Page 16 of The Deathless One
His heart hardened and his hands curled into fists. Not this time. He would not be soft again, for a witch would always choose herself.
Something stirred above his head—not the sound of footsteps yet, but the energy of witches approaching. He stared up through the floor and willed himself to believe this was the moment things would change. He would not allow anyone to wriggle their way into his good graces. He was darkness. He was the end.
And so, when he moved through the shadows into what used to be the drawing room, he only watched as the two women staggered into his home.
His little gravesinger held on to the other witch like a lifeline. Perhaps she was so weak that she could not walk on her own, but he suspected it was merely exhaustion. She had had a trying day, after all, considering he’d threatened to drown her.
Not that he could—yet. They needed a connection before he could touch her body instead of just her mind. She didn’t worship him now, but eventually she would. If not spiritual devotion, an emotional one would do, but he had lost all ability to cajole anyone into liking him. Two hundred years of isolation would do that to a person.
She’d been terrified of him every time she saw him, and he had so enjoyed it. Seeing her dark eyes widen with fear and the tremble in her bottom lip when she’d thought it was the end.
But he’d equally enjoyed her rebellion. Something in him had coiled with glee at the triumph in her gaze when she’d thought she’d bested him. As though he hadn’t thought of every way she could try to trick him. The little thing clearly had never dealt with a god before.
They staggered past his shadowy corner, neither noticing the dark shape lingering behind a pillar.
Sybil was already tutting, her voice carrying through the rafters as she scolded the other woman. “You cannot be so weak, Alyssa. If he catches you like this, he’ll only take advantage.”
“I know that,” his gravesinger wheezed. “I just need a night. I just need a warm bed.”
“I don’t have one of those. The royal guards burned all of them thelast time they were here.” Sybil heaved her toward a pile of rags but was gentle as she laid the other woman down to rest. “They come in every now and then to make sure no witches have taken refuge here like the old days. Unfortunately, the last time they did so, they burned whatever they could find while they got drunk in what used to be a functioning parlor.”
“I’m sorry,” his gravesinger whispered. “I’m so sorry for that.”
Sybil patted her shoulder and eased her down on the rags. “It’s not your fault, dear.”
His mind fractured at the pitying words. It was her fault, wasn’t it? From her memories, he knew that his little gravesinger was the princess. She was one of the few who could have stopped the raids, and she was just as responsible for the destruction they caused as the powers that had ordered them in the first place.
As his little nightmare drifted off into sleep, he trailed the other witch through the manor. Sybil ended up in a room full of rotting furniture and piles of dirt from which bright blue flowers grew in riotous blooms. She rummaged through the shambles of an old trunk, muttering under her breath until she turned around and almost ran right into him.
A low gasp echoed from her lips before she steadied herself. “What are you doing here?”
“I never left.”
“Oh.” Her breathing was ragged as she pulled herself together enough to ask, “Why did you stay?”
Because he didn’t trust her. He didn’t trust anyone. Especially a witch who would do dangerous things to keep him away from her life and under her thumb.
But he couldn’t say any of that. Not only because it made him seem weak, but because she would realize she had a lot more power than she thought.
He leaned a little closer to Sybil, the darkness in him expanding around them both until they stood in a black bubble of silence. “Alyssa is the name she gave you?”
“I—I was just gathering my things to see if she’s even the grave… gravesinger,” Sybil stammered.
“Oh, she is. You did a good job of finding her.” His eyes closed, his mind returning to that darkened lake until he could filter through the soul he still held captured inside of himself. There was more to her than what she’d told the witch.
“She shouldn’t be left alone,” Sybil replied. They were nervous words, bit out through chattering teeth. “I don’t entirely trust her.”
“No, you shouldn’t. She’s been lying.” There it was, he’d forgotten it for a few moments. The memory of her mother and her talking. “Jessamine.”
“Excuse me?”
“Her name is Jessamine, not Alyssa. She is not what she seems.” The magic vibrated around him with his anger, rolling through his form as he realized this princess had tried to control both of them. Him and his witch. “She is the princess who died.”
Sybil’s body was framed by a window behind her. The frame was covered in grime and ivy hung outside, leaving diamond shadows to play across her dark skin. Her eyes widened in shock, shadows forming underneath. “She’s the princess? The one that died?”
“Is that not what I just said?”
“That’s not possible. You said we were looking for a gravesinger, and that little shipwrecked soul is just another witch. I’ve seen your mark on her neck.”
