Ignareth was, on paper, led by Premier Asmodiel Hellmora.
Unofficially, and known to anyone who had an ounce of common sense, the demon city-state was actually run by three different crime families—the Carvassis, the Dragoviches, and the Oniguros.
The average Magik visiting Ignareth was relatively safe from their activities. But they didn’t care who got caught in the crossfire of their turf wars, and that was the kind of kraken shit I had left behind.
I finished my noodles and then took a shower, happy to finally be home.
Even if it was temporary.
* * *
The sound of chanting woke me up.
I sat up, blinking, until more sounds came from somewhere in my house.
“Hello?” I called out.
There was no answer.
I slowly got out of bed, finding a sleek black cat sitting in the hall and looking at me with glowing green eyes.
I lifted an eyebrow, trying to read its signature, but it seemed like it was just a cat. It definitely wasn’t a familiar, at least. “Can I help you?”
It got up and turned around, trotting down the hall with its tail straight up towards the sound of soft whispers.
Okay, I guess I’m following this cat, then.
We went down the hall and I stopped dead in my tracks.
Sage stood in front of my stove.
“Sage? Sage Hexwood?”
She didn’t reply. I tried to call out to her again, but the words caught on my tongue as the low chanting continued—Old Lundarian, some sort of spell. She wore a sleeveless nightgown, her pale skin marred by too many scars to count. They looked like bite marks.
What the hell happened to her?
I watched, transfixed as she held a dagger, heating the blade in the flame of the burner.
“Sage…” I finally found my voice. “Why don’t we put that down, hm? How did you find me?”
She still didn’t reply, just continued chanting until the knife was almost light yellow. I watched in horror as she took the blade to her neck.
“Zhaketh, sen Val-Ash. Tuul infuk ziir. Kaan!”
“Wait, Sage, don’t!”
She grimaced as the flat side hissed along her skin, the smell of burnt flesh filling the air and making me nauseous.
“Sage!” I ran towards her, reaching for her wrists to grab the blade…
Gasping, I jolted up in my bed, covered in a cold sweat. I flipped open the covers and rushed into the kitchen, but there was no one there. The air was clear of scent, not a hint of her perfume, burnt skin, or even a cat. The oven was cold, and all my knives accounted for.
I exhaled loudly, running a hand down my face. That was a pretty fucked up dream.
The time on the microwave said it was three a.m.
The witching hour.
