Chapter Nineteen

“I’M NOT STRONG enough,” Storm said, his throat feeling dry as a desert.

“No.” Yael’s tone was a clear agreement as they closed Jordan’s eyes and folded his arms over his chest. “Your body and magic are strong enough, but your mind has yet to accept who you are. You are the Dark One, the prophecy child, the one all others must bow to, the one that other dark mages must obey.”

Storm sighed, realising this failure was his doing because he didn’t believe everyone in the magical world should bow to him. But if he’d never master necromancy until he accepted that, they were up shit creek, because Storm would never feel comfortable being some almighty leader to be bowed to and obeyed without question; in his mind, that was a dictator not a leader.

Yael bent over Jordan’s body to look Storm in the eye. “Until you believe—until you understand what it means to be Storm Tera—you will never overcome this shortfall.” They flashed a consoling smile, equal parts scolding and amusement. “I will find more bodies for you to experiment on when you are ready,” they promised, grabbing Jordan Miller’s body by the ankle and dragging him away.

Before he could raise his arm in protest, Yael had taken the body through to the abyss, leaving him with his guilt and grief.

*

AFTER THE IMMENSE failure of not resurrecting Jordan Miller, Storm needed time alone. Though Yael didn’t linger in the abyss, he agreed to give Storm space, leaving him in the field while they returned to the house to help Kyrie recover, no doubt by smothering him with cakes and tea, something Storm was sure the lower demon would love.

Storm made his way to his parents’ house. If he wanted to learn more about necromancy, he’d be best starting with the library and his dad’s study, hoping he found something useful to figure out what had gone wrong. If only he could find something to convince him he deserved this position of power and the legacy the Fates had given him.

Being the Chosen One wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. What had Storm ever done to make the Fates think he was capable of being what they wanted? He’d done nothing except be born, and even that wasn’t by choice. Being the Chosen One had literally nothing to do with his accomplishments or abilities. The Fates just picked a kid at random, one born to a dark mage family, and decided he would lead the magical world into a new era of equality and fairness, all because he was a damned Tera.

What had being a Tera ever done for him?

Storm kicked a few fallen leaves from the front door of the house and stepped inside, out of the wind. Shaking off the few that had fallen into his hair, he slipped off his jacket to place on the console table by the front door. Turning left into the study, he slid open the wooden door and paused.

Asher was still here, sitting at his desk with his feet on the corner, fingers flicking through a book.

“Dad?” Storm called, not sure if he wanted to be disturbed. He could always cross the hallway to the library if his dad wanted to be alone.

Asher closed his book as he dropped his feet to the floor and stood. “You came back,” he said, sounding stunned and relieved. He cleared his throat and gestured to the sofa by the window. “Do you have time to sit and talk?”

Gods, did he ever, and he wanted to. He hadn’t even realised this was why he’d come, hoping his dad would still be here to tell him how to fix what had gone wrong, why he was the Dark One and not someone else, someone more worthy.

“You look troubled,” his dad noticed as Storm crossed to sit on the sofa. Asher was more careful about his movements, having to focus hard on the items in the room to interact while in his ghostly body. “Has something happened?”

Storm sat beside his dad and poured out every word of doubt and guilt from his failed attempt to resurrect Jordan Miller, a name he’d remember for the rest of his life.

Other than a few comments, his dad was relatively quiet while Storm talked. He hadn’t had the chance to purge like this since his first night with Rowan, when they told each other their secrets. Storm hadn’t realised how badly he’d needed to talk, especially with someone who hadn’t been there to experience his failure first-hand.

There was something cathartic and reassuring about letting the words fall from his mouth unchecked and watching his dad listen with a thoughtful frown, the occasional comment and not an ounce of judgement.

“I first attempted resurrection on an old man from one of our covens,” Asher said once Storm had finished rambling. “He’d asked to be my first test because he had a strong will to live and the desire to help every dark mage learn their craft. Only by doing can a dark mage train in and master necromancy. It makes for a dangerous craft to learn with a huge margin for error.” The hand resting on his knee tapped to an unheard rhythm.

Storm knew how he felt, the nervous twitch a reminder that they couldn’t touch. He wished his dad could hug him, take his hand, or pat his knee the way Yael tended to do. Sometimes contact was more comforting than words.

“He told me necromancy was the hardest magic for a reason, because any witch could create a homunculus. Replicating the functions of a human body is easy, because you can insert a mechanical heart into any dead body. What humans call zombies are ten to the dozen if the craft isn’t strong enough.” He looked at Storm with deep penetrating eyes that begged him to listen and understand. “To truly resurrect a person, they need their mind whole, their heart beating, and their soul intact. Only we can do that for them.”

Storm didn’t want to complain but he needed his dad to accept that he’d fallen at the first hurdle. “I didn’t though.” Was that what went wrong? Did he not properly stitch the pieces together? “I mean, he took a breath and his jaw twitched, then he died.” The image and sound of his last breath would linger in his mind for the rest of his life.

“Perhaps his will to live wasn’t as strong as the demons thought?”

“Or I suck at resurrection?”

Instead of laughing, Asher tipped his head and eyed Storm seriously. “Do you know how many dark mages have mastered necromancy?”

“There’s a logbook somewhere?”

Asher shook his head and eyed Storm with a mix of amusement and scolding, the same way Yael did. “Since the beginning of magic, a dozen have mastered the darkest of arts. They were twice your age before they accomplished their first successful resurrection,” he explained, leaving Storm wondering if someone of his age and ability even he had any right to learn. “How many do you think managed to return life on their first attempt?”

They really did keep track of the art of necromancy if his dad felt confident he could give a definitive answer. “Half?”

Asher raised an eyebrow. “None. Not a single one. Some get as far as bonding the spirit and the body, some are drained before they get that far. The magic is so strong and the will inside you must be so strong because we must surrender everything to resurrect another human into the same whole being they once were,” he admitted, the respect he had for the ability showing through every word.

Storm stared in surprise, beginning to realise he had accomplished something miraculous.

“From what you said, you managed more,” his dad continued, a smile appearing because he could tell Storm was starting to see what he’d done. “The few who managed life on the third attempt—the earliest anyone has ever managed—had a recently deceased body. Their demons didn’t wait for a person to die before handing over a body to their dark mage.”

Shock flooded his system, and his magic shrank from the idea of what his dad was suggesting. “You mean…they killed just to give the dark mage a body to work with?” The concept alone was abhorrent and didn’t abide by the laws of magic required for necromancy.

Asher nodded, not realising the direction his thoughts had taken, and lifted his hand as though to brush at Storm’s hair, stopping with an awkward smile. “Be grateful Yael isn’t like them.”

“Gods. The sight was bad enough an hour after death. I couldn’t have handled a live…body.” The thought gave him shivers. If he’d had to see that, he would have thrown up.

Asher watched him with fondness. “Tell me about Rowan,” he asked, a twinkle in his dead eyes that said he’d been waiting ages to ask.

Storm blushed but internally admitted he needed to talk. He couldn’t tell Rowan the conflicting thoughts and doubts, the fears that he would lose Rowan sooner than he wanted to, that he wasn’t worthy of the white witch half-demon.

Ignoring his embarrassment, he told his dad what had happened from the point of being sent from the future where he’d failed to fulfil the prophecy to how he’d been found on Copry land by Rowan. Though he had to give some events context, he kept to the relationship aspect in hopes of keeping the conversation light and happy. When he explained the awkward, amazing feeling of waking up beside Rowan every morning, Storm realised this was a normal father-son chat, something he couldn’t remember ever having.

“What about you and Cesa?”

Instantly losing the happy, proud smile he’d been sporting while Storm talked about his new relationship, Asher cleared his throat. “I’m sorry?” He blinked, as if the question was unfathomable and had come from nowhere.

“How did you two get together? How did you meet?” he asked, eager to find out more about his dad, the way Asher wanted to hear about his life. “Gladys told me our families had been enemies for generations. But I’ve seen pictures in the coven archives showing past generations with their arms around each other or shaking hands, laughing together.” He’d gone to the museum in town many times over the years to look at the secret room in the back that explored coven history. The covens contributed items devoid of magical energy so that future generations could come together to see where the circle of covens started.

“We were never enemies,” Asher replied, almost laughing, though his tone suggested he didn’t understand Gladys’s motives for telling him otherwise. Storm thought he did, but it wasn’t the right time to talk. “We were brothers in arms, one family protecting the amulet, the other protecting the spell. That was only possible if we worked together and lived close to each other. In truth, we’re the oldest and closest of the covens.”

Whatever he’d thought, he stood and crossed to the bookcase behind his desk, the ones Storm had realised from Ithen’s memories held the most private family tomes. Asher chose a leather-bound book and returned to sit beside Storm. “What Yael told you about seeing the heart of something is true, but we dark mages have our version. A not-so-awkward one,” he confessed, with a cheeky smile that made Storm blush.

If he hadn’t taken the risk of seeing into Rowan’s heart with the demon way, he may never have gathered the courage to kiss Rowan, but he’d love to know an alternative for other situations.

“There’s a loose sheet of paper on the inside of this book that will explain the spell,” his dad said, holding out the book but making sure not to have his ghostly fingers anywhere near Storm’s skin. The sensible precaution caused Storm’s stomach to tighten, hating that he had to avoid touching his dad. “Once you confirm the spell works as expected, you can try this book.”

Storm nodded at the advice and lay the book on his lap, wondering if he should leave. Asher lay his hand on the book, the closest they would come to touching each other, drawing Storm’s gaze to his dad’s sad, dark eyes.

“Cesa gave me this book the first day we kissed,” he confessed, smiling as he pushed the tome toward Storm. “Maybe you’ll see a side of him you never had the chance to. The book is linked to both of us and likely connected to more than one memory.”

Storm smiled, realising this was Asher’s way of sharing the story of his love for Cesa. He supposed that was for the best, because Storm didn’t want to hurt his dad, but he couldn’t just push aside his curiosity. Not when his relationship with Rowan wouldn’t have been possible if his dad had been allowed to love Cesa openly, without the Fates purposefully keeping them apart.

Storm would never forget that he was the reason his dad had never been truly happy.