Page 36 of Summoned
He spins me again and yanks me back, my spine hitting his chest. His arm wraps around my waist, holding me in place. The sensation is confusing—a mix of safety and danger, followed by a jolt of electricity shooting through my body.
My focus shifts to the flames, which are dimming, shrinking, until at last, they melt away into the surrounding space. In their stead, the gallery of rigid figures remains. For a moment, I’d forgotten everything but us.
Gaetano’s breath grazes my ear once more. “Do you see these people? This room is full of fools who believe money is power. That gold and titles can buy respect. Love. Freedom.”
I grit my teeth. “Isn’t that the truth?”
The ground beneath my feet cracks open, and we fall into a bottomless black void. My stomach tightens into a painful knot, like I’ve dropped at full speed on a rollercoaster. I’m about to scream, but my shoes hit solid ground.
And suddenly, we’re back. Standing at the Deliberov table, in front of my father’s unmoving figure and his influential friends. Statues of ice, so fragile they could shatter into a thousand shards with the slightest pressure. My mother—lips parted, face twisted in familiar disapproval, resembles a piece of crystal: delicate and lifeless. The way she always looks, anyway.
The heat radiating from the Black Joker seeps through my clothes, a lingering reminder of everything that just happened. “What do you think?” he says behind my back. “Is thatstillyour truth?”
The Black Joker releases me and steps away. Bone-deep cold crashes into me.
The frozen statues start to thaw. The ice on their faces cracks like shattered glass. My father blinks once, then again. My mother’s half-open mouth twitches with bewildered outrage. In an instant, life picks up again. The ballroom comes alive with laughter, conversations, the clinking of glasses. As if nothing ever happened.
And then everything shifts into slow motion, but just for me. The guards finally reach the Black Joker, locking handcuffs around his wrists.
Shouts draw my attention to the table. Mr. Deliberov is clutching his chest. His face flushes deep red, and his eyes bulge. Thick beads of sweat form on his brow as his features twist in pain. His wife stands up, trying to give him a glass of water, but her hand trembles so badly that droplets spill onto the tablecloth.
Chairs scrape back. Voices rise into a chaotic symphony.
“He’s having a heart attack! Call 911!” someone screams.
My own heart stutters. The scene is surreal. And there’s no way it’s a coincidence.
I whirl around to where the Black Joker was standing and—
He’s gone. The cuffs hang empty as the guards stare at their own hands in stunned confusion.
12
Gaetano
Magic is a living force. It’s an energy that intertwines with yours, expanding and contracting, depending on the strength of your will. We also call it the “inner spirit”—our witch-born half. It defines our strongest traits. But it’s the other half, ourhumanhalf, that governs it.
Most witchers are satisfied with the magic they were born with. I never was.
Tonight’s spectacle was no inborn talent, but a pure display of black magic. Inhuman. Grotesque. Violent. The kind that feeds my primal urge to dominate, to take control of everything in the room. When I come across a crowd this large, I can’t resist the spotlight, even if my harvest is the only one watching.
Among the ancient witch families, black magic is often revered as tradition, which is why it’s sometimes referred to as “traditional” magic. Its practice requires drawing power beyond the one you’re born with. Deals with the Higher Powers. And one simple rule governs that trade: everything comes at a cost.
Most traditional witchers believe that to access black magic, they must pay with something precious—something of their own. Some would give up their youth, trapping themselves in the bodies of old men while their spirits still burn with the ambition of twenty-year-olds. Others sacrifice their hearts—literally or metaphorically—trading them for the cold logic of raw magical power. Some have even used their children as currency.
When I became Madeline’s apprentice, she taught mehow to barter with the Higher Powers without surrendering a piece of myself. She showed me how to createsources—offerings I could give the Higher Powers. That’s how I learned to trade in emotions. Fear, primarily. I provoke it, extract it, steal it as energy, and exchange it for power beyond human comprehension.
It’s what I did with Nicole tonight. I poured every ounce of dark emotion the Baroness was trying to suppress into the spell, to fuel the dark magic. But it still wasn’t enough, and I ended up leveraging some of my inner power to support the magic.
Some. Enough that I need to stay put and recharge, at least for the time being.
As I roam the corridors of the castle, I replay our dance. My original plan was to stir some chaos in Nicole’s mind. It was another one of my “small” tests, designed to help me understand my harvests. How they respond under pressure. Under scrutiny. On fire.
The Little Baroness performed quite well. While she moved, her aura shifted. It didn’t scatter like a frightened shadow, nor did it dissolve into weakness or fear. Instead, it hardened, gained weight, and sharpened into pure resolve. Her face said it all:I’ll outdance you.
A challenge I accepted with eagerness.
When our bodies intertwined in the dance, the magic stirred in me in a way it hadn’t in centuries—not like a beast trapped in a cage, but like a boundless current. For a fleeting second, I forgot my role as the Black Joker and committed to the joy of dancing with a beautiful woman.
