Page 11 of The Deathless One
He let his powers stretch, reaching for any who still had a tie with him. When he followed that meager, thin thread, he was surprised to find its end in the same place his last coven had made their home.
From what he recalled, the witches lived in a luxurious manor at theedge of the sea. He remembered beautiful rooms filled with carvings of deities from times long past. Every statue of a dead god was decorated with flowers, filling the ancient cracks and wounds of battle with beauty and life that burst into bright colors whenever they bloomed. He’d thought it poetic in the grand home made of marble and luxurious stone.
That home no longer stood.
While the gravesinger might not yet worship him, she had given him a gift. Flexing his power, he could feel the connection to the living realm become stronger. More real. No longer was he tied entirely to this place of darkness. Peeling his own shadow off and sending it into the living realm, he lingered in the shade of a tree and saw a home abandoned. The manor had been consumed by time. One side of the building was exposed to the elements, blasted open in some battle the witches had lost without his help. Crows wheeled overhead, vultures joining them in a haunting call that grated on his nerves. Slipping through every dark and dim corner he could find, he moved inside.
Moss covered the broken tiles of the once-stunning marble floor. Grass grew on the rotting windowsills, twigs and branches spilled in through shattered glass. Chandeliers still hung cockeyed overhead in almost every room, but now they were covered in dust and cobwebs. The drapes had long since rotted into small piles by every window. Shards of mirror on the floor reflected the darkness that barely looked like his shape as he moved through rooms that had not seen the sun in years.
How long had it been since he last died? How long had it been since he’d tended to his coven?
One of the piles under a window moved, shifting into focus as a woman suddenly appeared before him. She stood tall and confident, although she was a mere specter of what a witch should be.
“What demon disturbs the home of a witch?” she asked, her voice raspy with disuse. “You are not welcome here, dark spirit.”
“Do not attempt to banish a god,” he snarled. The anger at her response felt unusual. He hadn’t felt emotions in such a long time. He hadn’t even realized he still could. “Whom do you serve?”
“I serve no one.”
He lunged forward, a hand made of ink and oil gripping her throat. Oh, he could touch her. Interesting. He hadn’t touched anyone in the living realm in centuries, and without his body, without being summoned, he was so limited in his power. In this form he could touch only one of his own witches—and this seemed a paltry one indeed.
Dragging her closer to his featureless face, he tilted his head as he growled, “There is but one god you serve, witch.”
She croaked, “All the gods are dead.”
“I am not dead.”
He released her, letting her fall to the floor, gasping to fill her weakened lungs. His black handprint remained on her neck. She served him still.
He surveyed the last of his coven, kneeling before him. She was a dark-skinned woman, her hair pinned back in neat braids. She looked… healthy. And that simply was not possible considering how long he had been gone.
“What year is it?” he asked.
“It has been two hundred and seventy-five years since the last god died,” she replied, before looking up at him with wide eyes filled with determination. “After you were last sacrificed.”
He crouched before her, looking into those dark eyes that he knew had seen so much. “Prove it.”
She knew he didn’t mean the year. She lifted her hands, poking them out of her sleeves to reveal how the centuries had twisted them. Crumpled, curled in on themselves, wrinkled beyond belief, they looked more like the hands of a mummy than those of a living creature. But that was not what he wanted to see. All witches paid a price for their magic.
She grasped the collar of her dress, shakily unbuttoning it before she pulled the halves to the sides and revealed the skin beneath. From her collarbone to just below her left breast was a crack in her skin, a tear as if two pieces of a stone had split apart and revealed a void beneath. Darkness shimmered there, shadows reaching out for him. It was the last well of her magic, held together by a spell that bound her to him.
It was so lovely to see again. Reaching out, he gently coiled one of thoseshadows around his finger and pulled it out of her chest. She hissed out an angry sound, watching him with no small amount of hatred in her gaze.
“There is not much left,” she grumbled. “If you take it all, there will be nothing left for me.”
“I gave it to you in the first place,” he replied, lifting the shadow so he could see the tendril reaching for his face. Strangely, he could feel the darkness of his features splitting open like a black maw, jagged teeth salivating at the thought of devouring his old magic. “I can take it back whenever I wish.”
“You are here for a reason, Deathless One.”
“I’m certainly not here to see you.” He dropped the tendril into his open mouth, feeling it wriggle deep inside his body and join the rest of his power. It had been so long since he’d tasted his own power flavored with the taint of witch, but instead of nectar, this magic was but ashes on his tongue. There was no flavor in this form, no kindness without resurrection. “I am to be reborn.”
“There was a prophecy, but no one has been born with your mark. Perhaps the oracle spoke false.”
“What is your name, witch?” He stood, motioning for her to do the same.
“Sybil, sire.”
“You will find the gravesinger for me and bring her here.” He turned his attention to the statue in this room. He knew this figure well. An altar stood before it, one upon which many witches had sacrificed to his sister. They would cut open a chicken for her every month during their bleeds, allowing the black cock’s blood to seep onto the stone.
