Chapter Thirteen

STORM FROWNED AS the book wobbled on the floor, refusing to lift. How could he manage to levitate himself, but he couldn’t move a single bloody book? “What freaked me out was meeting Donald James Glade,” he said, while Rowan sat in the armchair, absently flicking through a book for his course on Occult Sciences through Glasgow University. Though he wanted to ask what Occult Sciences was about, he had more important things on his plate. College wasn’t even a glimmer of hope on the horizon.

“Do you think the DJ you met was a homunculus?” Rowan asked, his concern shining through. He would know better than anyone that sending the soul of a once-living being into a shell not created for the purpose was dangerous.

“Yael thought Ithen did it for her or she waited until after the prophecy. I mean, your father had the amulet in the war, and it had to go somewhere after the war. Yael can’t say whether I destroyed the spell or if I even knew where the amulet was.”

Right now, they couldn’t rely on anything being set in stone. Though Storm had seen Ithen offer to make a homunculus for Gladys, there was nothing in the memories to say he’d held up his end of the bargain. Ithen may have been bluffing, to get Gladys on his side.

“What’s sad is that DJ was this sweet, innocent kid. Gladys moved heaven and earth to resurrect him, but she didn’t love him,” he explained, not sure why anyone would go to the trouble of bringing their child back from the dead only to leave him floundering in uncertainty, unaware of what he was or what he could do. “He was as haunted by her house as I was when I lived there,” Storm recalled, relieved DJ didn’t exist in this timeline, though no one was sure if Gladys’s plans for him were already in motion. “Why did she bring him back just to live a life of fear?”

Rowan slipped from the armchair and crossed to where Storm sat, just outside the door—using distance to force his magic to work harder. “We have to assume he had a purpose he’d already fulfilled, and Gladys couldn’t bring herself to kill her son when that task was completed.” His voice was full of understanding for the unfathomable bond Storm had with the boy. He knew that future didn’t exist, but he and DJ were so similar he wondered if Gladys had been using Storm as a substitute for her dead son all these years.

“I need to find a way to save him.” Storm couldn’t bear to lose the war again, knowing that some poor child—DJ’s spirit or whatever homunculus Gladys created from magic—would end up suffering for his failure.

With that incentive in mind, Storm went back to the book and his pathetic attempt to summon objects. Give him the wind, the rain or leaves and he could summon them without even thinking, but ask him to move something solid and Storm’s magic ground to a screeching halt.

After three hours of strenuous disagreements with his magic, Storm could lift the damned book far enough to reach. What Rowan called cheating—when the book dropped a foot away and he lunged to catch it—Storm called proactive disaster control. For a dark mage, cheating was in the eye of the beholder.

Rowan huffed when Storm made the mistake of admitting that out loud. “Honestly, you dark mages love to break the rules. You can’t settle for bending them, you just walk right over them in your size-twelve boots, trampling on the foundations of magic until you—” He cut off with a gasp of surprise, saving Storm from an extended lecture as Yael stepped from the abyss.

“Hello, youngling. Demon-witch.” Yael’s greeting was hardly their best but far from their worst, and Rowan didn’t look insulted. “I’m glad you had a powerful ally by your side while I was indisposed,” they said, stepping from the portal to cross to Storm. They sank down beside him, crossed their legs and looked expectantly at Storm as though they hadn’t been gone for days.

“I would say hello lower demon—” Rowan leaned over his knees and rested his elbow on the arm of the chair. “—but I sense you’re climbing the ranks. You’ve learned something interesting that no other demons know, haven’t you?”

Intrigued by the development and that Yael was surprisingly quiet about his discovery, Storm turned to Yael. “What did you find out?” he asked, wondering why they hadn’t said anything and why they wore a checked green hunting suit over tan trousers, with no shirt or shoes. Their style was both old-fashioned elegance and in major need of human sensibility.

Folding their hands on their lap, Yael sat tall and proud. “What I have learned has no direct bearing on current events. I will think upon the information to determine what must be told and what must remain secret.” They glanced suspiciously at Rowan then faced Storm. “I am awaiting further information from other demons, who have been told to request my presence in the abyss or visit me if they know anything pertinent to your quest.”

“Fine. Getting information from demons who will always want payment can be tricky.”

Yael nodded and didn’t seem in the least remorseful when they announced, “I have made many promises that you will pay these demons for their information, in either spellwork or knowledge.”

Storm rolled his eyes and bit his tongue. There was no point arguing. Thank the gods demons didn’t deal in money or he’d be broke. “Great. Thank you, Yael.”

Putting that problem aside for another day, Storm spent a few minutes filling Yael in on what had happened in their absence, from talking to Denver and Foley to living with Rowan and relearning how to control his magic. He wanted them to all be on the same page about their goals and what was needed to achieve them.

Yael hummed, sounding ominously cautious. “I could feel you attempting magic, but I’m afraid you barely know where to start. You are not a demon, nor are you an ordinary witch, and certainly no ordinary mage. I have brought you this book to help you understand the darker arts more clearly.” Reaching behind their back, they plucked a heavy tome from the air, no doubt utilising a demon trick.

“Where did you get this?”

Yael handed him the book. “The higher demon I visited was saying farewell to his current master. The man was dying and the demon gave this to me, on his behalf, to help you fulfil the prophecy,” they explained, sounding like a huffy teenager.

Storm glanced at Rowan who struggled to hide his amusement.

“We demons want to see the prophecy fulfilled as much as you do. If the future remains on the same path, magic will disappear. We demons will then be the only source of pure magic left.” Yael glanced between them, the gravity of their words sobering the mood. “I’m sure I do not need to explain the consequences to our survival.”

“No. I understand.” Storm rubbed his brow as he offered Yael an apologetic smile and grasped their hand.

Yael stood and gestured to the book. “Begin reading and I will allow you to use magic against me to show you how to find control,” they offered, seamlessly taking on the role of lecturer. “Where other witches and mages must command magic, your magic responds to your will and an instinctive request for partnership. You do not demand but ask magic if you can work together; that will be key to finding your control.”

Storm nodded, glad to hear someone talking his language. Rowan’s well-meaning guidance about calling on his magic and using his intent to communicate his needs had been helpful, but Storm didn’t work that way. Even when dealing with the wind or rain his magic had always been easy, a matter of speaking to them, asking if they were willing and thinking of what he wanted only after merging their magic.

“It can’t be any worse than this pathetic attempt.” He pulled the tome onto his lap and began reading.

Yael walked into the summer house and lay on the chaise. “I think I will sleep. Wake me when he has completed the first chapter, Demon-witch. Then we will put his learning into practice.”

They sounded like a lord of the manor, ordering the servants about, and Rowan wasn’t the only one left speechless. Storm glanced at Rowan as he huffed and shook his head, silently agreeing that there was no point arguing. Yael had obviously never worked with a master before, or they wouldn’t be so cocky about taking charge, but Storm loved that. The one thing he’d always hated about the idea of being a dark mage, destined to bond with a demon, was the thought of becoming some asshole master, knowing the demon was bound to obey even if they didn’t want to.

Rowan had a small, almost amused smile playing on his lips when he picked up Midnight, who was sneaking out of the summer house. “No point getting sore,” he whispered to the kitten. “Yael is more demon than you or I and they can’t help the superiority complex. We have to be better than them and not retaliate, no matter how much we want to.”

Storm stifled his laughter, realising Rowan struggled to tolerate Yael’s attitude because he was also half-demon.

*

THE PREVIOUS OWNER of the book had obviously been making notes for an apprentice or younger member of his family. Numerous loose pages, scribbles in the margins and drawings to help visualise the spells, littered the ancient book. Whether Yael had to return the book or if Storm could keep it, he was grateful for the gift.

Pulling out a single sheaf labelled, Necromancy Rules, he studied the beautiful script and set about memorising every word.

 

Magic cannot be used for personal gain, therefore even the darker arts are constrained to the laws that maintain balance. In necromancy, the one cardinal rule is: you cannot resurrect someone you love. If they die, you must suffer their loss as any other mortal would. You cannot take without giving, because balance will find a way to maintain itself if you disobey this rule.

For example: in the eighteenth century a young male necromancer of my family had an illicit relationship with another man. Attacked for their proclivities, his lover died. My ancestor broke the laws of magic to return his love from the dead, and while the lover returned in body he was not the same man in mind or soul. The man was but a shadow of who he had once been and had no consciousness, no free will. He was no better than the modern Gothic invention: the zombie.

I wish to note that the mage was wise enough to regret his decision. He endured the pain of killing his lover and following him into the abyss, where they lived as spirits for many generations before they passed into the light.

 

Storm raised an eyebrow at the story, unable to resist the urge to look at Rowan. His death lingered in the future, a distinct possibility if no longer a certainty, and Storm wasn’t sure what he would do when the time came to act.

He’d been crushing on Rowan for years, and while this mage mentioned love, he didn’t know if he was in love with Rowan. He wasn’t sure what love was or how he’d know when he felt it.

What if he loved Rowan and couldn’t resurrect him? What if he didn’t love Rowan but thought he did and didn’t even try to resurrect him? What if he trusted that he loved Rowan and they wouldn’t face a zombie fate, then resurrected him and realised it wasn’t love? What if Rowan being a half-demon meant his magic wouldn’t work, even if he didn’t love him, because resurrecting a demon disrupted the balance?

Suppressing the groan of frustration brewing beneath the surface, he returned to reading, hoping his jumbled thoughts would disappear as he learned more.

 

Necromancers are in a unique position that allows the trade of death for life or life for death. As well as resurrecting the dead—the ability most necromancers are known for—they are also able to send the living to the abyss.

I do not say kill, because the act resembles a wish fulfilled rather than a crime committed. If, as in the world of medicine, a person wishes to die—due to extreme pain, they are dying, or are certain of their decision—necromancers have their own form of magical euthanasia. Their method is less painful on the soul, the so-called victim, and the families than a suicide or medical euthanasia. A necromancer can touch the victim and ask the heart to stop beating; a transition rather than instantaneous death, allowing for goodbyes and preparations to be made. The spell can be performed at any time at the victim’s request, planned weeks in advance if necessary.

This must only be done in extreme circumstances. If every necromancer offered a pain-free euthanasia to anyone who asked, there would be no necromancers left. As with all magic, a give and take must occur or the magic will not work. When bringing a soul from the abyss, the necromancer will sacrifice anything from one to five years of their life, but when sending a soul the number can double.

For this balance, necromancers must calculate the cost to their soul and their life before using this ability. If they lack the strength, energy and focus to be clear with what they are and are not willing to trade with the abyss, the results can be disastrous for the mage and victim alike.

A strong mage can prepare themselves for the sacrifice in advance, if they know they are soon to perform this feat. Fortifying the human body with twice the calories they would normally consume, avoiding alcohol and cigarettes beforehand, and performing a reading followed by a sage cleansing will prepare the mind and body for the journey through another’s heart and death.

 

“What?”

Storm flinched at the sound of Rowan’s voice, realising he’d been muttering out loud. “Sorry. It’s talking about necromancy and the price we pay. They should just have a big flashing sign saying, ‘Don’t Do It’!”

Rowan chuckled and petted Midnight’s ear as he turned the page of his paperback. “We may not have asked for these abilities, but you’re doing the right thing by learning how to use and control them,” he said, always supportive, as though they’d never been anything but allies and friends. “I had to tame the demon side of me, and you need to understand the side of your magic made to control death. I wouldn’t trust anyone else with my life…or death.”

A cloud passed over his eyes with the last word and Storm knew why. He wasn’t the only one with Rowan’s future death at the forefront of his mind. He nodded his agreement and returned to the book, hoping something would click.

He’d never needed anything as badly as he needed to understand and control his necromancy.

*

YAEL CRACKED THEIR knuckles as they waited for Storm to make his first attempt at using magic against a demon. According to Yael, he was the prophecy child and the only one capable of using ‘friendly fire’ against a demon and posing a serious threat. If Storm had been any other mage, he’d be better going home, but he wasn’t, and Yael was convinced he could do this.

Gathering his hands in front of his stomach, Storm asked his magic to assist him as he created a ball of blue fire Yael insisted wouldn’t hurt them. Before he could get any further, Yael huffed.

“Stop!” Yael looked like a teacher frustrated by a failing pupil. “The dark magic within you isn’t dark because the craft is wrong or evil. You don’t need to ask your magic if it is willing to help, as if what you’re doing is wrong. You ask if it is ready to help,” he said, giving Storm no time to consider their words. “Demon-witch! You have shared intimacy, please explain in a way he can understand.”

“Hey!” Storm objected to the weird phrasing, but Yael didn’t know how inappropriate those words were to humans. “You said ‘please’ this time.”

Rowan set his book aside with a thoughtful frown. “I think I know what Yael means,” he admitted, placing Midnight on the ground. He left the summer house and walked toward Storm. Already early evening, the warm look in Rowan’s eyes made him want to return to the manor and snuggle in bed.

Rowan pressed against Storm, chest to chest, and dipped his head the brief distance between them to nudge their noses. When he kissed Storm, he was waiting, closing his eyes to the now familiar act that, barely a week ago, he would never have thought possible.

A Tera and a Copry.

Gods, history was repeating itself, but Storm refused to let Rowan go. He didn’t want to live the same half existence, begging and pleading with Rowan the way Cesa had, knowing he’d never be whole without him.

When had a kiss become this?

Rowan broke the kiss with a smile, his eyes sparkling ice blue with emotion. “The first time you kissed me, you asked if I was willing. If I was okay with you kissing me because we’d never kissed before,” he said, placing a hand over Storm’s heart. “Now I can kiss you any time I like. I still ask if you want to—just in a different way. A way that doesn’t need words.”

The point eluded Storm after the thoughts overtaking his mind during their incredible kiss.

“Your magic is part of you; you know each other. Your powers gave blanket consent the moment you stepped out of the abyss with them. Your magic—the wild, intricate blend that only you possess—knows what you want and what you’re planning to do. All you have to do is ask. Like you knew I would kiss you when I nudged your nose, your magic knows what you want the minute you call.” Rowan’s voice was soft and soothing as he tapped a finger over Storm’s heart. He wanted to sink into Rowan’s arms and not let go, mesmerised by the words that worked like a spell against his heart. “Just as you would have kissed me if I hadn’t closed the distance because I’d let you know with my body language that I wanted to be kissed, your magic is waiting for you to lead the way and will put its foot down if you step out of line.”

Gods, he’d never heard anything more beautiful or anything that made sense of his magic in a way he understood.

“Nicely done, Demon-witch.”

Storm glared at Yael for interrupting the moment and was caught off guard when a wisp of dark smoke drifted from his fingertips to knock Yael on their ass. He caught the arched eyebrow from Rowan, asking if he’d meant that, and shrugged. “Serves them right. Getting in the way,” he remarked, unable to resist stealing another kiss.

Yael huffed, sounding mildly irritated. “Let’s try again.”

As Rowan stepped out of the line of fire, Storm reached for his magic almost without thinking. He knew where his magic lived, swirling at the base of his spine and the pit of his gut; mentally tapped on the door that opened to welcome him, pleased to be wanted, eager to put itself to use.

Storm cocked his head, evaluating Yael’s body for a weak spot, and formed the fire in his mind. His magic sang beneath his skin, fingers tingling and flexing with the need to explore. Once the fire was fully formed, a single thought had it extending from his fingers like red smoke, sailing toward Yael.

The demon smirked and twisted their wrist to stretch their fingers, the movement effortlessly waving his fire aside. Before he could recover, Storm blew into the air, sending a gust of wind and hail.

Though Yael brushed the wind aside, they stepped aside to avoid the hail and flinched as a piece grazed their cheek. “Well done. Quick, unforgiving, unyielding; you reacted the moment you knew the fire would fail. You have learned to watch with your eyes and mind open, to adapt, and how to summon your magic. You must now learn how to harness your magic, how to strengthen your ability and when not to use your powers. That will be your most vital lesson.

“Read the book. Study the history of dark magic, the rules, the limitations and think about how you would have defended yourself from these attacks,” Yael suggested, shaking their arms out to the side and drawing them to their stomach, their favourite cane appearing between one act and the next. “Once you have studied more, we can put what you have learned into use. I think your next lesson must be in necromancy. We will test your abilities once more, but we must focus on that gift to ensure that if the worst happens then you are prepared.”

The fact Yael glanced at Rowan showed they were all holding Rowan’s life at the forefront of their concerns.

“Homework.” Storm realised he’d have a lot of reading in his future, but that was okay. Rowan had his course work, Yael was busy gathering information to make them more powerful, and that might help with the prophecy. Nothing they did from this point would be worth anything if he didn’t know how to harness the art of necromancy.

It was time to get to work.