by Ryvr Jones
“Let’s recap.” Nell started to count on her fingers. “He’s not dead or alive…” She cut herself off, confusion washing over her face. “What the hell does that even mean?”
“Put that one on the we-don’t-know-shit column,” Caeron quipped.
“It means,” Seersha said without looking at them, “they’ve stepped out of the natural order of things. You could say they’re dead or you could say they’re alive, and you’d be both wrong and correct at same time.”
“Ugh. My brain is hurting.” Nell briefly covered her eyes with her hands. “Whatever they are, they’re here, they’re led by a blind dude, and they have an evil dagger. Even if it’s all true, we still don’t know who he is or what he wants.”
Tamerah’s chest constricted at the mention of the dagger. Her terror was still too fresh, too raw, not to mention the more distant but equally horrible memories of Rhys dying. And the blood, so much blood…
The blood.
“Uh,” she stammered, “I remembered something. When they slashed me, they collected my blood in three vials.”
Caeron whistled, shaking his head. “Okay, now we’re really fucked. Like truly and thoroughly fucked, no lube, no kiss goodnight, no call the day after.”
Afraid to ask, Tamerah did it anyway. “Why?”
Rhys tugged her closer to him. “Your blood is special because you were created by the Sheramath. You have vestiges of her and her power in you. If this motherfucker knows how—and I suspect he does—he can do all sorts of shit with it.”
“But how would he know who I am?” She tilted her head.
“I don’t think he knows about your connection to the Sheramath,” Caeron intervened. “The rotten fuckers must have told him what you did in the ruins. There are very few beings who can rip souls off a body. It would be easy to conclude your blood is powerful.”
“Then the goal of the attack on the library was to get her blood?” Nell grimaced. “If that’s true, he’s not only highly organized, but he’s planning something bigger than destroying us.”
“No shit,” Rhys muttered. “I don’t know what the fuck they were trying to do at the ruins, but it’s obvious he saw an opportunity to enhance his mojo when he discovered Tarani.”
“And they’re definitely watching you closely, as the letter says.” Nell shuddered. “I’d be flipping out if I had a stalker following me around for centuries.”
“Rhys is flipping out. On the inside.” Caeron tapped his own forehead. “He’s just good at hiding his emotions—as long as he’s not going berserk and Tamerah is safe.” He winked at Nell and said, “Shut up, Caeron!” in unison with Rhys.
Nell, Tamerah and Caeron burst out laughing, Seersha snorted, and even Rhys had to fight a smile as he repeated, “Shut up, Caeron!”
Tamerah gave Rhys a sideways hug, always happy to see even a hint of a smile on his face, a spark in his eyes.
He rested his cheek on the top of her head and sighed. “We need to find this clown. I don’t like where this is going.”
“Yeah,” Caeron said. “The rotten souls and the attacks were bad enough, but a Black Dagger enhanced with Sacred Blood? We’re marching to Fuckedupville at break neck speed.” He turned to his desk. “Maybe the book can give us some clue to his whereabouts.”
“I doubt it.” Rhys loosened his embrace but kept Tamerah close. “Why would he give us any valuable information? He must be trying to distract us.”
“Only one way to find out.” Nell eyed the book as if it could lunge and bite her. “Are you sure it’s not poisoned or cursed or something?”
“Well, I hope to fuck it’s not,” Caeron said, leafing through the pages, “since you and I have touched it.”
Nell rolled her eyes. “You shouldn’t have touched it, dumbass.”
He shrugged. “We need to see what the fuck it says, and I’m the official researcher for this mission.”
“Was the official researcher. I’m a historian, bonehead. I do this for a living.” She bumped him with her hip. “Move aside and let the grown-ups do the job.”
Caeron bumped her shoulder. “I do this to keep living, and I’ve been doing it since way before you were even born, little human. I have notes older than you.”
“Children!” Rhys barked. “Can we please avoid the end of the world first, and leave your stupid comedy routines for, let’s say, never?”
“You’re no fun,” Caeron muttered while Nell grumbled, “Geez, forgive me, bony one.”
Rhys growled and the two got to work without further comment.
Tamerah giggled and whispered in his ear, “Why do you have to be so mean?”
He winked and didn’t say anything.
By the time Caeron and Nell lifted their heads from the damn book, Rhys was ready to crawl out of his skin. His gut told him the book was a ruse, a trap waiting to close over them. Over him, forever binding him to the darkness.
Fear climbed up his spine with icy claws. Get your shit together, dumbass. If only because Tarani needs you, keep it together.
“Well,” Caeron finally said, “there are a lot of possible clues here. Of course, given the source, we can’t trust any of this information without verifying it.”
Rhys wanted to punch Caeron so bad. “Tell us something we don’t already know,” he ground out through clenched teeth.
“I think we have a place.” Caeron tipped his head slightly forward, looking at Rhys with a hard glint in his eyes. “And a date.” He gestured to the book. “Look at the last page.”
Dread pooled in the pit of his stomach. Rhys approached the desk and Tarani stepped to his side, caressing the small of his back, giving him warmth, her light, some much needed strength. As usual, silently supporting him, illuminating his soul, giving him a reason to keep going.
For her, he’d fight until the bitter end.
No matter the cost to himself.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, he looked at the words he was sure would spell his demise. In a flowery, antiquated script, the page said:
They shall meet on the anniversary of the Night Spirit’s death, at the place that should have been his grave.
The words took his breath away, like a punch in the chest. Taking a step back, Rhys scrunched his eyes closed. The darkness stirred, laughing with malevolence, scratching the shreds of his soul.
“Rhys!” Tarani grabbed his shoulders, forcing him to look at her limpid eyes. “Stay with me. You’re not going back to the Abyss. No matter what this fucking book says, you’re mine.” Her face turned fierce. “We fight together.”
“Yes,” he whispered, and it was all he could say. Tarani won’t let the darkness take me.
“What does it say?” she asked in a quiet voice.
“It says,” Caeron answered just as quietly, “whoever this fucker is, he’ll be waiting for Rhys where the Thousand Deaths Battle took place…on the same day Rhys died.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Rhys didn’t know if he could do it. Go back.
It wouldn’t be the exact same place, since the Thousand Deaths Battle took place on Terahmaht, and the Otherworld was long gone from this world.
But it would be the equivalent of the Farat fields, the fields that were once watched over by Faruhan-Aleth, the castle where he’d spent most of his former life. Where he’d lived, trained with his brothers in arms, loved the Sheramath, served his king and his Goddess.
Where he had learned what it meant to be an honorable man, a brave warrior, a loyal soldier. A faithful servant.
Where he’d been mostly happy.
Until he’d died by a dagger very much like the one that would be waiting for him this time.
And this time, Brianna Sheramath wouldn’t be there to bring him back.
“But I will,” Tarani whispered, fire burning in her pale eyes. “I can feel your fear. I won’t let you go back to the Abyss. I will not let you die. And even if the worst happens, I will bring you back.”
Rhys crushed her to him, hiding his face in her
neck, burying his nose in her fragrant hair. He needed her, to keep him sane, to keep him safe.
“You’ll never be alone again,” she whispered in his ear. “You’re mine, and not even the Gods themselves can take you away from me.”
A tendril of hope unfurled in his chest. “I love you.” The words fell from his lips like a prayer.
“I know,” Tarani said.
And it was enough.
Dallan smiled, satisfaction washing over him in a delighted shiver.
They had finally found his gift. He could feel hands gliding over the pages, the darkness seeking his blood, which he’d used to enchant the book and write the invitation.
After centuries of boredom and wait, the moment of putting his plan in motion had arrived at last.
It had been entertaining to watch the darkness grow stronger, day after night after day. He’d kept his distance in order to avoid discovery, even though he’d have liked to get closer, to see in person how unending misery and suffering slowly killed a soul. To see what a soul looked like while it was dying.
Not unlike what his own soul must have looked when it died, he supposed. But unlike the dullahan, Dallan didn’t have the darkness within. Only an empty hole, a void that somehow still hurt, still burned and occupied too much space inside him.
The void craved vengeance. It was all he had left—this gnawing hunger for revenge, for the debt to be paid in blood.
And souls.
Souls were the blood and currency of the supernatural world, and soon he would be a rich man. As powerful as those responsible for his demise, those who’d relegated him to the nothingness of his existence.
After he’d sacrificed himself in Ceridwen’s cauldron, to give his soldiers a fighting chance, both Life and Death had cast him out, rejected him, as if he were trash, something useless and rotten that nobody wanted.
The banishment had left his body covered in scars, his face distorted with a grotesque brand, a limp that would ashame any warrior. No one had been willing to help him, not Gods nor humans. The Gods had forsaken him, and the foolish humans had tried to kill him, calling him an abomination.
Dallan envied Rhys, bitterly so. The dullahan’s friends hadn’t abandoned him, even after he’d got the darkness. Even now, when he was a danger to mankind, they stood by his side.
Maybe Dallan’s path would have been different, if someone had cared about him like that. Accepted him as he was. Damaged. Lost. Hurt.
But no.
Once a powerful, rich and respected man, he’d lost everything. Not even his beloved had been able to look upon his face without recoiling in disgust.
Unable to go back to his life, to forge a new one or to die, he’d become an empty shell, in more ways than one.
None of it mattered, though, not anymore. The first step had been taken, and there would be no turning back. He would get his revenge, he would end it all. The Gods would die and all humans would be damned, tainted by evil, until no humanity existed anymore.
Dallan hoped the hunger would be finally satisfied once the world was devoured by the darkness. Maybe then he would able to die, to dissolve into nothingness, and forget.
Maybe then he would finally find peace.
Dread and foreboding had become Rhys’s constant companions. Almost three weeks had passed since they’d found the book, and he had seven days left until he’d be forced to face his past again.
He’d been called twice to Farahnir to collect souls. Tarani had taken him there with the Shadows, waiting patiently in his cabin while he did his job, to take him back to Caeron’s when he was done.
They had fallen into a routine, almost like a family. Nell cooked every day and made them all eat together, either in the kitchen or more often, in the library. Seersha had spent a week near the ever burning fireplace, healing, getting more annoying and acid each day, until she was back to her usual self.
For some reason, she’d asked Caeron to stay at his home. Her “vacation” with the Enforcers had fucked her up, Rhys supposed. She’d stayed, eating with them, mocking them, giving them shit for all the things they haven’t been able to discover about the Blind One and his plans.
Rhys still resented not being told that she’d kept him alive, but he had to admit she had reason not to. The Enforcers had taken her each time she’d saved him. Telling him about what she’d done would have increased her punishment.
Besides, he’d realized Tarani was right. He often disagreed with Seersha’s decisions, and she was infuriating as fuck, but she’d taken a lot of risks to help them, without saying anything. So they’d finally accepted her as part of their little circle.
Two dullahans, a demon, a human and a Death’s Bridge, living together. Almost like a family. And isn’t this the most absurd thing ever.
The only thing keeping him from going completely insane was Tarani. He knew she was as scared as he was, but he took comfort in her presence, in her laugh, in her strength.
She’d asked Nell to teach her how to fight. He didn’t like the idea of Tarani fighting those rotten things, not even a little, but it was a smart move. Better to be prepared to defend herself if the need arose.
And there was another reason to be grateful to Seersha. She’d allowed Tarani to pick up some basic fighting skills during the time she’d carried her around. It had been purely theoretical, but being able to mix theory with practice was helping a lot during the training sessions. Tarani progressed steadily, putting an impressive amount of dedication and hours into the training.
The only thing that made her stop each day were the limitations of Nell’s human body. The poor historian had to drag Tarani back inside the house when she was too tired to keep going, and Tarani protested every single day.
And every day, Rhys watched them in the backyard, alert for any threat. The rotten bastards had been quiet since the attack at the library, but he wouldn’t take any chances.
Both women were agile and flexible. Nell had the fluid grace and calculated use of strength that came from years of practice. Tarani went by instinct, light on her feet and quick to retreat, regroup, and go ahead again from another angle.
He was always aroused while he watched her training. The way Tarani’s body moved, her lean muscles flexing and stretching, her labored breath, her grunts, the sheen of sweat over her skin. Everything made him think about fucking her, making her sweat and shudder and moan.
“I think I’ve found something,” Caeron called from inside the house, dispelling Rhys’s lustful thoughts.
Both the kitchen and the library had windows facing the backyard, and they kept them open as long as the women were training. Faster communication, more ways to seek refuge inside Caeron’s wards if they received an unwelcome visit.
“It’s getting late anyway,” Nell wheezed, lowering her arms. “Let’s get inside and see what the bonehead uncovered.”
Tarani huffed. “It’s not that late, there’s still some daylight.”
Rhys chuckled. She said the same thing each and every day, always eager for more fighting. He walked to her, turned around and said, “Up.”
Her face lit up, a huge grin on her lips. She jumped on his back in a familiar movement, a maneuver that had become a ritual for them. Rhys carried her inside, followed by Nell.
“Thank you,” Nell said to Rhys. “I seem to be unable to make her understand I get tired much sooner than her.”
“She,” Tamerah said, “is right here. I understand perfectly your body’s limitations, Nell. I’m sorry for pushing too much.” She hid her face in Rhys’s neck.
“It’s okay. I’d keep going if I could, but I need to rest. I understand your desire to learn to protect yourself as fast as possible, though. Believe me, I do.”
When they entered the library, Caeron was leaning against his desk, his arms crossed, his body visibly tense. His face was grim, his lips pressed to a thin line.
This can’t be good. It’s never good.
Rhys let Tarani go, and scrubbed a ha
nd down his face. “What?”
“I’ve been researching the symbols Tamerah sketched for me.” Caeron turned to her. “Are you sure your drawing is correct?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’ve checked a million times.”
“Okay.” Caeron nodded slowly. “Most of these symbols are identical to the ones on Carden’s dagger, except for three of them—which apparently are part of a spell to open a portal.”
“Apparently?” Rhys frowned. “We need answers, not suppositions.”
“No shit.” Caeron made a face, clearly annoyed. “But all I have to go on are some centuries-old notes from an obscure poet who claimed he was a mage. The dude spent his life searching for a way to bring his family back from the dead. They were slain during a massacre, while he was away on poet duty.”
“Poet duty?” Nell snickered. “You and your technical terms.”
Caeron didn’t laugh, didn’t come back with some stupid joke. Fuck. If he’s not laughing, we’re really fucked.
Ignoring Nell, Caeron resumed his explanation. “This guy—Percival was his name—believed he’d found a way to bring his family back. I don’t know where the fuck he got this, but he came up with the symbols Tamerah told us about, the three absent from Carden’s dagger. Percival says that used together, with enough magic juice, they open a portal through which souls can cross back to life.”
Rhys cursed. “Did he succeed?”
“I have no idea.” Caeron shrugged. “There isn’t anything else in his notes after that. I’m thinking the blind fucker got wind of the spell, and he’s trying to use it. For what exactly, I don’t know.”
“It doesn’t even make sense,” Tarani said, tilting her head sideways. “The dagger sent me to the Abyss. There aren’t any souls there who could come back, are there?”
“No, there aren’t,” Seersha intervened from her perch on the couch. “The Abyss is a septic tank. When someone is given the Nameless Death, their soul is destroyed. Poof, the bastard is no more.”
Tarani shuddered. “And who decides who deserves it?”
“Anyone who’s capable of giving it.” Seersha smiled. “Like me.”
