Page 37 of Turncloak

Levan jerked his head toward his mother’s body, anticipation flaring behind his ribs.

“Now.”

Halant edged closer to the dais upon which the dead Bloodmoons lay, resting a palm on Lorissa’s stony chest. The whole crypt hung suspended on a held breath.

“Avi viçerak.”

Levan was yanked back eighteen years.

His body was still narrow, gangly, every inch of it aching and sore in the aftermath of the torture curse. His eyes burned from tears, his throat from screaming. He remembered that most of all—how badly his eyes and throat would burn, how embarrassed he felt. How small, pathetic.

He remembered a broad hand at his back, pushing him into the cabin in the Havenwood where his mother’s body was kept. She lay on a brass bedstead, cold and still, chestnut braid resting on her chest. The floor was covered in the hoard of ascenite the Bloodmoons had spent years accumulating. Coins and jewelry, trunks and carved busts, diadems and swords and vambraces, all of it essential in keeping her viable—because the further Lorissa moved from her death date, the more unnatural her preservation, and thus the more raw power required to uphold it. The simple spellwork of those early days had long since ceased to be enough.

Vogolan shoved Levan toward the bed, and Levan stumbled and fell, his knees slamming into the top of an ascenite chest, the pain barely registering compared to sen doloran. He lifted his wand, believing as deeply as he could that this time, this time, he was strong enough. This time he wanted it badly enough. This time he had endured enough suffering to finally twist his magic into something new and terrible and worthwhile.

He channeled all his agonized focus into one singular point and incanted, “Ans visseran.”

Nothing.

No, no, please. Work.

“Ans visseran.”

Nothing. He thought he might die from the despair.

And now, in the crypt of the mansion his father had built in his dead mother’s honor…

…nothing still.

Halant sighed. “I told you. It’s been too long…”

“Continue,” Levan said crisply, with a jerk of a nod.

“Is there an outer limit to that word?”

“You will remain here until it is done.” Levan smoothed his robes and strode toward the atrium of the crypt. “I’ll ensure you are well fed and watered. Bring you a waste bucket, clean clothes. What’s your pleasure of choice?”

“Sex.”

“I’ll bring you daily company.”

Halant smiled wryly. “I like my partners…chilled. Cold to the touch.”

A shiver of revulsion cut through Levan. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“A joke.” Halant’s curious grin only broadened. “But I do like the scarred, the wounded. Something interesting to look at.”

Uneasiness spread through Levan like a fever, like a disease. He gave the necromancer another swift nod, turned on his heel, and faced the door to the crypt. Pulling a tiny ornamental hourglass from his innermost pocket, he tapped the top and murmured tempavicissan quietly enough that Halant would not hear. Not that it mattered—without an hourglass of his own, the necromancer was as good as buried in this tomb.

The tunnel outside was dark, dank, the sounds of dripping water and scuttling inkmice echoing through the maze. As the door sealed shut behind Levan, he lifted his wand to his mouth, exhaustion pulling at him like gnarled fingers. His wrist felt like two iron nails had been driven down into the bone, pain shooting all the way into his neck.

“Et vocos, Sando Segal.”

A pause, then, “It’s the middle of the fucking night.”

“And I’m your fucking kingpin,” Levan snapped, unable to keep the sharp whip from his tone. “Steer clear of the crypt. That is an order.”

An order, but not a compelled one. Because Levan’s magic had gone from a controlled blade of fire to a sputtering candle, a reckless forest inferno.