N ikolai sat at his desk and took out his most recent purchase, Mediums for Mundanes , cringing at the title. The séance spell was covered at the Academy, but as he had no interest in contacting the dead back then, he hadn’t bothered to learn it. He did know it was a simple spell any Magi could cast.
So it was telling when he searched for the spell in Medea’s master grimoire and it came back restricted, filed away under Soul Magic. Silly thing for her to hide. He simply took the gateway to Istanbul and bought a copy of the Academy’s beginner guide to communing with the dead.
On the surface, the séance spell was relatively simple—all it required was a few candles and the right frame of mind—but it came with dire warnings. If the desired soul was unable to be reached, it was possible for other souls and spirits to answer the call and haunt the caster. Nikolai shrugged this off. What did he have to fear from the dead?
There was a list of caveats. Not all souls could return to speak. Okay, that wasn’t great. The recently deceased were easier to contact. That wasn’t good. If Thomas were dead, he likely passed a couple centuries ago.
The guidelines also stated that a connection was required, preferably an emotional bond. Barring a close family member or friend, a physical object could be used. Body parts worked best for this—hair, nail clippings, and the like. Medea’s hasty incineration of the skeleton in the forest suddenly made a lot more sense. Whoever it had been, she’d ensured he’d never speak to them.
Personal possessions were less reliable. The best was an item they had an emotional attachment to. Barring that, it had to be something they used every day—probably working off skin cells or bodily fluids, as Medea’s locket enchantment back in Haven had done. With each degree of removal from the person, the chance of success decreased. Nikolai set the book down and leaned back in his chair.
Therein lay the problem. He didn’t know Thomas personally, and it was doubtful he’d find the man’s hair lying around after two hundred years. It wasn’t as if he could ask Medea to identify objects Thomas had used.
There had to be something around here that would work. Medea didn’t seem to get rid of anything. The desk alone had probably been here for centuries.
That was it!
He walked to the back wall, pushing aside one of the tapestries he’d purchased to liven up the place. Hidden behind was the straw pallet included with his room. Medea said it hadn’t been replaced in centuries.
He grabbed his drawstring pouch and shoved the mattress inside, then headed to the laboratory for candles. In the gateway room, he chose the gateway for the temple in the jungle. If ever he needed a magical boost, it was today.
Humidity smacked him as soon as he crossed the threshold. Not the most comfortable place for a séance, but it would do. He didn’t intend to take all day. Finally, he was going to get answers!
Nikolai cleared a few branches that had blown over the stone platform and upended his pouch, depositing the straw mattress. At each corner he lit a candle, then he sat facing north with the séance book in his lap.
The chant had to be as specific as possible. Thankfully, Medea never hesitated to talk about Thomas. Given her adulatory ravings during their lessons, he suspected she had an intellectual hard-on for the guy. He withdrew a list from his breast pocket—god, he was turning into Medea—and reviewed his notes.
He took a deep breath and intoned, “I call thee, Thomas, former apprentice of the great mage Medea. Thomas, who once slept on this very bed. Thomas, witch from Massachusetts. Thomas, who turned his back on the Christian god that wronged him. I call thee. I bind thee. Answer my call.” It would be enough.
Nothing happened. He repeated the chant. Again, nothing.
Was he missing something? It did say that some souls were incapable of being called back. Was Thomas one of them? He thought for certain a caster that powerful would hasten to the call.
He scanned the book. Séances worked better when there was emotional attachment involved. He’d make one, damnit. An angry soul was better than none at all.
He stood and shouted into the jungle. “I call thee, Thomas, former apprentice of that bitch-mage Medea. BEST apprentice according to her, even though she is CLEARLY showing FAVORITISM. You couldn’t have been THAT good or you never would have DIED. Some apprentice you were, Thomas who had a falling out with Medea in”—he glanced down at his notes—“1686. What’d you do, try to fuck her and get shot down? You give up like the pussy you are? How could you be her best, when you turned away and RAN? Coward. Come here and answer my call, Thomas! I’ll have words with you!”
Still nothing.
“I don’t think he’s coming.”
Nikolai spun. “Who said that?”
“If you don’t blow out those candles soon, something far nastier than me is going to come through. We get bored, you know. Nothing passes the time like messing with mortals.”
Nikolai spun in a circle but saw nothing. “Who are you? Where are you?”
A small creature appeared, almost like a fox except its bushy tail was ringed. Black fur glistened with flecks of silver like stars in the night sky. The creature approached with catlike grace to stare up at him with amber eyes.
“Who are you? What are you?”
“A god of old, one whose people have long since died out.”
Just some mangy spirit creature then. “I was expecting someone else.”
“No doubt. However, you seemed to have grabbed the attention of another. I’d put out those candles if I were you.”
“I’m not finished yet. I still haven’t spoken with—”
The light dimmed. Birds rose squawking from the trees and the fox-thing vanished. Spirits, always so dramatic. He didn’t recall much from Medea’s lecture on spirits and the fae, but he did remember that. Their power came from impressing enough humans to part with their souls. It wouldn’t work on him.
He paced around the mattress. Clearly, he needed more of Thomas to make this work—more information, more physical connections. Who knew how many apprentices had slept on the bed between Thomas and himself? No wonder it hadn’t worked, with so many physical ties to others.
He picked up the candles one by one and began to blow them out.
Creeping Darkness was a spell he had a passing familiarity with. He’d come across it in one of his textbooks, and the name had piqued his interest, but he’d turned the book aside in disgust when he realized it was only an illusion spell.
Illusion spells didn’t actually do anything; they simply convinced people that something significant was happening—parlor tricks for lesser wizards. When the jungle disappeared from sight, and the pyramid too, he recognized the illusion for what it was.
Did the spirit really think it could scare him? He held up the last candle. The flame only managed to illuminate a tiny area near his hand. Darkness pushed steadily against it. Soon, even it would be obscured.
“Ah, yes, terrifying.” He nudged his foot around until it found the straw mattress. He bent to pick it up and shoved it back into his pouch.
There went the candle. He left it. No point in getting turned around in the dark looking for something replaceable.
He conjured a small light in his hand, but it didn’t extend far enough to get his bearings. Great. He’d have to fumble around until he chanced upon the gateway. A wrong step would send him falling over the side of the pyramid. He edged forward a step at a time in what he thought was the right direction.
The light in his hand winked out. A chill shot up his leg and dashed toward his heart, ice pumping through his veins.
Something clutched his ankle. He couldn’t see his own hands, let alone his leg. He reached toward the thing that grasped him.
Whatever it was, some of it was soft and yielding. The moist substance parted before his fingers, until they struck something solid. Bone? A hand?
He straightened up and kicked at it. An inhuman shriek erupted from the ground at his feet, then something scrabbled up his chest, clawing as it went.
Warm, hot breath hit his face. The stench of it was like rotting flesh. He pushed and something bit into his hand.
Whatever it was, it must not reach his face. Teeth clacked near his cheek. He feigned yielding, then ducked below it and pushed out with his magic in every direction.
A scream flew back and landed with a sickening wet slap not far away. He conjured a full-body shield and a small light, making it as bright as he could. The light took more mana than it should to fight back the darkness, but he needed to see what he faced.
Something slammed into his shield, scratching and howling. Nikolai fell and rolled dangerously close to the edge of the pyramid. He reached out to halt his progress, grabbing at vines and rock.
The thing pushing him was rotting flesh on a skeletal frame. Not quite a wraith; not quite a ghoul. Something in between. Solid, yet semi-ethereal. It wore the tattered remains of wizard training garb. A medallion hung from its neck—some sort of Celtic symbol—which meant it wasn’t Thomas. Still, any of Medea’s previous apprentices would do.
“Hey! Heeeeeey!” He waved his hand in front of the creature’s face, trying to gain its attention. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Medea’s training.” The creature roared and bit at his shield.
“It doesn’t have enough of a mind left to answer you.” There was the fox-spirit again. It waltzed out of the darkness, illuminated by its own light, and sat on its haunches nearby. “Souls aren’t meant to come back. Most can’t hold themselves together after death. This”—it indicated the creature—“is just a walking mass of bitterness and loathing. You pissed it off. That’s the only reason it’s here.”
Nikolai studied the dead-eyed creature in front of him. “Any tips on how to get rid of it?”
The fox-spirit grinned, tongue lolling. “A smart wizard would have learned a banishing spell before trying to summon the dead.”
Useless spirit. He ignored it and focused on his shield. In a blink, it shrank from bubble to disk. He tilted it up, sending the creature sliding over the edge of the pyramid. The darkness went with it. He stood and brushed himself off. “Fat lot of help you are, spirit.”
Its grin widened.
A scream emanated from below. The creature was back, flying through the air, howling like a banshee.
“Fuck it.” He retrieved his wand from his belt pouch. Medea wasn’t here to complain. “Flamma! Apscido!” A fireball shot from his wand and hit the creature square in the chest. All four of its limbs were severed from its body, which fell to the ground.
Nikolai twirled his wand with a smirk and holstered it. God he loved being a Magi. It was good to feel competent at something besides telepathy again. Medea made him feel like a child groping after concepts far beyond his comprehension. Pretentious—that’s what she was. Why neglect wands and incantations when they were direct and effective?
“It’s coming back, you know,” chirped the fox-spirit.
Sure enough, the flames had extinguished. Limbs rose and reattached to the body. Not only that, the damn thing was now casting at him.
He flung himself sideways as a black bolt landed inches from his feet, corroding the stone. He reconjured his shield and returned in kind. “Fulmen! Lancea!” Lightning forked from his wand, singeing the creature’s robes, as the lance spell scored its chest. It took no notice of either.
“Sanguino!”
“Bleed?” The fox-spirit cackled. “You really expect to kill something made of pure magic and will with Bleed ?”
“Then how do I kill it?” he yelled, sending a few more spells winging toward the creature. None seemed to have any lasting effect.
“You don’t,” the fox-spirit replied cheerily.
The undead creature maneuvered itself in front of the gateway and fired several green bolts. One hit his shield, cracking it. He repaired the damage and considered his options.
His training pouch with all his potions was at home—it’s not like he’d anticipated a battle—and he hadn’t thought to throw any in the wide-mouthed bag. At this rate, he would rapidly deplete his mana and then he would be defenseless.
“I can give you a hint,” said the fox-spirit, “if you do something for me.”
“I’m not giving you my soul!”
A spiraling green light slammed into his shield and began to drill through it. He dispelled the shield and ran, flinging broken branches at the creature as it flew after him. Maybe if he ran all the way around the top of the pyramid, he could make it back to the gateway before the creature caught up with him.
He turned a corner and slammed into a wall, staggering back and rubbing his nose. The stone had crumbled and fallen long ago, blocking his path forward. Time to levitate.
The creature bore down on him just as he cleared the stone. It grasped his boot and once again the icy chill of death spread through him. He kicked the creature in the face and tugged himself free.
There were loose stones here—chunks of the old temple that had weathered down over the years. He used telekinesis to fling them at the creature, knocking it backward, and ran on.
The fox-spirit ran beside him, leaping deftly from stone to stone. “Not your soul. Take me with you when you leave.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Because it’s dull here, and you seem to lead an interesting life.” It grinned at him.
A spell flew past his left shoulder, exploding rock and spraying his face with debris. It cost nothing to bring the spirit to Medea’s island, though it might betray what he’d been doing here. Were spirits bound by their word? He vaguely remembered something like that.
“Give me your oath you won’t betray me to my master, or tell her anything of what went on here, then give me your advice. If it helps me defeat the creature, I’ll take you with me.”
“I, Yoxtl, do swear not to betray you to your master, nor speak aught of what happened here.”
Nikolai willed a huge swath of rocks and stone to fly at the creature. Still, it kept coming.
“What’s your advice?” He conjured his shield anew, keeping careful watch for the drilling spell that had threatened it before.
“First of all, stop doing that . You’re using all your mana moving this stuff around. Just hold still and keep your shield up.”
“How am I supposed to kill it if I just stand here?”
“It’s dead . You can’t kill it. Banish it, sure, but you would’ve done that if you knew how. Souls get more powerful the longer they’re alive, especially if they belong to a mage, but they can’t regenerate mana after they die. Every spell it casts whittles away what it has left. Even maintaining a corporeal form costs it. All you have to do is wait it out.”
“So when it runs out of mana it will just disappear?”
“Yup.”
Nikolai stopped running. He stood, chest heaving, as the undead mage sent spell after spell at his shield. How long could this thing keep going? Was the spirit trying to trick him into giving up? “I’m getting low on mana. I don’t think I can outlast it.”
“Then get it to cast some really big stuff so it drains itself faster. Try making it mad.”
That definitely sounded like a trick, but it beat standing around doing nothing. If he couldn’t cast spells, words would do.
The undead mage wore a Celtic medallion, making him Irish or Scottish. All he had to do was insinuate the guy was British. He took a deep breath and hollered at the creature.
“Hey! Yah Tommy! Yah Tan! You—”
A force flung Nikolai high. He crashed into a boulder, head rattling against the inside of his shield before it winked out. Fuck. He hadn’t even gotten going yet. Magi usually had far less national pride. That was a Mundane-level response.
He stood, wobbling, and conjured his shield again, now thin and brittle. He couldn’t take another hit like that.
“So? Why’d she kill you anyway? Got tired of yet another necromancer? Did she curse you too? Drain your body to keep herself young? Just think back to all those times she beat you in a duel. How long did you last, when you challenged her? Five minutes?”
The creature screamed, unnaturally high pitched, and wind buffeted Nikolai. The scream and rushing wind merged into a crescendo to form a whirling vortex in front of the deceased mage. Dust and rocks rose into the air, tearing away the last vestiges of his shield.
He didn’t wait for the tornado to pick up steam. Magic crackled in the air around him as he tore down the side of the pyramid.
Still the creature screamed, but the sound stabilized—it hadn’t followed him. He couldn’t say the same for the rushing wind. Already the trees swayed with the force of it.
He dove into the jungle, heedless of where he headed. The muddy ground sucked greedily at his boots. It gave way suddenly and he sank to his knees in dark brown sludge. He hauled himself out, pushed along by biting wind.
Plants blocked him at every turn, but he lacked the mana to cut through them. Branches snapped behind him. One struck the back of his head, momentarily stunning him as debris whirled past his shoulders. Unable to escape the rushing wind, he curled up behind a great tree and covered his head. An eternity later, the gale stopped.
Nikolai stood. Twigs and leaves plastered his coat. He tried to take it off and pain shot through his arm. A stick, thick as a broom handle, jutted from his bicep. He yanked it out with a roar.
Damned spirit. Just wait it out, it said. Taunt it some more, it said. Some help it turned out to be.
He followed the path of destruction, which increased the closer he got to the pyramid. Stripped leaves and small branches turned to limbs as thick as his thighs. By the time he reached the stone steps, many of the trees had been upended or snapped in half.
He conjured a weak shield and crept toward the gateway, unsure if the mage was still around. The top of the pyramid appeared to be empty. He ducked into the arch for the gateway and found the fox-spirit lounging on the floor.
“There you are!” it said brightly. “I half thought you dead.”
“I almost was, no thanks to you.”
“What do you mean, ‘no thanks to me’? My advice worked, didn’t it?”
“I didn’t have the mana to withstand an attack like that and you knew it!”
“Pfft. You seemed to do fine.” It grinned.
“Fine. After you.” He gestured to the gateway. After seeing what Medea’s wards did to a mortal, he was curious to see their effects on a spirit.
“You think I’m stupid enough to fall for that? It’s warded to hell and back. You’ll have to carry me through.”
He made to move around the spirit, but it scrambled in front of him.
“We had a deal,” it said.
“I don’t like your idea of help.”
“And I don’t like mortals who renege on their word. Leave me here and you’ll be twice cursed.”
The phrasing caught him off guard. He peered curiously at the spirit. “What do you mean, twice cursed?”
“I mean you’re already cursed, and I would add another. One plus one is two. I know mortals are dim, but I thought they knew basic arithmetic.”
So he was right. It was a curse. Damn Medea! “You can see it?”
The smile that broke out on the spirit’s face was far too eager. “And you can’t. Pity that. It’s quite impressive. You must have pissed off someone really powerful.”
He crouched next to the spirit. “Can you see what it does? Tell me how to remove it?”
“Why should I help you?” it said haughtily. “You didn’t seem to like my advice last time.”
“Please.” He cast around for something he could offer the spirit. What did spirits want apart from souls? He wouldn’t give it that. “What do you want?”
“For now, I want you to remain true to our bargain. We can discuss your curse later.”
Not a bad idea. It was best to enter negotiations knowing more than your opponent. Medea’s library was bound to have information on spirits, and it didn’t appear to be a topic she was opposed to discussing.
He lifted the spirit into his arms. It was light and amazingly soft. On closer inspection, its body put him more in mind of a cat than a canid. Warmth radiated from it like an ethereal purr. A trick, no doubt, to get mortals to care about it. He was immune to that nonsense.
The spirit looked up at him and smirked as they passed through the gateway to Medea’s beach.