The only response was the echo of my own voice through the cavernous manor.
I made my way into the hallway, and the wrongness intensified. Ashcliff Manor was never truly silent. There were always sounds, the settling of ancient stone, the whisper of supernatural energy through its walls, the distant presence of Paz going about his duties. But now it felt hollow, as if the manor itself was holding its breath.
The patterns on my skin pulsed more insistently, and I realized I could feel something through our bond. Distance. Malrik was far away. Deeper into the manor, perhaps below it.
I moved through the halls with growing urgency, checking room after room. The grand ballroom was empty, chairs still arranged from last night's Gala. The library was dark and silent. The kitchen showed no signs of recent activity.
Where was he?
I found myself drawn to the study. The door was slightly ajar, warm light spilling into the darkened hallway.
I pushed it open.
Scattered across every available surface were ancient texts, their pages marked with scraps of paper, margins filled with frantic handwriting I recognized as Paz's cramped script.
I moved closer, drawn by a horrible sense of dread.
The nearest book was open to a page written in a language I didn't recognize, but someone had translated portions in the margins. My eyes caught on certain phrases: "power integration," "mortal vessel," "instability."
My name appeared on one of the loose papers, underlined three times.
I picked it up with shaking hands. It was a list, written in Malrik's elegant script:
Symptoms observed:Pattern intensity increasing, Power surge at 6:47 AM, Loss of consciousness, Burning sensation, Erratic pulse in connection.
Followed by a single word, underlined so hard the pen had torn through the paper: Consuming.
Ice flooded my veins. I reached for the nearest book, trying to make sense of the archaic text and marginal translations. Words jumped out at me: "rebel," "vessel," "essence burning within."
What had happened to me? I remembered pain, Malrik's arms around me, then nothing until I'd woken just now. How long had I been asleep?
I checked my phone. Dead, of course. But the window showed late afternoon light, which meant hours had passed.
I turned to another text, this one with a more complete translation. My eyes scanned the page:
"When essence merges without preparation, the power may rebel against its vessel. The mortal form, unprepared, cannot contain the essence burning within."
Burning within. Consuming.
My hands trembled as I reached for the next book, a larger volume bound in what looked disturbingly like leather that might once have been skin. Someone had marked a page with a torn piece of parchment.
I read the translation slowly:
"When the bond threatens to consume, the demon may choose sacrifice. Essence freely given may cool the burning, stabilize that which rebels. But know this: what is given cannot be reclaimed. The demon shall be diminished, power lost to the void, never to return."
No.
No, no, no.
"Voluntary dissipation," I read aloud from Paz's notes in the margin. "Permanent loss of power."
The pieces clicked together with horrible clarity. The power inside me had been unstable, dangerous. It had been consuming me, killing me slowly. And Malrik had found a solution. Sacrifice part of himself to save me.
"Miss Davenport."
I spun around to find Paz standing in the doorway, looking exhausted and deeply uncomfortable. His usual impeccable appearance was disheveled, his spectacles askew, and there weredark circles under his eyes that suggested he'd been awake all night.
"Where is he?" I demanded. "Where's Malrik?"
