Page 3 of Summoned
It’s either me or them.That’s the single rule I’ve followed for the past five centuries.
Tonight, it’s Bobby.
He recoils as I press my palm against his shoulder, and the cold tendrils of my magic seep into his flesh. A scream festers in his throat, but I don’t allow it to escape. A dark sphere forms at the center of his chest It’s my magic, corrosive and ravenous. It pulses in sync with his weakeningheartbeat. Spreading, creeping, devouring.His eyeballs roll back into his skull.
And then, a scream erupts, but not from his lips. It’s from his soul. The sound rips through the church as I tear his soul from his body. It writhes between my fingers, translucent and unstable. Bobby’s body slackens, the flesh dissolving into threads of dark crimson that dissipate into the void. They’re carried away by magic to where all the husks—what remains of my harvests after I take their living essence—are discarded.
I summon a portal with a mere twitch of my hand. The chasm yawns open before me; its eerie outline glows in the desecrated chamber.
But the spectacle is already over.
I cross the threshold of the portal, Bobby’s soul clutched in my grasp. The stone floors of my castle greet us. The disoriented soul slams into the wooden furniture, ricochets off the ceiling, until it collapses onto the ground, quivering. A scene I have seen play out too many times before.
“Welcome home, Bobby.”
I stand facing the wall. Covering its entire surface are numbers—one to three hundred—etched into stone in precise, methodical columns, each carved with obsessive, almost ritualistic care. Many are already crossed out, their lines deep and definitive.
My focus drifts over the sequence, past the faded reminders of previous harvests. I find 289. With a snap of my fingers, magic slashes through the inscribed numbers. The mark glows for a moment, then settles into a deep, irreversible void.
My eyes land on the next number in the sequence: 290.
2
Nicole
Day 1
The suffocating sensation of being stalked hits me without warning. It has nothing to do with the throngs of people in the nightclub or their curious stares. It’s darker, colder.
From my vantage point in the VIP section, I scan the dance floor for anything out of place. The lights flicker in erratic bursts, like lightning flashes in a stormy sky, revealing a jungle of twisted faces, their inhibitions thrown aside in the haze of alcohol and primal indulgence. They trample overeach otherin a mass of lust, sweat, and cheap perfume.
These are lesser beasts. Not one among them could be the source of my unease.
Yet the feeling of being hunted intensifies. It throbs in sync with the pounding bass, merging with the music until it settles in my chest. A knot of tension tightens around my ribs.
Once again, I’m the prey.
The realization presses against my lungs.
The sharpclinkof glass against glass rings out over the music and snaps me out of my trance. I’m not a prey backed into a corner. The familiar voices of my friends envelop me, anchoring me back to reality. Tonight is my twenty-first birthday, and my surprise party is in full swing.
The tightness in my chest eases, but the feeling of being watched still lingers. Behind me are the two large booths my friend Boyana reserved for us. The tables sparkle with high-end liquor, and every important guest is here.
“A toast to the most beautiful birthday girl! The Little Baroness!” The DJ’s cheer bursts through the last remnants of my edginess. I lift my glass in his direction with a practiced smile. That toad-faced sycophant wouldn’t have spared me so much as a “Happy Birthday” if I weren’t Nicole Vrancheva, aka the daughter of the Construction Baron.
You could say my family’s name is well-known. In just ten years, Dad went from nothing to building an empire. He clawed his way to the top and secured our spot in Bulgaria’s high society. It would be poor taste on the DJ’s part if he didn’t spend the entire night kissing my ass.
People glance at me from all directions, yet none carry the same unsettling weight as before. The twins, Misha and Marie, launch into an obnoxiously loud toast in my honor. Their voices are high-pitched and grating, their insatiable appetite for gossip not unlike a pair of hyenas on the scent of blood. Although, if Marie resembles a bloated scavenger, her poorly bleached hair doing her no favors, Misha is little more than a withered branch, full of sharp angles and sunken features, her raven hair emphasizing the severity of her face.
As always, they’re dressed in matching outfits, red, this evening, a deliberate choice that ensures their presence is impossible to overlook. A few days ago, they returned from the States for the summer, yet all of Sofia was already aware of their arrival.
Vain, insufferable, and vicious, they could devour anyone who proved inconvenient to them. But they hold status and influence, and my reputation benefits from being surrounded by the elite. Besides, as much as I enjoy the attention my name brings, I have no intention of living out my life in Dad’s gilded cage. One day, I’ll build my ownempire, and to do so, I’ll need powerful allies. As long as the twins remain obedient, they’re welcome at my table.
Standing between the two booths, I raise my glass to each guest—a silent reminder that this party belongs to me. Aside from the twins, the sons of two of my father’s business associates are present, along with a deputy’s son and his girlfriend, a handful of seniors whose parents hold key positions in the judiciary, the heiress to the Magnate Hotel empire, and a few other strays of no particular social standing. I make a mental note to ask Boyana what they’re doing here.
Speak of the devil… Boyana throws her arms around me from behind. “I met the love of my life!”
I scoff. My friend is a walking cliché “dumb blonde.” Ever since she dumped her ex—after discovering he had been sending lewd messages to every half-decent-looking woman across the city and the region beyond—Boyana has been seeing the “love of her life” in any man who so much as crosses her path. And usually, that means junkies, lowlifes, underaged boys. Or men old enough to be her father. Never someone with actual potential.
