2.27. Labyrinths & Liches, Part Three

The full moon is close enough that Nikolas’ transformation is quick. The haste is hardly warranted, though: the wight is slow moving, unbalanced, and possibly disoriented.

Fenrir’s hand quivers as he points at it. “What is that?”

 “I don’t know,” Sadie replies, “I think it’s a zombie or something.”

“Fight?” Nikolas growls. He glances at Sadie for approval.

“I’m not sure how,” she says, “like, is this a ‘must destroy the brain situation’ or what?”

“Bite,” he snarls.

“Let’s not? Just give me a minute to gather my senses, okay?”

“Eat?”

“No! Maker, what is wrong with you?”

 The wight stumbles forward and claws at the air. Sadie and Fenrir shrink back against the wall.

“Dad,” Fenrir’s voice wavers, “Dad, can you make it go away?”

Nikolas’ chest rumbles and he nods. Sadie, realizing violence is inevitable, settles on the next best option: her stepson’s safety.

“Fen, get out of here,” she orders, “go to your sisters’ room and lock the door.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Still hugging the wall, he dashes out of the room, seemingly invisible to the wight.

The bystander gone, melee begins.

 A sunlight charm—Sadie is fairly certain that’s all she needs to cast. It’s a versatile bit of a magic, curing anything from illnesses to midlife crises. It should work just as well on the hulking, smelly beast in front of her. But Nikolas’ style—beat it in to submission, preferably with its own limbs—doesn’t mesh with hers. Every time she lines up a shot, he wrestles the wight into a new position, blocking her.

“You’re being cute and everything,” Sadie smirks, “but could you hold him still? I can’t really zap him when you’re rolling around.”
 

Nikolas gnashes his teeth and tightens his grip around the wight’s neck. The wight pantomimes choking, but its body doesn’t weaken. The benefit of undeath, it seems.

“Seriously, Nik—let go! Don’t you remember when you ate that dead deer? I’m not cleaning up after you when you get sick, okay?

He grimaces and stands up, lifting the wight with him by its neck. With a single hand, he hoists it over his head and turns, facing Sadie. The wight claws at his wrists and kicks at the floor, but it can’t free itself.

“Good?”

“Very good,” she assures him.

 The charm comes easily, but the result does not. While Sadie has never cast it on an actual member of the undead, she’d used it several times before on the living to varying effect. Still, never before had the recipient squirmed and screamed, nor had their skin curled and smoked. Sadie inhales sharply. The wight gurgles as its face caves in and bursts into a cloud of black dust. With a groan, it crumbles inward and disintegrates.

She exhales. Her breath disrupts a puff of dust, and she flinches.

Nikolas crouches down and sniffs at where the body had once been. “No meat—where’d it go?”

She gives him a disapproving look. “I’m not sure, though maybe it’s a blessing that there’s no corpse. But this is atypical, to say the least.”

“What next?”

“I think it’s time we reached out to the person who’s most likely to know what’s going on.”

Nikolas tilts his head. “Why?”

Sadie smiles, but doesn’t answer. She focuses instead on channeling the spell, a séance ritual her grandmother had taught her shortly before her death. She whispers the incantation under her breath and circles her hands around each other theatrically.

There’s a crack of light, and then the room dims as their surroundings twist around them. The white lights are replaced by hues of purple and pink, and the chaos of the fight and impending move are no more: gone are the moving boxes and the dust and the small flecks of blood on the carpet. Instead, the original home becomes an ethereal echo.

Nikolas sniffs the air. “Smells weird.”

Sadie’s nostrils twitch. She smells it too: a heavy musk, almost diseased and fungal. “The Otherworld always smells like this.”

He grimaces. “I don’t like the Otherworld.”

“We won’t be here long,” she promises. “Hey, do you hear that?” There’s a song playing in the distance, barely perceptible. The melody is familiar, but she can’t make out enough of the lyrics to place it.

Nikolas snorts and lumbers towards the sound. She follows him out to the hall, down the stairs, and into what must be the living room. As she steps over the threshold, the previously muddled lyrics become crystal clear: Just my imagination once again runnin' way with me. Tell you, it was just my imagination runnin' away with me. 

 The song plays from an old gramophone at a volume that almost covers the sound of a crackling fire. Crouched in front of the fireplace is a man: average height, average build, average manbun, his back towards them.

Nikolas holds a finger up to his lips. Sadie nods. Hands behind her back, she begins to conjure a charm.

 “You’re not as quiet as you think you are,” the man says, “and you should know that that charm you have hidden behind your back doesn’t work on spirits.”

Sadie’s arms go limp, and she smiles sheepishly. The magic dissipates, as does her confidence. “Um, sorry. I’ve never tried to contact a strange spirit, so I didn’t know what to expect. You know, I’ve read about it going wrong and everything and it’s never pretty. I guess I panicked. Anyway, you must be Dominic’s father. I’m sorry, but I don’t believe I know your name.  I mean, I know a lot about you but—”

He turns around. “Bastian. And you are?”

“Sadie Oskarsson.”

“Maiden name?”

“Um, Vines. Sadie Vines.”

“Hmm,” he scoffs, “Vines. Never heard of you. Your people from around here?”

“No, I’m from Riverview.”

His eyebrows raise. “Didn’t know they taught real magic there. I thought it was all superstition and hedge witches.”

Sadie’s smile strains. “Nope, it’s real magic all the way down. I’m so sorry to bother you while you’re resting—”

“I’m hardly resting, though your concern is quaint,” he looks her up and down, “You’re pregnant.”

“Yes,” she instinctively touches her stomach.

Bastian scoffs. “So you’ve interbred with a wolf. Pity. Though I suppose the idea of bloodlines isn’t politically correct, is it?”

 She rubs her stomach. “Don’t listen to him. He’s just a grumpy old ghost,” she coos.

“A girl,” Nikolas offers proudly, “Gonna have a daughter.”

“Bully for you,” Bastian rolls his eyes, “anyway, I imagine you’re here because my son decided to spring a trap twenty-some years after I set it.”

“If that’s how you want to put it, yes,” Sadie says, her brows furrowing. “We tried to—”

“You can just pull him out with an eleatic ritual.”

“Yeah, well, I tried that, and it didn’t work. In fact, when—"

 “Then if he realizes, he can get himself out,” he shrugs, “or he can beat the challenge I set. It’s about time that boy solved something himself.”

Sadie’s nose twitches. “As I was saying, when I tried that, I pulled some sort of monster out of the game.”

Bastian shakes his head. “That’s not possible,” he sneers.

“Well, it happened. Beyond that, I could feel something resisting—there was something pushing back on my spell.”

“There’s no possible way a being could transport out of a Gorgias curse. They don’t even have sentience.”

“Well, I don’t think it had sentience, but it happened nonetheless.”

“You must have done something wrong.”

“Just help,” Nikolas growls.

“Down, boy,” Bastian snaps back.

Sadie’s smile curls, testing the boundary between grin and snarl. “Or maybe you screwed up the
original curse? Or something else went wrong?”

He clenches his jaw. “Walk me through your ritual and I’ll tell you how you messed up.”

“Better yet, let’s start with you.”

 “You are in my home. Repeat the incantation, exactly as you said it.”

She sighs and stumbles over the pronunciation of words never meant to be spoken: “Pordo malfermu vin. Liberigu viajn kaptitojn, kaj ripozo.” 

“Hmm,” he crosses his arms and furrows his brow, “close enough to work. How did you conduct your magic? Through your hands, or an instrument?”

Sadie doesn’t get the chance to answer. The lights flicker, the song stops, and a floating figure materializes behind Bastian. It takes the shape of a woman, green skinned and covered in oozing wounds and pustules. Her hair defies gravity, curling up to the ceiling in harmony with the point and curve of her elven ears. Once her body forms, she slips a dagger out of her sleeve and holds it out, leveling it at eyesight.

“Watch out!” Sadie points, and Bastian turns to meet his attacker. In a fluid motion, the woman grapples him. She’s remarkably tall, and must have corresponding strength: his struggles are futile. The room falls silent—even her victim is dumbstruck.

 And then, with a fiendish scowl, she drives the dagger into Bastian’s neck.

Sadie lets out a bloodcurdling shriek as he slides to the ground. “Y-you killed him,” she gasps in shock.

Nikolas’ response, on the other hand, falls on the side of confusion: “How?”

The woman laughs. “No need for the dramatics. It’s impossible to kill a spirit, at least in every form. Let me revise that—it’s improbable to kill a spirit. I’m certain he will pop up somewhere else.” She holds the dagger to her mouth and licks the blade.

“What are you?” Nikolas rumbles. His posture is what Sadie calls his raised hackles: shoulders up, neck down, stance wide, fists balled.

“Who, wolf. Who am I. Honestly, I have been waiting for this moment for an eternity, so let’s do better. Cue me up, witch.”

 “What?”

“Say, ‘who are you.’ Post haste, if you will,” the woman holds the blade out and smirks.
Sadie’s face darkens, but she complies. “Who are you?”

“Your worst nightmare,” she bursts into laughter, “Oh, I could not resist. Look at me, I’m giddy! Seriously, though, take a step back, wolf.”

Nikolas’ nostrils flare. “No.”

The woman brandishes her dagger. “Now. Or I throw this through wifey’s chest. As I was saying, I,” she flourishes her hand, “am Artemis Jyamor. You must be the cute little witch who tried to break the curse.”

“How do you know about the curse?” Sadie asks.

“I know everything Bastian knew at the moment he placed me in the game—oh, that’s uncomfortable. I am not quite certain I like calling him that. It’s too familiar. What do you think—my maker? Sebastian? Mr. Trémaux? Well, he,” she gestures to Bastian’s body on the ground, “added me to the game as part of his curse, with the only detail being ‘undead paladin whom Dominic must defeat.’ Not a thrilling backstory, and I was quite underwhelmed, particularly since he placed his own glorified avatar through which to occasionally observe the game. A knight! Can you believe it? How arrogant.

“But my existence was compounded and created due to the problem of magic. There is a reason most spells are very specific to the mage’s needs. And why is that, witch?”

 “Magic grows in ambiguity,” she answers almost instinctively.

“Precisely. So, father—hmm, I like that. That sounds better, right? Father? Because he created me, so it makes a bit of sense. Anyway, as I was saying, he left my backstory open. He did not even give me a name. I had to choose one myself! How cruel is that? But worst of all, his carelessness made me aware of all of this. Because his curse was so ambiguous, so open-ended, I exist. Somehow, I actually came to be.

“And to drive the knife in, he set terms on my existence: my death is the portal back to your world for Dominic. That’s right—Dominic has to kill me to beat the game. It hurt, at first, when I realized that he made me, only to incentivize my death. But then I realized: if my death is a bridge to this world, then perhaps Dominic’s death could be my bridge.”

“Wait, you want to get to our world? Why?”

Artemis’ nostrils flare. “The world Dominic created only ranges ten miles from the town center in each direction. The ocean barely extends beyond the docks. I was sent on a war in a land he hadn’t planned, and died and was reborn in a void as a result. And because I’m the only one who is self-aware, no other being in my world understands our limitations. To each and every person in Dewhurst, our world is real. It is populated yes—with men and women and children that never change and never grow. And by me.”

“That sounds—”

“Like hell,” she finishes, “It took father’s death—and the death of his avatar—but I was finally able to make some changes to Dewhurst.”

“Changes?” Sadie asks.

“Since I’m the bridge, I’ve decided I get to determine who crosses. I knew that there was a chance someone would try to break the curse, so I used a little of the residual magic left after his avatar’s death to ensure only undead can pass through,” she examines the blade of her dagger, “Still, I don’t have enough power left break through on my own, hence my little visit to this quaint little liminal realm in search of a herald.”

“I don’t get it—if you can’t get out, how will Dominic help? And what do you mean, ‘herald’?’”
“Father’s terms still apply to this curse: Dominic has to finish his fight with me to break it. Thus, if I kill him, I can take his place in this world. But it seems my bumbling underlings are having a difficult time locating him, so my plan has been waylaid somewhat.”

Sadie’s worry grows. “But he could actually die, couldn’t he?”

Artemis smirks. “Replace ‘could’ with ‘will.’”

 “Isn’t there a way we can solve this without it coming to that? Something I could do to help you?”
“Not one that I am aware of, or frankly interested in. I’ve spent enough time in this prison, and I’m unwilling to wait a moment longer. Which is why I need you to deliver a message to Dominic: meet me at Wishborne Keep. Say,” Artemis holds up a hand, “you can astral project, right?” She thrusts her hand outward, and Sadie feels herself stumble backward and into a new world.

Nikolas roars. Artemis holds out her arms and beams. “Farewell, wolf. Though I suppose we’ll be seeing each other again soon enough.”

He dives towards her, but she disappears. And in a flash, Nikolas is back in his reality.

***

Sadie finds herself floating in a dimly lit room. It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust and her feet to touch the ground. As the room comes into focus, so do her targets, tangled together in a scene she has difficulty initially deciphering—after all, she’s only ever experienced similar situations in first person.

“Oh my maker!” Sadie shrieks and covers her eyes.

 “What the fuck are you doing here?” Lark pushes Dominic off and scrambles for a blanket to cover herself.

Sadie whips around, her face flushed. “I really didn’t mean to interrupt. I mean, I know you probably don’t get much time to yourselves, just the two of you. It must be nice to be able to—”

“What do you want, Sadie?” Dominic interrupts, “and—more importantly—how did you get here?” He slides off the bed and pulls on his pants, his irritation clear in his voice.

“I’m astral projecting, it seems,” Sadie covers her eyes, “with a little bit of help. I just had to warn you—”

“It’s a Gorgias curse,” Dominic finishes.

She nods. “A little different, though—your father lost control at some point.”

“’Lost control’? Could you explain?”

“How ‘bout we begin by putting on some clothes, and then we can talk, okay?” Sadie glances over her shoulder, “Okay, I know this is totally inappropriate and everything, but I have to say it. Lark, I cannot believe you’ve had four kids!”

“Um, thanks?”

It doesn’t take Sadie very long to relay the brief amount of information she knows. It’s fairly simple when broken down thusly: 1) Bastian had cast a broader and deeper curse than should be possible; 2) the ambiguity of his curse granted sentience to a character; 3) that character—Artemis—now endeavors to kill Dominic in belief it will grant her access to their larger, richer world.

“That’s ridiculous,” Dominic says, “no matter the caster, a Gorgias curse can’t lead to sentience. Beyond that, how would she be able to transverse to our world?”

“It’s what I know, okay?” Sadie responds, “And you know what, I’m sick of this—I’ve been running around all night trying to figure out this dang curse, part of which has led to me being thrust across dimensions to deliver a message from some crazy B. Least I could get is a thank you.”

“Thank you, Sadie,” Lark smiles.

He shakes his head. “I appreciate the time and energy you’ve put into this, but what if the curse is structured to make us believe that there’s this huge, existential threat? Is it possible this Artemis character is just that—a scripted bit of magic meant to shock us? I wouldn’t put it past my father to do something like that.”

 “It feels real, Dom—a zombie materialized in the real world, for plumbob’s sake, and Artemis broke into the Otherworld. I don’t know what to tell you, except that I think this has gotten out of hand and that you all are in real, physical danger. And Bastian said—“

“That wasn’t my father,” he says sharply, “it couldn’t have been.”

Sadie takes a deep breath. “I understand. You just need to be careful, okay? Artemis seemed one hundred percent serious—she even wanted me to tell you to meet her somewhere—wish-something keep.”

“Wishborne Keep,” Dominic frowns.

“Yes, that’s it. She claimed you won’t be able to leave this world until you fight her. Actually, she seemed pretty convinced she would win.”

Lark studies his face. “That’s a pretty specific little detail, huh?”

“It does give a bit of credence to what Sadie is saying,” he admits, “I don’t think my father would have included such minutia in his curse.”

 “What’s the plan, then? Kill her?” Lark shrugs, “Seems simple enough.”

“That seems like that most surefire way to break the curse. Until then, perhaps Sadie could return to our plane and research other possibilities.”

“I don’t know if I can do better than primary research,” Sadie says.

“Please,” Dominic’s tone is grave, “Look through my father’s notes—they should be packed up in the attic. If you can find anything that would help us, I would greatly appreciate it.”

She nods. “I’ll try. Come back safely.”

“Speaking of safety,” Lark turns to the door, “Are the kids in their room?” The hairs are standing up on the back of her neck.
 
“They should be,” Dominic says, “then again…”

A crash rings out from downstairs. Lark and Dominic dart out of the room. Sadie tries to follow them, but the invisible pull returns: with a jerk and no goodbye, she’s returned to her reality.

***

In the aftermath of the attack, Bjorn and Raven focus on the only remaining survivor.
“I what?” Brigid rubs her head.

“Fainted, ma’am,” Bjorn says.

“And there were—“

“Yes,” he finishes hastily.

“That seems—“

“Bad,” Raven looks over her shoulder. The front door has swung open, heralding a fresh hell.

“Well,” Teague steps in and scans the tavern, “you made quick work of them, didn’t you? Though I suppose I’m foolish to expect total victory from wights—still, my thralls usually fare a little better.”
“So you sent them—why?” Bjorn asks, “What do you want from us?”

He clenches his jaw. “Percy Ardreth. And if you cannot supply him, your service would work just as well.”

“As if,” Raven scoffs, “now you best back off unless you wanna end up piles of ash like your little friends.”

“Perfect,” Teague puts a hand on the hilt of his sword and smiles widely, “Shall we?”

Bjorn glances at Raven. Although not related by blood, the two have spent most of their short lives together; the result is an unspoken, twin-like connection. Raven knits her brow and her eyes flicker to the nearest door. He nods and grabs Brigid’s hand. He pulls her towards the door, Raven following close behind.

 Raven slams the door shut behind them and throws the lock. She turns and surveys the room—a kitchen—as she catches her breath. There are several windows, all of which are sealed with tightly knitted grating. It would be tedious to break their way out, but not impossible. The only other option is the stairs, but she’s seen enough horror movies to know that the idiot who runs upstairs dies.

Brigid sinks onto a stool, her hand over her chest. “I told Tom there were liches.”

“We didn’t disagree,” Raven says crossly. Her frown deepens when she notices her parents descending the stairs.

“You’re not in your room,” Dominic’s face is creased in disapproval, “what are you doing down here?”

“Learning the difference between liches and wights, for one. And we got to observe the native fauna in its natural habitat,” Bjorn pitches a mild joke, but no one is interesting in catching it

A steady thud echoes through the cavernous room: someone is beating at the door. “And that would be?” Lark asks.

Bjorn’s grin falters. “Um, those same men from earlier. You know, the creepy ones from the village.”
“Peachy,” she rolls her eyes.

“It’s not our fault they showed up,” he insists.

“No, but you didn’t follow our plan to lay low,” Dominic points out.

“Yeah, Bjorn. We should’ve let them kill us while we were sleeping instead of, you know, trying to find out why the hell we’re here,” Raven says.

Dominic puts his hands up. “Let’s just calm down, gather ourselves, and revise our plan. We can argue hypotheticals later.”

Outside, Teague throws his shoulder against the door to no avail: one, two, three times, but it holds. “Vexing,” he scoffs, “absolutely vexing.”

“Shall I try?” Farres asks.

“No,” Teague hold his hand up. It begins to glow, then embers—and soon flames—dance from his fingertips. “Let’s make an entry and send a message.”

 The blast from the fireball shakes the tavern. The kitchen door flies off its hinges, taking much of the wall with it. Smoke billows into the room. Lark waves her hands, weakly trying to expel the haze between gasps for fresh air.

Teague strides through the smoke. “The repetition is getting tiresome,” he examines his fingernails, “nonetheless I have a quest to complete: which one of you is Percy Ardreth?”

Farres nods to Dominic. “The paladin.”

“Of course. Tall, handsome, and scarred. I would not have it any other way,” Teague says, “Now, do you want to come willingly, or shall we do this by force?”

 Dominic lifts his hand into the air and mutters some invocation or other; Lark can’t make out the words or purpose, but the confidence with which he says it is astounding. Even more astounding, a hammer materializes in his hand. He slings it over his shoulder, and Lark notes the necessity to make a hammerspace joke at a later, safer time.

For now, each party readies itself.

 The brawl divides naturally, though perhaps unwisely. Teague—his eyes on the goal—rushes Dominic. Bjorn brandishes his sword at the lich, but he fails to take into account the weight of his gear. His swing is too slow, and amounts to little. With a condescending laugh, his opponent leaps towards him, and Bjorn draws back.

Meanwhile the magic users—best suited to range—are left to deal with Farres. Raven’s energy is already ebbing, making her simple shielding spell more difficult than it should be. Lark, meanwhile, is lagging even further behind: her earlier decision to seek comfort rather than rest is coming back to bite her. Her magic is far weaker than her earlier encounter, and her opponent is much stronger.

“Any preference as to who I kill first?” Farres asks. It would be a threat coming from anyone else; but from someone so taciturn and deadpan, it’s almost pragmatic, as mundane as asking who gets to ride shotgun.

“I think you mean to ask which of us is going to kill you; I’d be proud to do the honors,” Raven sneers, having taken too readily to mediocre quipping.

 “No,” Lark interjects, “me.” Concentrating, her hands begin to glow brighter and hotter. She searches for the energy to propel her magic, but she comes up short.

And then comes the interruption: Farres, fists chapped and scarred, jabs her in the face. She reels backward, blood spurting from her nose. Her magic fades as terror seizes her.

“Lark!” Raven gasps. Through concern, her spirit shifts: her shield falls, and somehow
—subconsciously or through a newly-acquired nature—her magic pours out of her and into Lark: a healing spell, though she doesn’t recognize it. Even with the boost, however, Lark can’t seem to pull herself up.

Teague’s charge leaves him equally open. Dominic—sensing his opportunity—swings his hammer into the lich’s chest, knocking him down.

“Stay down,” Bjorn orders.

Teague scoffs. “Or what?”

“We won’t kill you.”

 Farres’ assault is far less merciful. His foe is prone, and she provides a weak opposition: it’s taking her too long to cast, particularly considering his point blank proximity.

“Help,” Raven cries out, “please!”

 In his first of twin mistakes, Dominic’s attention turns from his captive.  His vision narrows, its focal point his imperiled wife. He pushes Farres back with a swing of his hammer, providing enough of a delay for Lark to finish channeling. Then, in unison with the spell’s release, he strikes. Farres flies across the room, temporarily felled by a potent combination of both sorcery and bashing damage.

 Dominic’s second mistake comes close on the heels of the first: he leaves Bjorn, the only one still actively in melee, alone and unsupported while he tends to Lark.

Thus far, the teen has been holding his own. His youthful energy serves him well, as does his inability to comprehend his own mortality. He presses on, unaided, waylaying Teague with an unpredictable flurry of attacks.

But at the exact precipice of the battle, he offers an olive branch: “Ready to yield?” His chivalry leaves him wide open. With a grunt and a heft of his sword, Teague pushes him back, knocking him off balance and his sword out of hand.

At character creation, Bjorn had concentrated more on his weapon than his armor. Perhaps that explains why his chainmail is so flimsy, and why Teague’s blade cut so easily into his hip. He lets out an anguished scream, which heightens as the sword digs deeper.

“A piece of advice, boy,” Teague hisses as he wrenches the blade out, “never match murderous intent with pacifism.”

Bjorn blinks heavily and crumples.

Lark’s heart stops, and an imperceptible cry escapes her lips. Her eyes flicker back and forth as she tries to understand the scene, until it dawns on her: her oldest is bleeding out on a dingy floor.
 In a split second, she cycles through shock, agony, and stark desire for immediate revenge. That base craving moves her, with no need for thought: she lifts her arms up and rolls her eyes upward. She feels herself speaking, but comprehends neither her words nor her actions.

Whether or not anger accounts for her alacrity and power is up for debate; at the very least, Teague is made to feel retribution. He spasms as lightning strikes his body. In the throes of electrocution, mere seconds amount to eons.

“Bitch,” he mumbles, swaying before falling against the counter—down, but not out.

Lark and Dominic rush to Bjorn. “Be careful moving him,” Dominic advises. Lark ignores him, scooping him up and cradling her boy as close as she can. Raven, meanwhile, stands fixed in place—her eyes widened and full of fear, she can’t seem to fathom what’s happening.

Bjorn’s eyes flutter. “It hurts,” he groans, “mom, it really hurts.”

“I know,” Lark’s voice is low and soothing, “I know. We’re going to fix it. I’m here to fix it.”
He holds up his hand to show his bloodstained glove. “It’s not,” he winces, “it’s not—we can’t.”

“Shh,” she pushes his hair back out of his eyes, “you’re going to be fine.”

“Please,” his eyes drift upward before fluttering closed. His body grows limp.

“Bjorn,” she whimpers, “Bjorn?”

“He’s still breathing,” Dominic says quickly, “look.” Bjorn’s chest rises and falls, true, but to an irregular and shallow beat.

Tears well up in her eyes. “He’s dying.”

“Lark, please,” Dominic’s mouth keeps moving, but she only hears white noise. The room isn’t as still as it should be. Her eyes flicker towards the movement: Teague and Farres have both roused themselves awake. They are seconds away from slaughter.

For the second time that night, Lark is compelled by her newfound nature. She throws her head back and shrieks. It manifests an ability that Dominic had suggested, just in case: teleportation. She has no destination in mind beyond far and safe, with her son in her arms; Dominic’s proximity ensures his entanglement with the spell.

The trio fades away. They leave in their wake two wounded enemies, as well as the one person who could definitively save Bjorn.

Farres glares at Teague. “I hate magic,” he grunts.

“No need to despair, my friend,” Teague tilts his head, a devious smile plastered on his face, “It seems there’s a leftover. But who could forget such a darling little thing?”

“Take one step closer and I’ll cremate you,” Raven warns, but her bravado can’t hide her trembling hands.

“How feisty! But even the four of you—well, now three—couldn’t beat the two of us. So it would appear you are absolutely no match, love.”

“Yeah, well that was before you pissed me off.”

“Just tell us where we can find the paladin,” Farres sighs, “and I’ll make it quick.”

“We can even ensure you a certain status in undeath,” Teague adds.

“What a tempting offer,” Raven scoffs, “As if I’m going to betray my dad so I can be a zombie or whatever. Besides, what makes you think I know where they poofed off too? I wasn’t exactly invited.”

His eyes brighten. “’Dad?’ Why, your Ardreth’s daughter, aren’t you? How fascinating. Farres, thoughts?”

“Bait works as well as information,” the pirate shrugs.

Raven recoils and balls her fists. “Seriously—back off!” She struggles against him, but Farres easily
scoops her up.

 “Now then,” Teague leads his victory party out of the tavern, “I believe we have a meeting with the queen.”

***

previous chapter | next chapter