
“That would be a terrible thing,” Pitch grumbled.
He didn’t want to get out of his bed. She was soft and warm. He hadn’t enjoyed himself like this in decades. Maybe even centuries if he was being honest with himself.
Women weren’t hard for him to find. There were always be a few that wanted to play with danger. The thrill always caused the blood in their veins to pulse a little faster, a little harder. They were the ultimate addicts and he was the purest form of drug they could find.
He was all too happy to provide them entertainment in the beginning. Yet, time had a way of wearing thin his morals. Pitch found them all to blur together. Female bodies here were too similar. Even with the hint of magic peeking through, they were all the same.
Soft in the same places. Angular in the same spots. They made the same sounds thinking that was what he wanted. Original became a word he didn’t know the meaning of.
Lately, he had enjoyed his own company. Being alone was easier. There was no one in the morning to explain how he had to leave, or worse, how they had to leave. He didn’t have to think of a way to tell them not to return to his club because he had found the track lines on their arms and thighs.
Lydia shifted. Her hand curled underneath her chin and she sighed.
This was what he had missed, he realized. Not the sex. Not the adventurous spirits. He had missed lying next to someone who was utterly trusting of him.
“You don’t have a lot of time,” she murmured. “And as much as I want to help, I know you are going to say no. So I’m going to go back to sleep.”
“Rub it in why don’t you.”
“I plan on it.”
He grinned, smiling with abandon because she could not see him. Her eyes were already closed, her body lax in the weight of sleep.
Shadows pulled at his physical form. The power that rolled within him longed to stretch into the waiting darkness. It knew where he was going. It knew what he wanted to do.
Pitch never understood his power. Thousands of years had not weakened him, the death of his siblings had made him stronger, and the more he used the dreaded black ink within his soul, the more he was capable of.
He drifted into the shadows, sliding back into them like he would a pool. He dissolved.
They pulled him where they wanted to go. Lydia’s words had been more than enough for his magic to find the boy.
Darkness called out to its ilk.
The Magicians were destroyed when these dimensions combined for a good reason. They had too much power and not enough control. Like Pitch, they would always desire evil.
Although, they were also capable of much good. He had personally known a few white magic Magicians who could heal with the slightest of touches. They had lost much in their attempts to remain “good”. Others were not as honest.
Those who toyed in black magic were tainted by it. They smelled of lo
custs, felt like barbed wire, and tasted of ashen bones.
Pitch materialized before a burning building. A blast of heat seared his shadows, the fire consuming magic as well as earthen objects.
“I’ve arrived just in time,” he murmured as his body solidified. He tugged hard on the edges of his velvet coat and forced a shield before him.
He stepped into the house, crunching through broken furniture and crumbling pieces of human flesh. One of them had tried to escape. Its hands were reaching for the door as though someone might have been able to save them.
Magical creatures always hated Magicians. It was ingrained in them, the old dimension had nearly been torn apart years before by a group of Magicians who had gotten out of hand. Pitch and his siblings had taken care of the first round, the other Five taking care of the rest.
Still, he had always thought that the poor creatures deserved a chance. Those who were dark needed training, not condemnation.
He didn’t feel guilty as the hand of the charred skeleton pulverized into dust beneath his heel. An unnatural wind ran over his shield, searching for a weakness it could slither through.
“You are more powerful than I imagined,” Pitch called into the desolation. “Perhaps you will save me the trouble of finding you. I mean no harm.”
The boy did not answer. Considering that invitation enough, Pitch stepped over the body and into the remains of the stately home.
There wasn’t much left. Ashes drifted from the ceiling, some spots still burning. Angry coals flared as the wind from his passing stirred them to life. Strangely enough, a blue mist swirled at the floor, parting only when his shield pushed it out of the way.
Pitch didn’t want to frighten the child into destroying more. A Magician of this strength was likely capable of laying waste to the entire town. Avoiding that would be the best option for everyone involved.
He opened his hands at his sides, letting shadows drift from his body. They sluggishly twined down his arms, pooling in his palms, dripping to the floor with soft thuds. Released, they slid along the walls and disappeared into each room of the house.
Dozens of eyes searched each corner and crevice. They found every blackened lump, every lingering whisper of history, every lullaby once sung.
Smoke had stained the walls black. Pitch reached out a finger, leaving a long smudge of white behind as he walked through the corridors and into the dining room. There, he found the boy.
He sat at the head of a dining table with three blackened bodies. His skin was paper thin, blue veins starkly thrumming with power. His fingers were curled into claws. Pitch could see the carved lines he had left upon the charred wood.
Vibrant blue eyes locked with Pitch’s black ones.
“Hello,” Pitch quietly said. “My name is Pitch.”
“You shouldn’t be here.” The boy’s voice was a funeral dirge — elegant, but cold.
“Traditionally, people introduce themselves when they first meet.”
“My name is Wolfgang.”
“It’s a good name.” Pitch stepped up to the table, flipped the tails of his jacket, and settled on the chair opposite the boy. Though the table was long, and the chair had to be supported with magic, he thought it was a rather interesting dinner. “Your work, I presume?”
He had confused the Magician. Wolfgang cocked his head to the side, the slashes of his dark brows drawn down. Good. Confusion was easy to control, whereas rage or fear was not.
“Who are you?” Wolfgang asked.
“Who I am is not important. Please answer my question.”
“Yes. I did this.”
There was no flicker of guilt at all. Pitch wondered just how far gone the boy was. Not many people could kill all of their family without blinking an eye.
“How long have you been dabbling in black magic?”
“How do you know that?”
Pitch swung his booted feet up onto the table, crossing his ankles. “I know a lot about Magicians, which is what you are.”
“No,” Wolfgang shook his head vehemently. “I am not a Red Blood, not a Magician. I’m a Black Blood, like you.”
“I can assure you, boy, you are no Black Blood.”
“I am!” Lightning charges of blue magic scattered from Wolfgang’s fingers. They raced down the table at Pitch, a crackling mass of uncontrolled power, only to be swallowed by tendrils of darkness. Wolfgang’s mouth dropped open. “How did you do that?”
“I know you are not a Black Blood, because I am not one either. You are a Magician, and that is a very rare creature to be. There is more power in you than you are aware of, Wolfgang.”
“I don’t want to be a Red Blood,” Wolfgang whispered. Fear warbled in his voice which cracked as he spoke. “I just want to be a normal creature.”
“I’m sure that’s what your family told you that you wanted.” Pitch swung his legs to the ground with a resounding bang. “But that’s not who you are.”
“And if I want to be someone else?”
“You don’t. The most important lesson you will ever learn in life, is to be proud of yourself. Magicians haven’t been in this world for centuries and here you are. A living testament of magic. That blue lightning? That’s from mother earth herself, speaking through you.”
Pitch’s words drew the boy into a trance. His deep voice had caught Wolfgang’s attention long enough for tendrils of darkness to snake up from the ground. They hovered behind his head, weaving through the air and catching upon his ragged strands of hair.
“I’m a nobody,” Wolfgang said. “I’m nothing.”
“You’re more than that. You’ve always known it, I can see it in your eyes. You have always seen that you were capable of great things your family couldn’t even imagine.”
He caught the slight movement of the boy’s fingers. Even though the person seated to Wolfgang’s right was little more than charcoal, he still reached out toward its hand when he was afraid.
It was his mother, Pitch realized. He could see now the slight shape of a woman underneath the mess of her body. Her hand was reaching out to Wolfgang, as though she had been pleading with him to stop before all hell broke loose.
Shame that so many creatures of darkness found the same fate. They destroyed everything they loved long before they were able to be destroyed by them.
“Come with me,” Pitch said. “I will take you some place safe.”
“There’s no place safe from me. Look at what I did!”
Wolfgang gestured at the table, to the body lying half in the dining room and half in the hall. He wasn’t wrong. There weren’t many safe places for a Magician learning how to control his powers.
“You underestimate me,” Pitch chuckled.
“I don’t know you.”
“No one does. But I have a place to bring you and a library full of books written by Magicians just like yourself. I will not be there to take care of you, you’ll have to figure that out on your own. I’ll set you up to live well. The rest is up to you.”
Pitch held out his hand, knowing full well he was singing a siren song. There was no easy life in store for this Magician. Bloodshed, hatred, pain, anger, all the worst parts of life were the only things down this boy’s life line.
Wolfgang might have seen the truth in Pitch’s gaze, he might have known already that he had sealed his own fate, but he still shook the offered hand.
“Good.” The smile on Pitch’s face was wicked, a sure sign that a deal had just been struck. “Now I’ll give you your first gift.”
“My what?”
Shadows struck, lashing out and wrapping around the boy’s throat. A thick band of darkness tangled, sinking thousands of needles into soft flesh, wrangling out a gurgled scream. Wolfgang’s back twisted. His hands clutched at Pitch’s forearms and his nails clawed through the shadows.
It was over in seconds. His shadows remained wrapped around Wolfgang’s neck, the thick black tattoo there for all eternity.
Pitch held onto the boy, taking
his weight while remaining detached. “Pain is your first lesson. You will need to suffer if you wish to continue along this path, and I will not ask you to stray from your choices. Black magic comes with a price.”
Ragged gasps tore from Wolfgang’s throat.
“The gift is one you could not live without. This is a healing rune, the most powerful one in existence. If you wish to heal yourself, you can with a mere thought. If you wish to heal others, you only have to think it. But it’s greatest power, the one with the gravest price, is that it will allow you to heal the dead.”
Wolfgang froze. Slowly, he tilted his head back to look at Pitch. Determination and anger made his eyes glow blue.
“You mean that?”
“I won’t tell you the incantation. In time, you’ll be able to call upon the dead as your servants.”
“You want me to become a Necromancer?”
“I don’t want you to become anything.” Pitch nodded at the boy’s mother. “You want to become a Necromancer so she can stay with you.”
“I don’t want my mother.”
“You’re a liar.”
Wolfgang’s lips pressed together, but he did not argue. Instead, the boy straightened his shoulders and stepped away from Pitch. “Alright then. Where are we going?”
“Where all dead things go. And you are dead, aren’t you?”
He watched as Wolfgang took one more look around himself. Sirens were blaring outside the house, growing nearer and nearer with each breath. There was nothing left here but destruction and death.
Wolfgang nodded. “Yes. I am dead.”
Pitch’s shadows swirled around them, transporting them to Wolfgang’s new home; an ancient graveyard filled the bones of powerful Magicians and Warlocks.
Where else would he have brought a dead boy to live?
Chapter 11
Every time Lydia wandered these pathways, she wondered whether she would come back. Time had a way of bending her reality. It settled upon her shoulders like an old friend — a well-worn mantlepiece snuggling her beneath its comforting weight.
