ChapterOneEpilogue“Another Opener has come, my little robin. I am free again. Soon, our Pact will be complete. Savor these last moments. I know I shall.” Over a millennium had passed since the red-haired sorceress had heard that voice - cool and smooth as a sword edge. And yet she recognized it immediately; its dark tones etched into her very soul like a guilty secret. Numbly, she felt the tea cup drop from her hand, shattering on the marble floor. Although the sound echoed through the Grand Hall, she barely heard it. All she heard was that sinister voice. The Voice of Death. Her Death. The Voice of the Tower. “No. It’s impossible,” she said aloud, her voice trembling. Across the dinner table, Princess Llewella raised an emerald brow - an expression of complete shock for the dour woman. “Sister?” she said with uncharacteristic concern. “Forgive me,” the sorceress said. “I must excuse myself. If you could have the servants clean up for me?” She stood up and hurried from the chamber without another word. The trip to her quarters passed in a blur, ancient memories clouding her perceptions to everything around her. She burst into her bedroom, latching the door with a shaky hand. She leaned against the hard wood, steadying herself, greedily fighting for air. The battle took her several moments, but finally she possessed enough self-control to concentrate. The sorceress muttered an old incantation and the air in the middle of the room began to shift and solidify. A black metal box came into existence, hovering at eye level. Its surface glimmered in the candle light like polished obsidian. It reflected the guilt and worry on her face; apropos when one considered that it contained evidence of her darkest sins. With a hint of blood and a touch of magic, she removed its killing wards and hastily opened it. She fumbled through the collection of tomes and items within, finding everything as it should be. Everything, except what she now sought. She looked again. And again. But the Trump deck was nowhere to be found. “Impossible,” she said once more, as if trying to dismiss the evidence to the contrary. Only she knew of the True Trumps’ existence. All others had been disposed of long, long ago. Even if they had known, no one possessed the skill to circumvent her wards. Only one attuned to the Deck could have used the Pattern to snatch them away. And the only person attuned thusly had died at very hands. “No. I killed you,” Fiona whispered, rubbing her hands. “I KILLED you.” As the Dark Hour surrendered itself to the darkness of night, a shadow shifted atop the Faiella Lab Building. Until that moment, one might have believed the pale creature to be a gargoyle - as it had been as still as stone. It had watched and waited; just as it had always watched and waited. And now, after so many years - at least by its alien perspective - it had witnessed the beginning of the end. The ghosts-that-walked-in-daylight had broken the first link in the chain. Soon, it would be Whole again. Soon, it would fulfill its Purpose. With an renewed sense of hope, it began to lope across the filthy rooftops, crying, laughing, howling in pleasure, until the crushing weight of the Prison closed around it once more. Silencing its voice. But not for much longer. “This is my Flesh. This is my Blood. Eat of Me and You shall never know the Grave. You shall never know Pain or Fear. Eat of my Flesh and You shall be Reborn. And You will know the True Power. And the Glory that comes with it.” The young man fought the urge to vomit as he gazed into the maggot-laden hand, which itself consisted of writhing worms and scabs. He dared to gaze up at the Man’s cancerous face, dared to meet the hollow pits that glowed with sickly light. He felt his bowels loosen as the Man’s eyes stared back at him. Madness dwelt there. Chaos and madness. Pure. Absolute. But in those eyes dwelt such strength. Such conviction. Such power. A power the young man had only dreamt of possessing. He swallowed his bile and took the squirming mass from the man’s hand. It stank like a Death Alley gutter in high summer, ichor stinging his fingers. Another wave of nausea almost undid him. Gagging. Choking. “Do it, boy,” the Man of Worms said. “It is a small sacrifice for Godhood.” How could it be worse than anything he’d witnessed tonight? All his nightmares come to life. The corrupted soul of Amber lain out before his eyes. A corruption inflicted by the degenerates and half-bloods. A corruption he had to fight against. To cut out. Before it was too late. So, without another thought, the young man thrust the wiggling fleshing into his mouth, choking it down. Heat bloomed in his stomach as a knot of snakes began squirm and bite. His body convulsed and shook, his skin growing taut as his new Teacher’s power filled him up like an empty waterskin. Memories flooded him, meshing with his own until they were One being. One Mind. “Arise, Lord Borel,” Suhuy said. “Arise and take you place at my side.” The young man stood up, savoring the strength his body, as if he were a babe walking for the first time To his left, the Witch clapped excitedly. “Welcome back, Borel!” His new brother - the Man in White - smiled. “Are you ready to serve the Greater God?” Anthony nodded - his smile a cruel, half moon. “Yes.” He cast a glance toward the University, a madness-stained laugh bubbling up in his chest. “And I know exactly where to begin.” |
