Damien ground his jaw, then took a breath. One second more of patience, it was all he had, and Amma would want him to use it. “Yes. For the woman who taught you to make snowballs, and kept you warm, and never had an unkind thing to say about you.”
Kaz’s gaze fell to the ground. “This is what you want, Master Bloodthorne?”
“I want her back,” he said, the words falling out with a desperation he was finally unembarrassed by. “You, above all other creatures, I think, understand why.”
Then Kaz puffed out his chest with a big, shuddering breath, and he nodded.
Damien’s stomach twisted, wondering if it might have been better if he’d had to wrestle him to the ground and stab the life out of him, messy as that would be. At least Kaz would be returned to the infernal plane again where his servitude would no longer be required, though he had a feeling the end of his service would actually disappoint the simple beast.
Damien clicked his tongue at his dagger. “Ready?”
The imp nodded again, but his little ears shook. Damien put a hand on the tiny creature’s shoulder, realizing for the first time how much bigger than the imp he was. He pressed the dagger’s point right to the middle of Kaz’s chest, taking his own deep breath. It had been so much easier when he just kicked him off the parapet in Aszath Koth. But this? This feltbad. “At least you could come back.” Damien offered him a crooked, half smile.
“Uh huh…” Kaz’s eyes were turned down to the blade, bravely standing as still as he could.
Damien swallowed. “Thank you, friend.” And he plunged the dagger in.
It was quick—Damien knew how to end a life efficiently, especially one so small—and the pain Kaz felt was likely fleeting. A last breath, fear on his wretched face turning to shock and stiffening, and then he was no more.
Imps weren’t truly made to be on this plane, so his body wouldn’t last long, talons already disintegrating into ash as Damien carefully lay him on the earth. He sliced down through the chest and cut out the imp’s heart, a puny organ, black with many veins and full of a thick, viscous blood that sizzled when it dripped, but it was brimming with the arcane life he needed.
When the heart was free of its shell, Kaz wasted away much more quickly. Damien was glad—he didn’t want to leave the body there, nor could he spare the time to bury it—and soon there was only a small pile of ash and goop that would be swept away on the wind. Damien cut into his own hand, placing the feather atop the wound and the imp’s heart atop that, and then he squeezed.
Arcana flooded directly into his veins, a burst of vitality filling him wholly and wrapping itself around every limb, every organ, every drop of blood. He’d only done this spell once, the change still strange, much stranger than illusion, but he willed it on, faster, forcing the magic to take him as quickly as it could. And then it did, wind sweeping past him, the earth falling away, and he wasn’t a blood mage anymore, but a bird.
A raven, to be specific, because Damien Maleficus Bloodthorne would have it no other way.
He rose up, black wings spread, the spot where he had ended Kaz’s life too small to be identified as he headed west. Winds bent around him to aid his travel, faster and higher still, and he reached the warm current that would speed him onward. Infernal magic tunneled about him, the world sharper with a raven’s eyes and yet a blur with the speed.
The slight feeling of loss and guilt tickled at him, but it was eclipsed by something even more foreign: hope. He couldn’t yet see it, but he knew he was headed for the ocean. The feather would guide him to where its mate called from, where Amma would be.
The world continued to darken, time meaningless surrounded by warm currents and magic, until the ocean finally came into view, the sun rising behind him. He slowed as he was pulled down by his arcane lead, a moor spread out before him. There was little around, and it was clear why: something here was wrong.
The land appeared to be normal under dawn’s pink and orange lights, even from above where he should have been able to pick out some pattern or irregularity. The heath stretched out toward a cliffside that dropped into the ocean, no sign of life about except for an old keep. Damien, though, was reminded of The Wilds, the chaotic energy that flowed beneath that place and often through it, the magic that was untamable, and then something more, something deeper, something he would not have understood had he not been so intimate with it already.
His raven form shuddered, coming up against the magic that was too similar to the ancient evil he had put an end to with the witches to not be the very same, his own powers weakening with the fear that was suddenly struck in him. The face from the banishment flashed in his vision, and the stark memory of being a child, alone, batted against his mind like a caged sparrow. But there was that keep, the only building for miles, its gate open to allow a small contingency of soldiers inside its courtyard. He knew Amma was being held within, and there was no time to let fear distract him.
CHAPTER 33
A SECOND LESSON IN FUTILITY
The chamber Amma hid herself inside was large, and yet it was cramped by its massive trappings. The bed was central, a dark wood four poster that had been intricately carved, the feet to look like lion paws rising up to the low ceiling in fang-like points. A chest with gaudy relief images on each drawer of attacking lions was opposite it with only about a foot to squeeze between. A desk along the far wall with more delicately curving legs ended in sleeker taloned paws. There was a theme here, and it screamed Cedric.
She pushed off the door and went right to the desk, flipping through the papers atop it. A list of names and ranks of men in Brineberth, those available for promotion to fill spots that had recently been left vacant. Amma cringed, knowing many had perished due to the Undead Army, but put the papers and her guilt to the side—they’d been occupiers, after all.
She pulled open a drawer, and a tingle shot through her arm.Liathau. It was lacquered to be shiny and extraordinarily smooth, but it was liathau wood beneath her hands and all over the room. Cedric must have had the pieces made recently and brought there. The effort that had taken, and the self-absorption to have it done at all, twisted in her gut. Yes, the wealthy often had furniture made from liathau, but never so much. Amma’s fingers skimmed over the expertly cut edge to the desk, and when she got to the end, a tiny, pink leaf sprouted into being under her thumb.
“Sorry,” she whispered to it, and rifled through the open drawer. Only a few maps, one with the now desecrated orchard in Faebarrow marked and others with potential Brineberth pastures planned out. Perhaps there was something there, intention at least, but he already had the trees cut down, and her mother had said it was by order of the crown, so that had apparently been no crime.
Amma turned for the rest of the room, checking swiftly behind the furniture, under the bed, inside the wardrobe. The chamber was filled with Cedric’s fine things, meticulously arranged so that she had to inspect them delicately and replace them with a care she would much rather turn into a rage, ripping them up, breaking them into pieces, throwing them about the room. With each tunic she touched, each boot she moved, each linen she refolded, her hatred for him grew, fed by the sunlight and water of vengeance. She wanted to strangle him with his pressed tunics, smother him with his Clarisseau-imported blankets, crush his skull with his direwolf leather boots.
But then there was a sound from the hall, and she slipped herself into the hollow between the far side of the chest of drawers and the wall, crouching down to stay hidden. Amma barely breathed, listening, footsteps coming closer, and then there was a hand rattling the knob. The door remained locked, a voice called to another on the other side, and the footsteps fell away again.
Amma’s body slid fully to the ground, shaking. They were looking for her, and what in the Abyss was she doing? Crouching on the floor of Cedric’s personal chamber, looking for a clue she might not even find?
“There must be something,” she grunted and ran her hands over the chest of drawers at her side. There was a soft click, and Amma’s mouth fell open, hand darting to the underside of the chest. Already on her knees, she ducked down. A wooden ledge had popped out, hanging down on a small set of hinges, and atop it, parchment and a tray filled with coins.
Amma grabbed the paper with none of the care she’d been using, falling backward to lean against the bed’s footboard, eyes wide, taking in the images finally in her hands. Two rings, one inside the other, and between them hundreds of dots and lines. She’d seen something like this in theology class many years ago. It was a star chart, and along the side there were words written in a language she shouldn’t have been able to recognize, but she knew from her extracurricular studies translating the Lux Codex with two blood mages that it was Chthonic.
