The warlock continued, “I wanted in on those benefits. I’ve had doctors tell me I’m maybe ten years, at best, from contracting the Tricking. I’ve been alive for too many centuries—been using my magic for too long. Helping the Phoenix Head Society find the Well would not only make me immune to the disease, but it would also make me more powerful.” The corner of his mouth inched upward with a smile. “It wasn’t exactly an offer I was about to pass up, and I certainly wasn’t the only one who felt that way.” He paused, throat bobbing as he swallowed. “They managed to create a replica of the Arcanum Well. But…but it isn’t the same.”
“What do you mean it isn’t the same?” There hadn’t been a single hint that the man was lying since the moment he’d started speaking. His aura was steady, not a single flicker to suggest that anything he’d said wasn’t the whole truth.
“Their little machine doesn’t work properly,” the warlock said. “It’s as if it was cursed. The Phoenix Head Society is still looking for therealWell—the original—because they can’t make their replica work the same way. They’ve tried for a long time, and they keep trying—they keep purchasing the Blood Potions necessary for conducting the spells, along with the chemicals needed to fill the Well’s chamber. But they keep failing. They can’t seem to get the measurements right, perhaps, or maybe there are missing words in the spells they’re using.” He shrugged with one shoulder. “They need therealWell, is what I’ve been told. They need the real one, or their efforts will never work.”
It cannot be replicated, only remade.That’s what the Master Scroll had said. Darien wondered if the people who’d managed to build this Well replica perhaps had the other half of the scroll—the missing half that completed the piece Darien had in his possession. Or rather, the piece he’d recently given to Arthur, a dear friend of his who was better at deciphering riddles than Darien.
“Their replica is causing mutations in the people they are experimenting on,” the warlock continued. “It is turning them into monsters—into what the news channel has been referring to as a new breed of demon. The more their experiments failed, the less interest I had in reaping the benefits of it. Unless the Phoenix Head Society can locate the real Well, there are no benefits to be reaped. It is all risk and zero reward. But they refuse to give up. I didn’t stick around long enough to find out anything else; I wanted out, wanted away from their experiments before I became their next guinea pig. Before they ran out of the missing girls they were shoving into the Well and decided to use some of their own people instead.”
Darien’s head was spinning, and beside him, Max was speechless.
Loren was right: the demonswerethe missing girls. Born from the waters of the cursed Well replica.
“Who’s behind this?” Darien said. “Who’s in charge of this fucking mess?”
The warlock gave a shrug. “I don’t have the answer to that. I was considered so low in rank when I joined the society that I wasn’t trusted with such information. I was never allowed to see the real face behind the Well replica, and everything I’ve told you about the experiments they’re conducting has been offered to me by lower members of the society. I’m merely taking their word for it. And after your human pet got away from me, I was trusted even less.”
Max cut in. “And where do you stand on this situation now?”
“I already told you: I left the society. I wanted nothing to do with it after I saw what it was turning people into. I was promised immunity to the Tricking and an endless supply of magic; getting turned into some flesh-crazed creature wasn’t something I was eager to step in line to receive.”
Darien said, “If the society knows what the Well is and what it looks like, why can’t the hellsehers who are working for them track it?” Remotely tracking a person or a magical object was usually a cinch if they had a photograph or a drawing of what they were looking for. To not be able to track something was new to him, just as so many people concealing their auras was new. He’d never been tested like this before, not once in his life.
“It’s made from a material that cannot be tracked except by the girl. Even if you were to have a drawing of it right in front of you, you’d be blind. You would feel the Well’s presence everywhere, as if it was right under your feet.”
Shit. This just kept getting more complicated, didn’t it?
“What is made from?” Darien asked. Usually, magical objects exuded their own field of energy, so the fact that the Arcanum Well and its replica couldn’t be tracked, didn’t have distinct fields of energy that would point to their whereabouts…
It didn’t make sense.
But—maybe this warlock was wrong. Maybe, if Darien could figure out the answer to this question, he would be able to narrow down its location, to learn how to feel its presence the same way all these people seemed to think Loren was able to feel it. Understandingwhathe was tracking was at the very root of the Sight. If he could track the Well, he might be able to remove the target from Loren’s back, erasing her as the only route to the miracles it could make. He would slap that target right onto his own back if he could. If it meant she would be safe.
The warlock merely shook his head. Clearly, he hadn’t been trusted with that answer.
Darien pressed, “Where are they keeping the Well replica? Do you know where we can find it?”
The warlock shook his head again, and when Darien blinked the Sight back into his vision, he saw that his answer was not a lie. He really didn’t know where to find it.
“The hellseher who helped you take Sabrine,” Darien said. “Who is he?”
The warlock looked like he might pass out. “I was only given a first name: James.” There were so many people in this city named James that it would take a million years to find out who he was and track him. “Nobody trusted each other enough to give any more info than that. If you want to find him, your best bet would be to try and catch a photo of him on one of the video cameras in the city.” He seemed to think of something, and then he amended, “Though they’re good at hiding their auras, so I doubt that even if you had an image of him, you’d be able to track him. They’ve been using Nacht Essentia—a plant that conceals a person’s location. The veil it casts cannot be seen through, no matter how gifted someone is in the Sight.” He gave Darien a little smile. “Even you, Devil.”
Nacht Essentia. Essence of Night. It was what Logan had mentioned to Darien back when they’d found Sabrine, though the wolf hadn’t been able to remember the name.
“Is there any way to heal the people who’ve been changed into demons?” Darien asked.
“I have no idea, Devil. If you find out, make sure to let me know.” His eyes found the Death’s Head Knuckles that were still attached to Darien’s hand. “Are you going to rip my face apart now or can you give me a clean death?”
Darien considered his question for a long time. The warlock merely watched him, an oddly empty cast to his eyes.
“I’m not going to kill you,” Darien said at last. “But you won’t remember any of this after tonight.”
He sliced his magic into the warlock’s mind, the force of it causing the man to pass out in the chair.
He would remember nothing after Darien was done with him. It was a hellseher ability that didn’t work on other hellsehers or anyone whose mind had been trained to keep magic out. He would tunnel into this warlock’s mind the same way he had Baylor’s when they’d left the club, when Max and Dallas had been screaming at him to start driving. But instead of coloring his thoughts with false emotions the way he had Baylor—when he’d made sure that vile vampire would remember Loren differently and would never desire her again—he would wipe clean any trace of the last few hours from the warlock’s mind. For once, there would be no blood on his hands—not tonight.
It was a step up from what he was used to, he had to admit. But he had to start doing better.
