Page 17 of The Deathless One
He remained silent, staring down at her until she realized what it meant.
“She was dead?” Sybil whispered, her face somehow paling. “You brought her back? Do you have any idea what that could have done to her? A soul isn’t meant to die multiple times. You could have ripped her spirit apart, torn her into pieces of herself, and… and… A gravesinger? Deathless One, if she is truly a gravesinger, then bringing her back was defying life itself.”
Remaining silent, he allowed all the shadows to be sucked back into his body as he lifted a hand to his own throat. That was all he had to do for Sybil to understand that the girl sleeping on a pile of rags was more his than any witch had ever been before. He knew the dangers of bringing her back, but the mark on Jessamine’s neck was his mark. He’d done what he had to do to be resurrected, and now he would take what he wanted from her.
“Right,” Sybil said as she staggered out of the room. “I’ll wake her.”
“Let her sleep.”
“What?” She spun. “You were the one who told me—”
“So you would not walk into this without knowing the truth.” And because he wanted to see what chaos he could sow. This witch should know that she was dealing with a princess. The bundle of mud and salt and tears that she had so carefully guided into her home was responsible for the life that Sybil had led. “She is no innocent, and you should not grow attached.”
A frown creased Sybil’s face, and for the first time, she looked him in the eye without flinching. “What if you’re wrong?”
His witch disappeared down the hall, her arms laden with the tools it would take to confirm that Jessamine was the witch he sought. He already knew what the answer would be.
There was no way he was wrong. He would wait for her to summon him, because Sybil wouldn’t rush through it now. His witch had a good reason to use Lady Jessamine now. Let it simmer in Sybil’s mind. Soon enough, that witch would want more power, and this was the perfect way to get it. A gravesinger in their pocket would give both him and his coven significantly more power.
So he would wait.
He watched from the shadows as Jessamine slept. Fitfully. She didn’t rest easily, and he wasn’t surprised to find that nightmares plagued her just as they plagued him. Eventually, though, she sat up from her rags and rubbed her eyes.
The first thing she did was seek out Sybil. She stood and didn’t even try to look at the items scattered around her. Piles of ancient curtains, bins filled with bones, even a pile of mushrooms in the corner that were notoriously used in spells, but Jessamine looked at nothing. He had thought there would at least be a moment where she picked through a few of the things, trying to discern where she was. But she didn’t.
She wandered through the halls, calling out Sybil’s name until the other witch appeared from a doorway.
“You’re awake,” Sybil said. “And you’ve been lying to me.”
Jessamine turned bright red. “I thought I’d have more time to explain myself before you figured that out.”
“The Deathless One sees all.” He had thought perhaps Sybil would be gentle with her, but instead, the witch’s tone turned hard. “Now it is time to summon him.”
“What if I don’t want to?” Jessamine’s pale face turned comically white.
“If you wanted me on your side, then you shouldn’t have lied.” Sybil gestured with her hand. “Come now. I have set everything up for you. All you have to do is perform the spell.”
“I’m not a witch.”
“You were born a witch,” Sybil corrected as Jessamine made her way through the door. “Besides, spell casting is as easy as baking.”
He wanted to snort but feared one of them would hear him. He’d never in his life heard a witch claim that spell casting was easy. It wasn’t. There were rules that had to be followed meticulously. The worst thing that could happen in baking was burnt bread. In spells, it was burnt flesh.
He followed them into a quiet room where peace radiated through his form. A calming spell, it seemed, etched into the wall by a hundred witches who had come before. Even Sybil paused to trace her finger over a worn stone with a sigil marked by a thousand touches.
This was a lesser-known altar room, likely used for training. There was no god statue here. Only a small altar with a pillow in front of it for kneeling. Sybil had set up four candles, all black. There was salt, a small bowl of water, a match, and a bell. How quaint. An old spell that used to summon him easily, and now he couldn’t care less if someone used it.
But he supposed he should uphold the formality of things. In summoning, the magic didn’t matter so much as the intent.
He could almost taste his liberation. He could feel it strengthening in his body, stretching into his fingertips and pushing through his form. Soon he would be free. He wouldn’t be chained to any witch after that, because he was going to wring this pretty little gravesinger’s neck.
“What do I do?” Jessamine asked. She walked into the room like a wraith. All the bones in her body stood out in stark relief, the shadows creating lovely hollows around her throat and collarbone. That pale skin seemed kissed by moonlight until he saw all the bruises forming beneath it. A mottled expression of hardship.
“Read the book,” Sybil said in a clipped tone. “I put it on the altar for you. Just don’t do anything other than what it says, and you’re finished.”
“You aren’t staying?”
“Oh, gods no.” Sybil had already backed out of the door, holding the doorknob in one hand as she shook her head. “He’s terrible enough without having a physical form. I have no interest in meeting him in the flesh. Good luck, Lady Jessamine. You’re going to need it.”
