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At that moment, he realized his mistake. Understanding crashed through him, flooding away his anger. He looked down at the Key in his hand, and his finger flowed with blood. The Key was stained red, and he felt it pulsing, powerful and hungry, striving for more. He watched in horror as the sculpted thorns sharpened and struck, piercing his finger again and again. With the pain of those pricks, he knew it had been waiting, waiting for centuries, waiting for a taste of its master’s blood.

“What have you done?” he asked again, feeling the small punctures tear wider, driven by the ceaseless flow of his immortal blood. He stumbled toward Zayan as he felt the fissure extend across his finger and down his palm, leaving a trail of scarlet on the stones under his feet.

His blood, his precious blood, built and fortified for centuries, was being lost. He snatched a beaker and thrust his hand in, watching it fill with his blood, steadily flowing thick and red.

“It’s not too late,” he said. “You still have so much to learn. I have so much to teach.”

Zayan said nothing, watching him with accusatory eyes and stroking Tom’s shoulder. He felt his temper rise, as it always did with the boy. The beaker was full, so he set it carefully on the table and grabbed another, larger this time.

“What gives you the right to judge me?” he demanded, watching his life pool in the glass. “I made you all that you are. You’re nothing without me.”

Still, Zayan made no move, holding Tom’s bandaged hand. He grabbed a third beaker, but stumbled, dropping it to the floor before it began to fill.

“It’s not too late,” he said again as he felt his mind cloud. “You’re strong enough. Together, we’ll find a way. Save me now, and together we’ll bring him back.”

The searing pain extended across his entire arm, and he knew, despite his pleas, it was too late. He saw it now. Zayan beat him at his own game, twisting his plan to bring him to this conclusion. He had said the cursed words once, twice, no, three times, stating that he would not enter his own laboratory. Zayan had tricked him, forced him to flaunt his own word, and the Key had made its judgment. All that was left was to pay the penalty. He dropped to his knees and heard the keys skitter across the floor.

With this, Zayan stood and lifted the sword from the floor, walking slowly towards him. Was this how he would end? After six hundred years, struck down by a lowly apprentice?

Standing tall, Zayan said, “It’s more than you deserve.” Then he took the sword and ran it carefully through the keyring, turning to slide his bloody Key into the glowing coals of the furnace.

CHAPTER 36

Zayan held the sword, smeared with Bluebeard’s blood, wondering if he needed to use it. Would Bluebeard magically regain his vigor, attacking from behind and somehow snatching victory from defeat? Would the destruction of the bloody Key reverse the spell, saving his love but also his enemy? It didn’t appear so. Bluebeard crumpled heavily from his knees to the floor, trying to stanch the blood gushing from the livid gash across his entire arm.

After consigning the Key to the flames, Zayan turned from the furnace to the only important concern in the room. Putting a hand on Tom’s forehead, he found that he was still alive. The tourniquet was a nuclear option and his lover may lose the hand, but the other options were far worse.

“Stay with me, Huggybear,” he said when Tom’s eyes fluttered open for a second.

Tom struggled to answer, slurring his words, “...Zay…love…”

“I love you too,” he said, crying fierce tears. “We’ve won, so don’t you dare leave me.”

Bluebeard sprawled in the pool of his blood, emitting wordless death rattles. All those years of evil deeds had finally assessed their toll, and the world would be rid of him in moments.

What was he going to do? The tourniquet was only a temporary measure. He was certain the evil magic of the Key would finish its terrible deed. As Bluebeard had said, when it made its judgment, the penalty must be paid, although Tom’s crime was the barest crime, committed entirely through selfless love.

Thierry burst into the room, shouting, “Mage Bluebeard, what happened? I heard an explosion.”

He stopped and surveyed the room, taking in the gruesome tableau. Bluebeard had taken his last breath and lay broken on the floor, and Zayan stood firm by Tom in the crypt, holding the sword in full view.

Thierry ignored them completely, rushing to his master’s side, kneeling beside him in the pool.

“My Mage, what have you done?” He stroked the Mage’s beard, blue now stained dark with crimson blood. “How can you leave me here, without your guidance? Without your strength? Without your…?”

He took Bluebeard’s lifeless head in both hands and kissed him. When he drew back, a tear streaked down his cheek, pooling gently on his sharp chin and dropping to his dead master.

“Go, my Master. Go to your reward, my Love. Would that I were going with you.”

With that disturbingly tender scene, Zayan knew what he needed to do. Certainty filled him, and he knew in his heart it would work. He was an alchemist! There was no need to admit defeat. He had the tools and the experience right here at his fingertips. Nature and magic would submit to his will.

He considered the beakers of Bluebeard’s blood, collected in dying desperation, but he knew to his very core that he was finished with blood. Finished forever. Nothing but evil could ever come from that, and his precious lover deserved so much more. But tears…tears might provide the key. His own tears, freely given, filled with his sadness and shame, but also carrying his hope and his love. One could not exist without the other, hope without grief, so he must accept them all into his alchemical transformation.

Bluebeard’s Stone, the dead Mage’s lapis philosophorum, sung to him, hidden in a pile of common rocks, calling for a new master. It was stained red from Bluebeard’s years, centuries, of loathsome practice. Holding it tightly, Zayan brought to mind his first sight of Tom, Tom’s coy glances in the steam room, and how strong and desirable that gaze made him feel. With these heady thoughts, he felt the Stone’s invitation. He thought next of Tom riding, his adorably complete lack of skill, but the way Hollyhock was utterly devoted to him. He remembered the silly joy of writhing in passion while testing his samples, and the deeper passion they shared when the sun set each night. The Stone warmed, calling, driving him forward when, crowning it all, he thought of Tom’s hand, so cold now, but always ready to raise him to his highest heights.

The tears were flowing now, frightened, desperate tears, tears filled with tender memories and tears filled with fierce hope. He cradled the Stone, stained brown by its years of abuse, and touched it to his cheeks, and the Stone joyfully accepted the tears, clearing the stain wherever they touched, dotting the Stone with pure white. This obvious manifestation of his love changed his tears to tears of happy determination. His magic was strong enough…he was strong enough and his love was strong enough. It would work. He knew it in his heart.

When his tears banished the stains of Bluebeard’s evil entirely from the Stone, he gathered every shred of his intention, his very being, and washed the Stone with pure spring water, exalting the purest admixture of sadness, affection, and love. He expressed the powerful tincture into a crystal flask, adding his own resolve and wonder to the mix. Nature delights in Nature, the Stone and his soul combining, delighting together in service of love.