The frantic knocking at the door had his head snapping up.
“Master, I know we’re not to disturb you in your tower, but the territory wards have been breached. I believe we’re under attack! What are your orders?”
A low growl rumbled in his chest. Time was of the essence, now more than ever. If he performed the spell now, Lucifer would have much greater problems to focus on than Murmur. If he hesitated, the High King would come, and everything would be lost. There wasn’t time to waste directing his legions and managing his territory.
“Master? Are you in there?”
He said nothing. His minions could take care of themselves. Until he had finished this casting, he could not afford to be distracted.
A moment later, the demon’s footsteps faded as he ran back down the stairs, having concluded that his master was notpresent. He was smart enough not to open the library door to check, and for that, he would be spared impalement.
Murmur strode into the circle at the edge of the sigil, uncorked the jar, and poured the contents into the waiting bowl. Setting the empty receptacle down, he readied the rest of his casting ingredients.
Several times he had to stop and wipe the sweat off his brow, though the room was cold. His chest felt so tight he couldn’t breathe, and his stomach flipped over and over, forcing him to pause frequently to close his eyes and breathe through the nausea.
Weakness. Your attachment has made you weak.
Attachment. That was what this was, wasn’t it? He had formed an attachment to the witch.
You said it yourself. The day you allowed yourself to form sentimental bonds would be the day you met your end.
“It has to be this way,” he muttered. “I swore to do whatever it took.”
That’s right. She has to die. Not just for the spell. But to purge this weakness from your mind.
Half the point of this spell was to avoid his own death. But the other half was for a purpose greater than his own life. A foreseen destiny that was his responsibility to bring to fruition.
He would not fuck it up now. He couldn’t.
Too soon, he was ready to make the sacrifice. Standing in the center of the sigil, he unsheathed his blade and carved the second mark into his own forearm. Blood ran around the blade, over the muscle and down his wrist.
He didn’t feel the cut. It was nothing compared to the pain in his chest.
The sigil was simple, but its practice was not, nor was it always a practical solution, since the sacrifice usually resisted the inscription of the mark. They would have to be restrained so the mark could be inscribed, but then, what was the point?If they were restrained and helpless, it was easier to just kill them then.
But it did have its uses in special circumstances—like say, instances of treachery and trickery—and this was one of them.
Murmur’s sacrifice had not resisted him. Murmur’s sacrifice trusted him. Or at least, she trusted in the vow he’d sworn to protect her. She wasn’t aware of the loophole in their arrangement that he’d found and exploited. And he’d been counting on that.
He had sworn to let her go alive, returning her from whence she’d come in the same condition he found her in.
He had done that. He had fulfilled his word. He could not harm her while she was here.
But he had never sworn he wouldn’t harm her from afar after she was home.
Perhaps she might have realized this if she hadn’t foolishly allowed herself to soften toward him. But she had, and he had done what any villain would do: used it against her.
She’d sat still and allowed him to carve the death mark onto her chest, right between the breasts he had enjoyed in the throes of pleasure minutes before.
He was the villain. The evil liar, cheater, and killer. He knew this.
He didn’t care.
Liar.
Hedidn’t.
Liar, liar, liar.
