Nightsoul

by McKenzie Hunter

  “You’re able to loan me magic because you’re a god.”

  He nodded. “But doing so weakens me. It’s the reason your mother will want you dead. As long as you are alive, she’s not strong enough to make more Immortalis. She’s significantly limited in her ability. As someone who reveled in her strength and her power over others, she will hate not having that advantage. Before, it would have taken the four of us to bring her in, to be strong enough to contain her. But if I were to meet her now, I suspect it would be a level playing field. The Obitus blade can kill both Immortalis and gods. She may have created you as a way to help her escape the ward. You were never to live long enough to be a weakness to her.”

  His look was grim. He gave me another appraising look. “For now, you are not at risk. It’s not until she discovers you are alive that she will come for you.”

  The glass wasn’t enough. I was past pristine sipping and pretending to be unaffected by the knowledge that a ruthless god would soon be hunting me. I finished the glass and pulled the remaining bottle to me, opened it, filled the glass just short of the brim, and chugged it. Mephisto looked remarkably calm for someone who was watching me chug down his expensive wine that was meant to be savored, not gulped. Having had my fill of life-altering information, I needed a reprieve.

  “I’m heading to the room. When I wake up, I’d like to go home.” Going home alone was more appealing than hearing more about the Veil, Mephisto, Hell’s Huntsmen, and how Mommy Dearest would want me dead. No, I was done with finding out more atrocious information about my life and longed for the liminal period: pre finding out I was The Raven.

  But my feet were like lead, rooting me into position because of one pressing question I needed answered. “How did you all save my life?”

  He approached me with a mirthless curve of his lips. Settling just inches from me, he took my hand, the one without the bottle, and allowed his fingers to trace an imperceptible marking on my arm. After a few seconds, I realized he was tracing the mark of the raven that had appeared on my arm when we went through the Mirra.

  “It was a magical death. The knife wound didn’t kill you; it was the Tactu Mortem used during that spell that did. We performed a necro-summoner spell. There’s always a penalty for performing one. The sacrifice for your life was years of ours,” he admitted softly.

  The guilt train was right back on track. “How many?”

  “Five hundred.”

  Years.

  “Thank you,” I whispered, my voice ragged as it broke.

  The grim curve of his lips hadn’t faltered. “It was between the four of us. A hundred and twenty-five years. Just a drop of time.”

  For him. Or maybe me. “I’m immortal, too, right?”

  “Depends on your father. Witches and mages aren’t immortal and their lifespans are similar to humans. Fae and shifters live longer than humans but aren’t immortal. Gods and vampires are by definition. We don’t age out of life.”

  “You still gave me back my life. I appreciate it.” Taking the hand that was still tracing the image of the raven on me, I gave it an appreciative squeeze.

  The wine, the new knowledge of what he was, my role in the world, or my brush with death—or rather, my short period of being dead—still hadn’t diminished my desire for magic. With Mephisto no longer suppressing his, I was more aware that I required magic. It was no longer a yearning; it was a need. I had to find a way to get my magic.

  His finger gently stroked my hair, then traced the planes of my face. “I’d love to say my motives were selfless, but they weren’t. We need her weaker, and keeping you alive is the answer. She is capable of making hundreds of Immortalis and access to unimaginable magic.”

  Dude, take the win. Sometimes you have to smile, nod your head, and keep the truth to yourself.

  As if he read my expression, he said, “I don’t want your feelings of appreciation to be conflated or misinterpreted by your desire for me.” Unabashed arrogance colored his words.

  Moving away from him, I secured the bottle in my hand. “Am I as strong as she is?” I asked.

  “We don’t know who your father is. If he’s another god, yes. Even a demigod’s magic would allow you to contend with her power. You come from the strongest bloodline.”

  Great, now I needed to find the man who decided to father a child with a psychopath whose sole purpose for doing so was to use the infant to release her from prison.

  “I’m taking a nap,” I announced, knowing that I’d never fall asleep. I needed a reprieve from all the information and time to figure things out.

  “Alone?” His dark eyes were wells of salacious and devilish intent. A distraction was exactly what I wanted, and the way he was looking at me ensured that the Huntsman of Hell would offer me a torrid and hedonistic distraction I wouldn’t be likely to forget. Mephisto closed the distance between us and the minutes ticked by as he stood just inches from me.

  I wanted so desperately to blame my faltering willpower on my status as formerly dead, or the bottles of wine I’d consumed, or my desperate need for a distraction, but there was more. Something nagged at me, as if there were still so many things unrevealed about him that I needed to know.

  Clutching the bottle to my chest like it was a floatation device keeping me from drowning in decadent thoughts, I turned and fled up the stairs before I changed my mind.

  CHAPTER 2

  As I’d suspected, sleep was impossible, so an hour later, with the overnight bag Cory had packed for me hoisted over my shoulder, I searched through the house for Mephisto, who hadn’t been in the kitchen, conversation room, or his office. After searching for nearly ten minutes, I walked past the room where Benton was stationed, his head down, reading a book.

  Seriously, what is your job and may I submit a resume?

  During my pass by the door, he decided to work. “Go to the end of the hall, to the left, and follow that hallway downstairs to the gym. He’s there with Kai,” he provided before returning to his book.

  “Thank you, Benton, you’re always so helpful,” I said in an overly cloying voice.

  “Of course, Ms. Jensen, helping you is never a bother.” His tone matched mine for artificial sweetness.

  “Enjoy your books and…tea?”

  “Coffee. And I shall until the next interruption.” His voice, saccharine to match his smile, simply told me he couldn’t be shamed or out-pettied, but instead of conceding defeat, I accepted it as a challenge.

  “Carry on. I’ll just navigate my way through the house and hope I find it.”

  “Or you can just follow the directions,” he responded, still keeping his ebullient disposition as he made a show of taking a long drink from his cup, keeping his gleeful eyes on me the entire time, before returning it to the table next to him and dragging his attention back to his book.

  He was King Petty of the Land of No Shame. Part of me admired it.

  The large space was a direct contrast to the rest of Mephisto’s home. Muted dark-gray walls and an assortment of blades took up half of one wall, and the other half contained a display of swords from a katana to a broadsword. Mephisto had a sai in hand, and Kai a double-edged karambit, like my weapon of choice. The smell of cedar spiced the air.

  All the new information plaguing my thoughts disappeared as I watched them spar. Magic pulsed through the air, and Kai directed the frenetic energy that typically permeated off him like a charge into his movements. The blades were just blurs of silver striking through the air. The sound of steel clinking at a quick steady beat filled the air. Kai soared at Mephisto as if he’d extended his wings and taken flight. Mephisto’s movement was a haze, eerily similar to vampire speed. Strike, parry, strike. A quick thrust of Mephisto’s weapon grazed Kai’s side. Blood spilled from the injury, wetting his shirt. Expecting them to stop, I took a step forward, scanning the room for a first aid kit.

  But the fighting didn’t stop.

  Kai moved as if uninjured, and the duo continued as if this wasn’t j
ust sparring but a death match. I swallowed a gasp when Kai thrust a sphere-shaped bundle of magic into Mephisto’s chest, flooring him with a loud thud. Before he could stand up again, Kai advanced, the karambit moving in a whirl of figure eights, causing Mephisto to roll away, several of the slashes kissing his skin and leaving cuts.

  I watched in a strange combination of horror and intrigue, drawn to the magic that inundated the air, the prowess of every strike and parry, the skill with weaponry. I was fascinated by the fluidity of movement and their adroitness in their use of various fighting techniques, and I was mortified by the unrestrained vehemence. This was half of the Huntsmen, the warriors tasked with retrieving the worst of the worst in the Veil.

  Mephisto had guided me to the best part of the Veil. Not where the most power hungry, strong, and cruel dwelled. I’d only seen the innocuous part of it, and I wondered what the other parts were like. Was it war-torn and hostile? Did people who weren’t the strongest live in constant fear?

  Drawing my attention back to the men, I remained conflicted. I’d sparred many times and it was never like this. The dichotomy of it was confusing as hell. It wasn’t hostile but violent. It was aggressive but had undertones of camaraderie.

  Standing, Mephisto advanced, thrusting the sai at Kai, who blocked it twice with his weapon, but not the third, lower, that pierced his skin. He made a light hissing sound, his shirt blooming red again.

  “Stop,” I blurted.

  They continued as if I hadn’t spoken. Kai’s lips lifted into a smile and he advanced in a combination of kicks, thrust, and strikes, putting Mephisto on the defensive and fighting to get enough distance between them.

  Mephisto Wynded away, reappearing behind Kai, who flipped back in time to miss the bolt of magic from Mephisto. His wings flicked from his back in many hues of blue, cerulean the most dominant as he distanced himself from Mephisto. Airborne, he slowly descended to the ground, looking more peaceful and relaxed than I’d ever seen him. Kai needed to fly, which I speculated was the reason he was usually a coil of unspent energy.

  “We should stop. We’re upsetting The Raven,” Kai said, his voice low and concerned.

  “Erin,” I corrected. “I’m sorry, did I overreact or should I have let you two kill each other? I just need to know the rules of engagement.”

  “Kill each other? Neither of us was in any danger of death.” Kai extended his weapon to me with a twirl of his finger. It was clean, all evidence of him trying to slice and dice Mephisto into bite-size pieces gone. “It’s just steel,” he said.

  The Immortalis could only be killed using an Obitus blade, I suspect the same was true of gods.

  I examined the craftsmanship of his weapon; the blade was much sharper than mine. I turned to Mephisto to look for the wounds I was sure would be there. Lifting his shirt, he showed unmarked skin, a reminder of the time in his kitchen when I’d ripped off his shirt and seen velvet skin stretched over the delineated muscles of his stomach and definition in his chest and back. I dragged my eyes from him and focused on Kai’s deep-tawny skin and his seraphic features, fitting of a person with wings.

  He snapped his wings back, then they disappeared. I assumed I was gawking. “Nice wings,” I said.

  He looked away, a smirk curling his lips. His eyes closed momentarily, causing his long lashes to brush against his cheeks. His skin was slightly flushed along his high cheekbones.

  How much had they held back during our encounter with the Immortalis to hide their identity? Seeing their movement, command of magic, the otherness that enveloped them was a clear giveaway.

  Kai lifted his shirt, where Mephisto had speared him like a steak, showing healed, unscarred skin.

  I don’t need any more show and tell, so everyone can stop flashing me. I get it, you’re immortal and damn hard to kill. Or even scar.

  Getting increasingly frustrated with so-called being a god without any of the benefits, I said, “I get injuries all the time.”

  Mephisto deliberated on the comment. “Magic heals us. We need to figure out how to remove your restrictions.”

  Kai wasn’t able to hide his doubt as well as Mephisto could.

  “It doesn’t seem like an easy task?” I asked.

  “I wish we knew who your father is. It would make things simpler. If we knew the source, mage, witch, god, or hybrid…” Mephisto mused, cleaning off his weapon with magic and returning it to its position on the wall.

  “If it’s hybrid magic, it will be harder to remove the restriction,” Kai said.

  “Why would anyone restrict my magic?” It seemed like such a cruel thing to do. Leaving me in a world of magic, craving it and needing it.

  He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe they thought I’d be like Malific and too dangerous to have it.”

  “What if it wasn’t an act of malice but one of kindness? To keep you from being found,” Kai offered. “Like magic can find like magic. You’re Malific’s child, a magical link. She’d be able to track you each time you used it. The beauty and the curse of our magic.”

  My eyes quickly snapped in Mephisto’s direction, fixing him with a hard stare. “When I borrowed magic from you, I could be tracked whenever I used it?”

  “Yes.” His face was indecipherable as we held each other’s gaze, and I flushed at the memories of the many times I’d considered running with his magic, thinking that I wouldn’t be found. This was one of the innumerable things I didn’t know about Mephisto.

  His finger trailed along the area on my arm where the raven had been imprinted.

  “I would like to try some spells in an effort to remove it. Can we?”

  I nodded. As if I’d object.

  Clayton and Simeon were already in the room where Mephisto kept his collection of magical objects. Clayton was slumped in the corner, thumbing through a book. I tilted my head to get a look at the cover. At my approach, he looked up.

  “That’s Mystic Souls,” I said. Had Asher stolen it from them? Or had they “borrowed” or taken it from the same person Asher had? Or was this the second one?

  “How do you know of this book?”

  “Because I tried to use it to prevent me from killing when I borrowed magic.”

  He pushed away from the wall, his face brightened, eyes alight. “You have the second one?”

  “Not anymore. It didn’t work.”

  His brow furrowed and he slumped back into the corner of the wall, eyes unblinking. “You got rid of it because it didn’t work. There are only two in the world.”

  “It wasn’t mine. I returned it.”

  “Who has it?” Mephisto asked. The Huntsmen had surrounded me. I doubted they realized how bad an idea that was. Neither death nor the knowledge that I had my own magic had subdued my longing.

  Their magic unmuted, the full intensity of it overwhelmed the room—and me.

  Step back, please.

  I closed my eyes and took several breaths, and when I opened them, they had moved away. Apprehension and intrigue were on their faces.

  “Who has it?” Mephisto repeated.

  “I can’t disclose that.”

  His lips pressed into a tight line.

  “Do you plan to use the Mystic Souls to try to remove the restriction?” I asked, hoping to redirect them to the task at hand. No matter how I tried to tamp down my hope in the face of innumerable failures, I was working with gods now and it seemed like anything was possible.

  While they prepared for the spell, pulling magical objects out of drawers and Clayton flipping through the pages of the Mystic Souls, hope became a blazing inferno in my chest. The reassuring smile Clayton gave me only made things worse. I was blissful when he opened the book and placed a scribed rectangular granite-looking object next to me, despite my apprehension of using anything from the Mystic Souls. Despite a sudden memory of Madison’s tears.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  I nodded a little too enthusiastically.

  Glancing down at the spell,
I had no idea what he was about to do and should have been more concerned that he was doing a spell that Madison said looked like Akkadian but wasn’t certain.

  “What language is that?”

  “Akkadian.”

  Madison would be happy to know that she was right, but it wouldn’t have helped because we didn’t speak it, nor did we know how to translate it.

  “You can translate it?” I asked, my optimism unfazed by him using a spell written in a dead language.

  His confident mien, reassuring smirk, and comforting warm chestnut-colored eyes would reassure anyone.

  “You need to hold this.” He gave me the granite object, then he retrieved a peculiar-looking blade with markings on it and handed it to Simeon. This wasn’t a spell they’d just come up with on a whim.

  “Pearl is fine. I checked on her yesterday,” he informed me.

  Cue performance. This was the time that I had to pretend to be overly concerned for murder kitty—the apex predator with fangs and claws that could tear through flesh. Okay.

  “Thank you. How’s Victoria?” My performance must have been believable because he flashed me a smile.

  “Victoria’s fine, but we think that Pearl is getting a cold.”

  How am I supposed to respond to this information? Kitty got a cold. And?

  “Oh, poor kitty,” I cooed.

  “Yeah, Victoria is going to take her to the vet today.”

  My imagination went wild. I envisioned Victoria requesting an airlift to the vet for her poor sick, spoiled kitten while stroking her murder paws.

  Before Simeon could give me any more updates about Pearl, Clayton cued him to use the knife. He moved so quick, it wasn’t until I saw the blood welling on my finger that I knew he’d cut me. A droplet fell onto the granite slab.