(Blue Fire 05) Heartless [A] Page 14

  On top of the table sat an urn fashioned from the same black material as the table. The round bottom of the container was almost a foot in diameter, while the neck tapered to an opening no more than two inches wide. Faint movement could be seen through its opaque sides, and a low hum seemed to come from inside.

  The Necromancer’s three followers watched him silently, each unwilling to draw attention to himself by speaking. Viktor was pretty sure he knew what was going on, while the two apprentice wizards had no idea.

  Finally, the Necromancer spoke. His voice was deep and gravelly, and his tone hinted at barely restrained anger.

  “Behold all that remains of your four comrades,” he said, nodding toward the urn on the table. “I have managed to retrieve Andre’s essence, but that is all. Tomas, Makenzi and Matthew are gone forever, beyond reclamation even by me.”

  A quick gasp escaped unbidden from Jordan’s throat. He was now the last remaining novitiate with any chance of becoming a waziri. Makenzi and Matthew were gone, and Rafael had already lost his master, Josef. Only the wizard who imparted his powers to an acolyte could perform the training necessary to bring the acolyte to his full powers—Rafael’s powers would remain frozen forever right where they were when Josef was destroyed.

  Viktor shot his apprentice a withering glance before turning back to the Necromancer.

  “Dominic again?” he asked.

  The Necromancer’s empty eyes narrowed. “I do not know for sure. Some power beyond Dominic’s—beyond mine even—blocked me from seeing what happened when Tomas and the others were killed. But when the veil lifted earlier today, I saw Dominic destroying their essence. I fought him for Tomas, but I was too late and too far away, and so Dominic prevailed. I managed to wrest Andre from him, but that is all.”

  “Can you restore Andre to us?” Viktor asked hopefully. It would be decades before Jordan became a full-fledged wizard, and Viktor did not relish being the only remaining black waziri until then, especially with the way things had been going lately.

  The Necromancer leaned forward, resting his fleshy forearms upon the table.

  “I do not know. I am going to try.” He shrugged. “If I fail, then Andre’s power will join the others within the table.”

  Viktor shuddered, not wishing that fate upon his deceased brother. The table held captive the magical essence of several dozen waziri defeated by the Necromancer and the renegade waziri more than a century before. Viktor could imagine no more horrible, gruesome existence. Whenever the Necromancer called upon the power of the table, the eyes of the vanquished wizards rose to the surface. Those eyes were filled with terrible anguish, despair and pain.

  The Necromancer clapped his hands twice. A buxom peasant girl dressed in a black corset materialized from the shadows in the corner of the room. A thick blond braid hung over her shoulder and across her left breast. The Necromancer watched her shuffle desultorily across the floor toward him. Her face was pretty but plain, and her blue eyes, which had once sparkled with joy, were dull and lifeless, the result of all the things she had seen and been forced to do in the year since she had been taken into the castle. Her name was Petra, but if he had ever known it, he did not remember it now. He did not expect the girl to last much longer, but that was no matter to him—the countryside was filled with similar girls. And when he had finally used her up, she would make a tasty meal.

  Petra halted two steps from the Necromancer’s chair, keeping her eyes glued to the floor. No one met the Necromancer’s empty, disconcerting eyes if they could help it.

  “Your wish, my lord?” she asked in a flat, toneless voice.

  “Go fetch the newest male servant in the castle and bring him here immediately,” the Necromancer commanded.

  Petra turned and departed the room, her step slightly less heavy than when she had approached the table. If the Necromancer noticed, he gave no sign. Viktor was not surprised by the increase in the girl’s pace—despite his exalted position, he too usually found himself more eager to leave the Necromancer than to approach him.

  The Necromancer waited in silence for the girl to return, his empty gaze fastened on the magical urn in front of him. Viktor and the two novitiates remained silent as well.

  When Petra returned, she was accompanied by a tall, strapping young man dressed all in black. His face was darkly tan under a shock of black hair—ample evidence that he had not been captive inside the castle very long. His eyes flicked worriedly back and forth as Petra brought him toward the Necromancer.

  When the Necromancer turned his empty eyes upon the servant, the young man froze in horror. Though he had heard stories about the master of the castle from the other servants, this was his first encounter with him. None of the stories had prepared him for the Necromancer’s horrible stare.

  The Necromancer scanned the man’s athletic frame.

  “Perfect,” he said. “Young and healthy.”

  He pointed toward one of the empty chairs on the opposite side of the table.

  “Sit,” he commanded.

  No longer in control of his own movements, the servant lurched woodenly toward the designated chair and sat down. His face was a mask of horror as he realized the Necromancer had taken control of his body.

  The Necromancer edged himself forward in his chair. He stretched his thick arms out over the table, fleshy palms facing down, and began to chant softly. In response to his spell, the black surface of the table began to change, becoming opaque. Hundreds of tiny white ovals began to appear, seemingly floating within the dark depths of the table. As the Necromancer continued his summoning, the shapes grew brighter and clearer, until they became recognizable as pairs of eyes, imprisoned within the magical table.

  Viktor cringed inside at the familiar looks of anguish, despair, fear and pain that filled the eyes. What passed for a smile twisted the Necromancer’s thick lips as he summoned their magic. Alive, they would have resisted him to their last breath. A century ago, they had done just that, but now they no longer had a choice. They could do nothing other than obey his commands.

  When the Necromancer had gathered the full power from within his table, he turned his attention to the black urn. The words in his chant changed; his tone became louder and more insistent. The shadowy movement inside the container seemed to increase in speed. The hum grew louder—more of a buzz now.

  A thick, twisting rope of black energy rose from inside the urn. It hovered above the table for a moment before curling toward the immobile servant. The man’s eyes widened in horror as the snake-like stream of energy began to envelop his face. His skin seemed to darken as it absorbed the black magic.

  The others watched transfixed as the Necromancer continued his spell. The servant’s body began to jerk and spasm as Andre’s essence took control over it. A momentary smile curved the man’s lips as Andre asserted his will upon his host. Viktor allowed himself a relieved breath as he watched his comrade being restored to him.

  Suddenly, the servant’s body began to twitch and vibrate as a violent seizure racked his limbs. The powerful convulsions lifted him right up out of his seat. The man looked like a marionette being driven into a spastic dance by an invisible puppeteer. For fifteen or twenty seconds he bounced and spun across the room uncontrollably before finally collapsing to the floor. His body seemed to shimmer darkly in the dimness and then disintegrated into dust.

  A column of black energy rose up from the spot where the body had lain. It began to thin and spread out, looking as it if might also follow the body into nothingness, but the Necromancer intervened, chanting loudly and waving his hands. The dark energy gathered into a band and flowed back into the urn. Spent, the Necromancer let his bulk collapse backward against the rear of his chair.

  “What happened?” Rafael asked, aghast at what he had just witnessed.

  “It appears that Andre’s essence is too powerful to be confined in an ordinary human body,” the Necromancer replied. “Its vibrations destroyed its host.”

  He fi
xed his blank stare upon Rafael. The acolyte slunk back against his chair, cursing himself for drawing attention his way by asking the question.

  “Is that it, then?” Viktor asked. “Must Andre be consigned to the table?”

  The Necromancer said nothing for several moments. He drummed the fleshy fingers of his right hand atop the table, thinking. His followers waited in silence.

  “Not necessarily,” he said finally. He turned his gaze once more upon Rafael. “Perhaps a body more accustomed to magic can contain him.”

  The color drained from Rafael’s face as the meaning of the Necromancer’s words became clear.

  “No, my lord,” he begged. “Please.”

  “Why not? Andre’s essence will increase your power many times over.”

  “Will it not also overpower my own consciousness? I will be lost.”

  The Necromancer shrugged. “So? What of it? With your master destroyed, your powers can never grow. Andre is of much more use to me than you could ever be.”

  Rafael’s head whipped back and forth, seeking some show of support from Jordan or Viktor. Jordan refused to meet his eyes, keeping them focused upon the tabletop instead. Viktor’s face remained expressionless.

  “Please,” Rafael begged, looking back to the Necromancer. “What if the transformation fails again? You will have lost me for nothing. I am not without powers of my own.”

  “That is a risk I’m willing to take,” the Necromancer said, his voice devoid of empathy or sympathy.

  Once again, he activated the magic of the table, then focused his gaze upon the urn and began chanting. The column of black energy that streamed up from the urn this time seemed a bit less thick than previously, but it floated unerringly toward Rafael. The apprentice screamed as the dark mist settled over him. As before, the host body jerked and spasmed as Andre’s essence took control, but this time no seizure followed. Instead, a smile appeared on a face that was no longer Rafael’s, nor was it Andre’s. The new face was some amalgamation of the two—but the voice that spoke from it was unmistakably Andre’s.

  “Thank you, my lord,” he said to the Necromancer. “I am glad to be able to serve you once again.”

  The Necromancer wasted no time on pleasantries. “Tell me what happened to you,” he commanded. “Spare no details.”

  Andre’s brow tightened as he tried to recall the events leading up to the downfall of he and his comrades. For some reason, he was having trouble gathering the memory.

  “It’s all kind of hazy,” he said finally. “I remember vampires, coming out of nowhere. Some spell had weakened our magic, leaving us no match for the creatures. They were upon us almost before we knew what was happening, and we were unable to defend ourselves. I do not know what the other magic was or where it came from.”

  “Do not be concerned by that magic,” the Necromancer said. “I felt the same power. It blocked me from learning what was happening. It is an ancient power, one far beyond even mine. I sensed no intent—the magic was not aimed at you or me, it was simply there.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “What about Dominic? Was he there? Was he involved in this at all?”

  Once again, a look of concentration etched itself into Andre’s features as he struggled to remember.

  “I don’t think so. All I remember are the vampires.” Unconsciously, he raised his hand to his throat, but he felt no wounds, for this was not the throat that had been torn apart by a vampire. This had been Rafael’s throat, and so was smooth and unmarked.

  “Somehow, Dominic learned of your demise,” the Necromancer said. “He destroyed Tomas, but I managed to wrest your spirit from him before he could do the same to you.”

  “Thank you for that, my lord.”

  The Necromancer waved his hand at his three followers in a gesture of dismissal.

  “Leave me now. I have much thinking to do.”

  23. A JOURNEY

  Blissfully unaware of the grisly goings on in Romania or the dangerous discoveries made by the xenorians at the burial site, Leesa snuggled close against Rave. They were sitting in what she considered their “spot”—on a rock shelf high in the hills above the volkaane settlement. Not too far to their right, a stream bounced and splashed its way down the hillside, filling the air with its relaxing music. The sun had disappeared beyond the western horizon about twenty minutes earlier, and the sky was darkening into ever deeper shades of purple. Below them, the Moodus River was a black ribbon snaking silently through the dark woods.

  Leesa imagined that the evening air must be growing quite chill, but with Rave’s warmth flowing into her, it might as well have been noon on a sunny summer day.

  “I could sit like this forever,” she sighed contentedly.

  “I’m afraid we do not have forever,” Rave replied.

  Leesa lifted her head from his shoulder and looked up into his face.

  “What do you mean?” she asked, concerned that perhaps there was something wrong he had not yet shared with her.

  Rave flashed his beautiful smile and her concern evaporated.

  “A thousand years is about the limit for my kind,” he said. “We should not plan on any more than that.”

  Leesa feigned a pout. “Oh, only a thousand, huh? Well, if that’s all I’m going to get, I guess I’d better make the most of it.”

  Bending her head forward, she nuzzled the smooth skin of his neck, breathing in his heat and his masculine, almost feral scent. She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her body tight against his. Rave responded by gently entwining his fingers in her hair and holding her head against his neck and shoulder.

  She sighed. Now if only she could kiss him.

  A sudden thought struck her. She lifted her head from Rave’s shoulder so she could look at him.

  “Did you practice that Rammugul thing much while you were away?”

  Rammugul was an almost forgotten volkaane technique for diminishing or even extinguishing their fire. Rave’s mentor Balin had remembered seeing it once hundreds of years ago and was helping Rave try to learn it so he could reduce his inner heat enough for Leesa to kiss him safely. When they had tried using it a month or so ago, Rave had lost control and almost killed her. Only Balin’s quick intervention had saved her. Since then, Rave had been working on the technique, but except for when his fire had been reduced by the magic weakening spell, whatever kissing they had managed had been limited to just a few seconds at a time.

  “Of course,” Rave said. “I practiced it every day.” He grinned. “There wasn’t much else to do without you around to babysit for.”

  “Ha! Very funny. Seriously, though—you know how I had much more control over my magic when the weakening spell ended, because of all the practice I did while my magic was weak? I’m wondering if maybe the same thing might have happened with your Rammugul.”

  Rave shook his head. “I see where you’re going. Sorry, though. It did not. It might even have been the opposite. With my fire already so weak, Rammugul came very easily. Your magic was different—you had to work hard to get it to work at all. So you ended up stronger in the end.”

  Leesa sighed again, in resignation this time. “I guess that makes sense.”

  She rested her head on Rave’s shoulder again. For a few minutes, they just sat there, enjoying the closeness. Even if she couldn’t kiss him, this was certainly better than not having him around at all. Now that had been bad, him being gone for weeks. This was much, much better.

  Talking about magic had raised another issue in her mind. She lifted her head from his shoulder again.

  “Rave, you know I love being here with you, right?”

  Rave ran the tip of his index finger slowly down her cheek. Leesa shivered in delight.

  “It sure seems like you do,” he said, smiling.

  “And I don’t care at all about sleeping on a straw-filled mat, or not having electricity or running hot water or any of that stuff. I love falling asleep in your arms and waking up the same way.”

&
nbsp; “I never doubted that. So why do I get the feeling you’re working up to something here?”

  Leesa smiled. “Because you know me so well, that’s why.”

  “So, what is it?”

  “I can’t practice my magic anywhere near your village. Dominic thinks it might have disturbed the powers that sleep beneath the earth here. We can’t risk that happening again.”

  “No, we for sure do not want that.”

  “But I have to practice. Especially now, with my power having gotten so much better.”

  “I understand. And I think I know the perfect place where you will be safe and you can practice your magic to your heart’s content.”

  “Really? Where?”

  “The place I just came back from. Where my people stayed while we were gone.”

  “You wouldn’t mind going back so soon? You only just returned home.”

  Rave kissed her forehead. “Did not one of your human writers pen the line ‘home is where the heart is’? Well, my heart is wherever you are. And so is my home.”

  Leesa hugged him tightly. “I love it when you say things like that. Don’t ever stop.”

  Rave smiled. “I don’t plan to. So, what do you think? Are you ready to go? We can stop by my house to pick up your pack and be on our way.”

  “Now?” Leesa asked, a bit surprised. “It’s dark already.”

  Rave chuckled. “So? Have you forgotten my people hunt vampires? Do you think we hunt them in broad daylight?”

  Leesa felt a bit foolish. Rave saw better at night than she did in the daytime.

  “Oh, yeah. I forgot about the vampire thing. I thought all you did was ‘babysit’ silly girls like me.”

  Rave laughed and kissed her forehead again. “If I have the choice, I’ll take babysitting you any time.”

  He stood up, pulling Leesa up with him and gathering her into his arms.

  “Let’s go get your pack and be on our way.”

  Since Leesa had not returned to campus after leaving Dominic and the others at the burial site, all she had with her at Rave’s was her backpack, which held her magic book, her cell phone, a bottle of water, a brush, and a scrunchy for her hair. She didn’t care about her lack of luggage—she could wear the same clothes for a couple of days, washing her underwear in water heated by Rave, and she could “rough it” by brushing her teeth with her finger. As long as she had her magic book and her cell, she was good to go. Really, as long as she had Rave she was better than good—but it was nice to have her book and her phone, too.