Page 47 of The Deathless One
“I will find you. Get moving. Now!”
They didn’t stop to ask more questions. Both of the witches raced away from him, moving quietly but quickly. They were efficient, even if Sybil trailed behind Jessamine now. He kept his eyes on them, watching as they progressed through the false city he had conjured until they reached the real one.
He couldn’t know if there were even more infected waiting for them there. Right now, he had to deal with the problem in front of him.
Yanking all the shadows down upon the heads of the three infected, he let dark magic seep into every pore of their bodies. It wriggled through their eyes, their ears, their noses, jamming their mouths open even further so it could pour down their throats. They tore at their faces, trying to stop him from sneaking inside their forms, but he had to know what they were. How they were so sick.
Strangely enough, he found no illness in their bodies. No bacteria or virus, no strangeness that grew throughout their body as though they had been overtaken by another creature. All he found was magic. Not quite the same as his own, but familiar. It had the taste of another god… but that was impossible.
He let the shadows slowly dissipate, returning to their hosts. The infected each dropped, their bodies deflating as his magic left them, until they were nothing more than dark smudges on the ground. Straightening, he cracked his neck as he muttered, “A magical malady.”
Strange. He hadn’t seen one of those since long before this kingdom was even built. Witches accidentally created such things, sometimes, when a spell got out of hand. But there were no more witches powerful enough to do this. He knew that without a doubt. There was no flavor of a particular spell caster or even a single person who had caused this.
So what had infected these people? Or, he supposed, the correct question waswho?
Staring up at the Owl’s Nest, Jessamine realized she’d never been quite so afraid. Even when she was wandering the streets and scrounging for scraps. Even when she had tumbled down the cliff’s edge toward the ocean.
Because if she believed what she herself had seen, then all this was real, not some lengthy fever dream, and the people closest to her really had betrayed her in a murderous coup. The only thing standing between her and the truth was the young man at the top of this building, who had been part of her life since he was a boy.
What could have turned his loyalty away from the royal family? They had fed him, clothed him, given him every opportunity to better himself.
And instead, he had chosen to hide here, in this building that leaned drastically to the left, crowned with a strange hat of random sticks poking out in all directions. At one point those had probably formed a dome; it might even have been elegant. But time and neglect had eventually ruined the building. Beams rotted, and the original beauty of this place had faded beyond recognition.
The Owl’s Nest sign still hung, even if precariously. She wondered if it would fall on someone someday, and if anyone would care.
“I’m going to stay down here,” Sybil murmured; her face was drawn, and dark hollows shadowed beneath her eyes. “I’m not sure I can… can…”
Jessamine really looked at the witch, then. The pallid sheen on Sybil’s face was one Jessamine had only seen when someone was very sick. The shaking of her fingers was concerning, as was the way she leaned againstthe wall. Sybil’s shoulder barely held her up against the building, which looked like it might topple over on her at any second.
“Stay down here,” Jessamine replied. “I can do this on my own.”
A dark mass gathered behind Sybil, the shape now very familiar to Jessamine’s trained eye. She turned away as the Deathless One pulled a wriggling shadow off his form and brought it to Sybil as the witch fumbled to open her gown.
Her stomach twisted, knowing what they were doing. She wanted Sybil to feel better, but she hated the relieved sigh that echoed in the small alleyway. The strange feeling felt almost like jealousy, which was silly. She wasn’t a witch, nor did she worship the Deathless One. Not like Sybil did. She wanted nothing from him but answers.
Scuffing her shoes in the dirt, she tried to remain silent as they finished… whatever it was they were doing.
This was part of being a witch, she reminded herself. It didn’t matter that she could hear the sound of rustling clothing or the faint sigh of a witch being fed. She didn’t want to know that part of the ritual because she herself would never have to endure it.
She had not given herself to the Deathless One. They were bound for reasons beyond the mere transfer of magic.
Finally, Sybil groaned and said, “I’ll cast a few spells down here. A containment spell to keep him in, and a silencing spell. That should be enough for you to get what you need.”
Would it? Jessamine wasn’t so sure. There were so many risks, and she didn’t think Benji was just going to tell her what happened. In the best-case scenario, he’d prove he had nothing to do with it at all, that he was still the same boy who’d brought her mother sweets.
But Jessamine knew better than to hope for that.
“Thank you,” she said as she started into the building.
The front door nearly fell off its hinges as she opened it. Immediately she was hit with the rank smell of mildew and rotting wood. There wasn’t even a reception hall any longer, or much of anything left. Just piles of what might have once been curtains and a mound in the back that shesuspected was once a desk. It had the general shape of what might have been a tavern, but certainly was not any longer.
The stairs, if one could call them that, were just as terrifying as the rest of the building. Missing wooden planks made every step precarious as she clung to an iron bar screwed into the wall, though it felt as though it could rip off at any moment. Every creak and shudder of the building made her wince.
But there were only three floors. She was brave enough to manage three floors.
Jessamine held her breath the entire time until she got to the top, which opened onto what had once been a dining hall. Or, considering where she was, a place where the unscrupulous held their parties. Though there was hardly a roof, and water dripped onto the floor made of old and shattered tiles, she could see this used to be a welcoming room.
Stepping over the cracked shards, she covered her nose as she was assaulted with the smell of refuse. Whatever was up here had died a long time ago.
