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So why choose someone who despises the very blood in his veins?
Shaking my head, I kick a toadstool growing in between the cracks of the old, cobblestone path leading to the mansion. The shadows seem deeper here, and though the clearing is open to the hell flame, the light seems to be snuffed out before it ever reaches the roof. It’s like a dome of midnight encircles it, making the place look more imposing than it is.
Overrun in weeds and vines, the wooden siding is barely visible. If the wards didn’t have a slight golden hue to them,one might not know they’re there. Even the windows have been blocked out by the wild thatch work of blooming jasmine.
Nearing the steps of the wrap-around porch, my boots click against the creaking wood, screaming beneath my weight. This place has aged since I visited last. Granted, that was over two hundred years ago, and my trips here were far and few at that.
Resting a hand on the wobbling rail, the vines at the base of the steps writhe, as if they could reach out and touch me as I pass. It’s now that I notice the bones in the planter beds. I spot the curved edge of a humanoid rib cage, its holes filled with flame-colored tulips. The trellises lining the side of the mansion are constructed of long femur bones, held together by twine.
“Oh, Griffin…” I breathe, keeping my voice quiet. “What did you get yourself into?”
Mages and druids wouldn’t have bone decor.
But what is Griffin doing with blood witches? They’re what becomes of magic users who dabble in dark magic and blood grimoires. It’s powerful and wild, but requires sacrifices—extensive sacrifices—and it’s magic that even the mad king outlawed when he reigned.
No wonder this clan has been so quiet. They’re likely not seen in town because they don’t want to waste power to glamour themselves. They don’t want the locals to see their rotting teeth, the lesioned skin, or soulless eyes. Not even glamours can conceal all the physical ailments that are caused by wielding blood magic, and if the crown discovers the spells they’re weaving here, they’ll be put to death for their crimes.
For all I know, Griffin might’ve tried to fuck one. A shiver rakes through me at the idea of him doing anything with one of these creatures… He might as well sleep with a corpse, seeing as blood witches are closer to the realm of the dead than the living. Maybe that’s why they’ve held him here. Maybe he discoveredtheir secret, and they took him hostage to prevent him reporting the truth.
All I can hope is that those aren’t his bones being devoured by the daisies… Those twisted spells could strip the living flesh off his bones in moments, siphoning the life out of every cell to fuel the witch’s power that sacrificed him. It would be his soul the magic would feed off last.
Alice had used a locator spell to find him, but it doesn’t prove life. Unfortunately, his soul might linger here, but it doesn’t mean it’s still united with his body any more. Shaking the thought from my mind, I step up to the large wooden door, lift a hand, and rap the knocker. Silence ensues for far too long, making my pulse quicken. I’m just about to turn around, to search for another way in when the sound of footsteps echoes through the door from inside.
The knob twists, the hinges creak, and slowly, oh so slowly, a crack forms. Beady, dark eyes peer at me through that gap.
“Who are you?” a woman’s sultry voice hisses at me.
The air thickens with magic, a palpable force that brings a smirk to my lips as I stare into those malevolent, far from human eyes. “Are you threatening me? If you are, you’ll need a lot more magic than that.”
“Who…Are…You?” she repeats, drawing out every word, her patience growing thin, but mine is far thinner.
“I believe the proper way to greet your prince is, ‘How may I help you, Your Majesty.’ Is it not?” I rock back and forth on my heels, one hand still in my pants pocket, the other on the golden hilt of my sword, as I wait for her response.
The woman straightens, seeming taller through the slit of the door as a deep voice sounds behind her, “What is the banished prince doing on our doorstep?”
The wordbanishedseems to echo in my bones, turning every vertebra in my spine to stone. Of all times for that word to hitme… I refuse to show it though, having schooled my features into a mask of disdain.
My chin tucks toward my chest, jaw tense as I glare daggers into the woman blinking at me. “I believe you have something of mine. I want it back. And my gods have mercy on your souls, if a single hair on the duke’s head is so much as mussed. He is a member of the court of lords, and therefore, is under the crown’s protection.” Clearing my throat, I stand straighter, mental claws feeling in the depths of my awareness for the threads of magic piecing together the wards of the house. “More specifically, he’s undermyprotection.”
The woman flinches as if my words have physically struck her, but doesn’t relent or open the door. “The person you seek is not here.” Her colorless eyes drop from mine and she creaks the door closed, ready to shut me out.
Without hesitation, I grip the edge of the door, talons bursting through my fingertips to embed themselves in the wood, stopping it from closing without a second to spare. “Lie to me again and it will be the last thing you do.”
I push the door wider, revealing more of the woman hiding behind it. Her dress is torn, the opened fabric revealing the places where blood magic took its price from her living flesh instead of that of a sacrifice. Lesions ooze black goo, and I have to fight down the bile burning my throat.
The woman’s lips part as she staggers back, then chairs are scraping wooden floors. Voices carry through the halls of the mansion, echoing off the drab walls. I barely hear the shouts as I shift, letting my demon form take hold. My obsidian eyes stare back at me in the reflection of her’s.
One foot straddling the threshold, I search that hidden dimension of our world where magic wriggles and weaves, looking for the thread that will send the wards toppling. Thewoman’s backing away, spinning on her heels as she sprints deeper into the house, knowing exactly what I’m looking for.
Golden translucent strands span in every which way, woven and knotted and tangled. They’re a mess, a conglomeration of layers upon layers of wards placed over lifetimes. Then one string catches my eye, glowing brighter than the rest.
“Found you,” I whisper to myself. My eyes honed in on the origin strand gleaming at me.
I push through the threshold, expecting my magic to fizzle out, for my demon form to retreat, but the wards don’t phase me. Furrowing my brow, I look around the space one more time, finding most of it dust-covered and empty. Only this time, chanting swims in my ears. The wards weren’t to keep others out; they were to trap creatures in.
10
Asmodeus
